Page 18 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
We leap to our feet like excited kids who’ve been told it’s time to open Christmas presents. The first thing I see as we tumble out the front door is Rachel’s car parked haphazardly, not neatly lined upalongside the rest, like before. The second is her flying towards us. Her golden hair streams behind her; eyes sparkling, bluer than the wintery sky above, her smile lighting up her entire face.
I elbow my way past the others, meeting her at the bottom of the steps.
“We won, Teddy. We fucking won.” Rachel leaps into my open arms, wraps her legs around my waist, and kisses me. Her luscious soft mouth meets mine, tasting of mint and victory. I don’t hesitate. I kiss her back, freeing all my pent-up want that’s been building since the moment I first saw her yesterday.
Chapter 7
Whatthefuck?Ikissed Teddy Hargrove. Not just a sneaky snog out the back of the stables or halfway across the estate where no one would see, but right on the steps of the manor house with everyone watching. Not only did I kiss him, I climbed the damn man like a tree while my friends’ disapproving eyes bored into my back.
Although it’s not their shock that makes me scramble out of his embrace and plant my feet back on the ground. It’s the realisation in less than a day, I’ve surrendered to his charm and that downright gorgeous mouth. He knows it too, because he places a finger against his lips, as if savouring the memory of mine. This man is the worst kind of temptation, and I’m powerless to resist.
My lips still tingle as I ignore his sly smile of victory. I flick back my hair and straighten my shoulders, trying to reclaim some dignity. “Time for a celebratory drink?”
I stroll up the steps past him, with forced nonchalance, as if nothing earth-shattering just happened. Inside, I make my way to the lounge, surrounded by a chorus of ‘well done’ and ‘congratulations’. I smile, say thanks and keep moving, outwardly calm although my heart hammers against my ribs, and my head spins like I’ve already had three glasses of champagne. I feel giddy. We won the first competition, but Teddy won something more significant out of it, and for once, I’m not upset about losing. Looks like round one of the chase goes to him.
With the light fading outside, glowing lamps and rippling firelight throw a cosy blanket over the lounge. Loreena and Tommy bring in a tray of steaming mugs; china clinks, the room hums with conversation.
“Here, tuck into these,” Haley says, offering a plate piled with spiced Christmas cookies she bought from a fête stall. I snag two and perch on the sofa, munching, while beside me Liv admires the knitting Sam has pulled from her bag—she’s never without it, fingers flying. This time it’s a hat patterned with snowflakes.
Across the hearth, Teddy leans on the mantelpiece, coffee in one hand, a biscuit in the other, chatting to Garrett, but there’s a prickle of his attention on me.
Admit it, Rachel.You just need to jump his bones and be done with it.After all, that’s what this is, right? Simple biology: a craving for the intimacy of a warm body and capable hands, for whispered praise and breathless moans instead of the familiar hum of my vibrator’s inadequate comfort.
As if he sees I’m wavering towards choosing him over my favourite toy, Teddy ambles across and claims the seat next to me on the couch. Once again, his proximity lights awareness across my skin. His aftershave teases my nose. It’s this intoxicating mix of sweet and spicy that catches you off guard. Like cinnamon and vanilla but witha masculine kick that’s both comforting and slightly dangerous. The kind of scent that makes you lean in closer. And I do, drawn to him.
“So, tell me,” he says. “How much did it make?”
“Seventy-six pounds.” I can’t help but gloat, rubbing the others’ noses in the fact it fetched almost double any of the rest. “The vicar’s wife got into a bidding war with the man from the village tea shop, who wanted it for a window display.”
“And?”
“She won, of course.”
“A woman who likes to win,” he says, his mouth tipping up at the corners. “Like someone else I know.”
“That’s how I was raised,” I shrug. “My father had no time for losers.” Achieving, winning, mastering everything thrown at you—that’s the MacDonald way, and I became damn good at it. I’ve won at most things; losing Pierre is the only one that still stings. Even that’s fading.
“Sounds like you’re still trying to measure up to the standards of a man you don’t even like.” His words are quiet, thoughtful.
He obviously hears the disdain for my father that creeps into my voice, no matter how hard I try to suppress it. Those liquid brown eyes soften, and damn it if I don’t see pity there. It’s not a reaction I’m used to from others. My first instinct is to argue back, refute the insinuation my father still holds power over me—but I don’t. Somehow, playful Teddy Hargrove sees right through my bullshit and is gently calling me out on it.
“I suppose I am.” It’s kind of freeing to admit it.
“It’s okay.” He shakes his head with a smile, placing a hand on mine, and giving it a soft squeeze. “We can’t help how we’re brought up. I hate how much I’m like my dad, too.” His eyes slide away frommine. “It’s automatic. You do things without thinking, and then you look back and realise you’re just the same as them.”
I want to ask him more. Maybe it’s something we can help each other with—to escape our pre-programming. Any chance of a question evaporates as Loreena bustles in with a loaded tray.
“Five o’clock. Time to move on to Christmas cocktails, everyone.” She sets down glasses filled with green and red sparkling liquid on the coffee table. “You all deserve a little celebration for completing the first challenge. Let’s start with our winners.” She turns to me. “Which would you like, Rachel?”
“Ooh tell me what they are.” They both look spectacular, and there’s a mixture of smells drifting towards me.
“This one,” she says, lifting a tall glass that glows red like a traffic light, “is Holly Berry Bliss. We’ve got strawberry puree, cinnamon whisky—should be perfect for a Scottish lass—and sparkling cider.”
It’s so pretty, the spiky mint garnish hinting at holly leaves. After a few hours outside in the cold, the thought of whisky is tempting.
“Sounds good. And the other?”
“This…” She raises a wide-mouthed glass of dazzling green, “Is the Mistletoe Martini—melon liqueur, white cranberry juice, vodka, and a splash of lime.” The red sugar rim adds a jaunty, festive touch. I’m torn between the two.
