Page 95 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
“Don’t be greedy,” I say, swatting his hand away. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and snatch up a dressing gown. I’d happily have another round of Christmas morning sex with Teddy, except I’m excited to give him his present.
I open the wardrobe, reach up to the highest shelf.
“You hid it in my wardrobe? Bold move—Christmas mornings turn me five years old.”
“Figured you’d upgraded to at least age seven.”
“Don’t bet on it,” he says. “Christmas Day is still young.”
“Here.” I thrust the box at him.
He peels the paper back with surprising care. The moment he sees the insignia on the box, his mouth curves up in a grin. “Dubarry.Nice. Got my favourite Chelseas from there.” The earthy scent of new leather drifts up as he lifts the lid.
“They’ll pass for the pub,” I shrug.
“Not for the pub, though, are they?” He reads from the card inside.For London hacks and any wild rides the future throws at us.His fingers find the voucher for a ride out of stables near Hyde Park.
“Thought we could get our horse fix together.”
“That’s brilliant. Thank you.” He hugs the boots to his chest and pulls me into a kiss. “Couldn’t think of a better way to spend an afternoon.”
Teddy digs into a dresser drawer and lays out three envelopes, each glittered 1–3.
“Ellie insisted on the sparkle,” he says as gold flecks dust my fingers. “Treasure hunt rules: open in order.”
“When did you do this? How did you do this?”
“I have my ways,” he says, tapping a finger to his nose.
I prise off the Rudolph sticker holding envelope number one closed, and pull out the clue.
Caffeine queen, lawyer’s dreams
Find the cup that fuels your legal schemes.
I sprint to the kitchen. A mug that definitely wasn’t there yesterday—I PUT THE CUTE IN PROSECUTE—rattles when I lift it. Inside: a slim gold bracelet with two charms: a drum and tiny legal scales.
“Lifelong refill,” Teddy murmurs, kissing my neck while clasping it for me
He hands me the next envelope.
The pause is past, the playlist long
Seek the click that cues the song
Remote control for the sound system? Of course. A note taped underneath tells me:Look in the vinyl stack.
A limited-press copy of ‘December Promise’ waits between the albums; a handwritten note tucked inside the sleeve:The night you pressed play.
I pry open the last envelope, another shower of glitter coating my fingers.
You sang, I kept the beat
Check the heart of my favourite seat
In Teddy’sbasement studio, propped against the kick-drum, is a frame. Inside it, the words to ‘Deep End’—the song that started it all—handwritten in Teddy’s distinctive scrawl.
He leans against the cymbal stand, eyes soft. “Thought you should own the first thing I ever wrote that mattered.”
