Page 83 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
“But you sound…toasty.”
“Let’s say the thermostat got to simmer.”
Heat prickles my cheeks, and I’m suddenly glad Jenna can’t see the grin I’m fighting.
“Rachel…”
I wind a strand of tinsel around a branch, buying a second to steady my voice.
“Look, we kissed, fogged things up. Clothes stayed on, mostly.”
“Mostlymakes my Spidey senses tingle.”
I snort, nearly dropping the tinsel. “You and your bloody Spidey senses. Relax. He’s all for taking things quietly in that department. It’s kind of reassuring. Like he wants to wait for the full world tour, not rush into some one-night club gig.”
“Good. Then let him set the pace and let me handle the noise.”
I laugh, small and real. Jenna will be all over this. It’s her job. “Copy that.”
“Just enjoy him spoiling you. It’s what you deserve.” After Pierre, maybe I do. Her voice firms. “Final orders: no clicking, no Googling, text me the moment anything rattles you. Are we clear?”
“Bossy.”
“Loving,” she says. “I got you, hun. Always.”
Placing my phone down, I balance on tiptoe and hook the ridiculous felt pug at the very top of the tree. His bug-eyed grin dares the world to judge him. Dad can criticise from five hundred miles away; I’ve got Sam’s stubborn heart, Jenna’s steel spine, and a drummer learning to cook just to impress me. Their belief twinkles brighter than any fairy light.
Family, I decide, isn’t the voice trying to keep me small. It’s the people who show up, even when the tabloids do. And right now, that’s more than enough.
“Hi Gavin.” I slip into the back seat at five on the dot, the car already smelling of coffee and that pine-tree air freshener he loves. We’ve spent so much time together lately, I half-expect a Christmas card from him.
Fifteen minutes later, he lets me out at the top of Pemberton Square. I step out, tug my coat tighter against the crisp air, and inhale a trace of wood-smoke curling from a distant chimney. No paparazzi, just a dog-walker in a puffer jacket and a huddle of carol singers gathered on the corner.
One week ago, walking along here, everything felt wobbly; now the pieces click into place. The partnership vote is edging frompossibletoprobable, and Teddy—reformed playboy, would-be chef—keeps turning up with reasons to believe him.
The door of number thirty-five swings open before I’m even at the bottom of the steps.
“Tip-off from Gavin?”
“Couldn’t leave you shivering out here.” Teddy leans in the doorway, all slouchy hoodie, weathered jeans, beat-up Vans, curls slightly rumpled. After three years with a man who wouldn’t nip to Tesco without a perfect Windsor knot, his casual ease is intoxicating.
I race up, planting a quick kiss on his warm lips while pressing a bottle of Malbec into his hand.
Inside, in the honeyed glow of the foyer lamps, he slips off my coat, nudging a battered skateboard aside to hang it in an alcove already jammed with bomber jackets and beanies.
The kitchen stretches almost the full width of the house. A restored butcher’s block worktop is strewn with bowls and dishes. A mound of vegetables sits to one side; milk, a slab of butter and a loaf of crusty bread on the other.
“Proof I cooked the dinner myself, not just ordered in and shoved it in the cooker,” he says, setting out a stool and pouring my wine.
The sweet smell of roasting meat drifts from a modern matte black range, set into the original hearth. On the wall above it, a sticky note reads ‘Oven 180° 2 hours’ in Teddy’s distinctive chicken-scratch.
“Turkey? For just the two of us?” He’s seen my appetite, but that’s overkill.
“Just a turkey crown,” he says, sliding a knife from a block. “And I made Mum’s chestnut stuffing myself—in a dish, obviously. Took a few help-desk calls, but I managed.”
“How was your day?” I slide onto a high stool.
“Not bad,” he says. “Could’ve done without Briar dumping those on my doorstep on her way to the theatre.”
