Page 76 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
I can afford to buy her one of every single damn perfume in this place, send her flowers every day, take her to all the fanciest restaurants, but that wouldn’t mean a thing to Rachel. This is what she wants, a guy who’ll give her the most important gift—time and attention. And so that’s what I do.
We move through the store like a well-rehearsed dance, Rachel leading. Jo Malone candles for Jenna (I vote for the lime and basil after Rachel explains Jenna’s obsession with fresh scents), cashmere sleep mask for Samantha (night shifts, she reminds me), monogrammed towels for her mother that cost more than my weekly grocery shop.
This isn’t simply going through the motions. Every choice is so thoughtful, like she really wants to delight the person opening that gift. Even though Rachel can seem offhand when you first meet her, I see how deeply she cares for the people that matter to her. I’m hoping I can convince her to care for me like that, too. To trust that I’m worthy of it.
In the men’s section, Rachel’s sighing over her father.
“I could buy him socks, but that screams ‘I forgot about you until yesterday,’ doesn’t it?” She picks up a shaving kit, winces at the price. “This looks more like it. Expensive enough to suggest effort.”
“Bit cynical, aren’t you?”
“Realistic. He’ll probably re-gift it to some client, anyway.” She waves her card over the machine with practiced efficiency.
“Your family Christmas doesn’t sound like much fun.” I instantly regret it; she doesn’t need me pointing it out.
“That’s putting it mildly,” she scoffs. There it is; the edge that comes whenever we veer too close to her father. Defensive. “What’s yours like then? All warm and fuzzy round the tree?”
“Actually, yeah. We usually go to Juniper’s these days. Bit chaotic with her boys and Ellie bouncing off the walls, but…” I shift the bags, choosing my words carefully. I know my family is very different to hers, and it feels wrong to lay it on too thick. Don’t want to rub her nose in it. “Juniper goes mental with the decorations. Mum arrives with enough food to feed half of London. We play board games and sing and eat too much chocolate. It’s pretty good.”
Rachel’s gone quiet. We’re standing in front of the escalator, shoppers flowing around us.
“Sounds nice,” she says finally.
I could leave it there. Keep it easy; keep it safe. Or I could risk the next thing.
“You could see for yourself. If you wanted. Meet them all. Finish number five on the list.”
She looks at me—really looks. Around us, Christmas music plays softly, mixing with the chatter of families and couples picking out gifts. The offer hangs between us.
“Toy department?” she says instead. “I want to get something for Elodie.”
Not a no. In Rachel-speak, starting with Elodie is as good as a yes. I don’t press; I take the win, bite back a grin, and fall in beside her.
The toy department’s heaving—frazzled parents, children pointing at everything, the air thick with that particular Christmas panic. Thank god for the chaos. The busiest spot in the store, but every adult’s eyes are pinned to a kid or a price tag, not a drummer in a leather jacket. My shoulders ease.
Rachel’s face lights up when she spots the wall of Jellycat toys. “These are cute.”
“Ellie’s been on at Rowan about them,” I say, tipping my chin at the display. “You’d be the best aunt ever.”
I say it deliberately to remind her how easily Ellie folded her into our family, how natural it felt.
“Look, this one’s like Solly.” She picks up a toy horse, and the corner of her mouth lifts in a soft smile. “God, I miss those rides.”
“Here’s Bodie.” I spot a white horse on the next shelf.
“That’s a unicorn, you numpty. See the horn?”
“I’m sure that little shit secretly has one anyway.” I grin. “Miss her though. Those rides were…”
“The best,” she finishes softly. “Yeah. I keep wishing I could’ve brought Solly home, but I don’t think he’d fit in my postage stamp garden.”
She says it like a joke, but there’s something in her face, a flicker of wanting things to be different, and for a second I want to fix that for her. “How about I get Ellie the unicorn, too? From both of us.”
“Both of us?”
“If you’re still around at Christmas. If you want to be.”
She goes very still. Around us, the toy department chaos continues—kids shrieking, parents negotiating, the relentless jingle of Christmas music. But in this moment, it feels like we’re in a bubble.
