Page 17 of An Unexpected Christmas
She snorts, but it loosens the tension between us at my ridiculous excuse and slight insult.
“Besides,” I say, reaching for the drawer in the kitchen for the pack of cards I know is in there, “you can’t leave before we’ve even played. You should stay. Give me a chance to win something tonight.”
Her mouth curves, amused, but her gaze lingers on me in a way that feels less like teasing and more like peeling back a layer I try to keep hidden.
“I think…” she steps closer, and every bit of air abandons my lungs at her nearness, “you just don’t like losing.”
“Not to you,” I admit on an exhale, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
The air shifts—subtle but unmistakable. She blinks slowly, lips parting as if she might say something, then closing again. For once, Frankie seems at a loss for words, and I know we’re both replaying that moment.
She takes a deliberate step back toward the sofa, her voice steady. “Then maybe you should deal us in.”
And as I follow her, cards in hand, maybe the game isn’t really what I’m trying to win.
A few rounds later, and she’s managed to beat me every time at Rummy. I’m utterly distracted by her and her skills to not only dress me down at my favorite card game, but also to keep blinding me with smiles that make me want to kiss her senseless. She comes out of the kitchen with a fresh bottle of wine, already uncorked, moving like she’s been here a hundred times before. The glug of the wine fills our glasses, then she drops onto the sofa beside me, close enough that her knee brushes mine.
“So,” she says, handing me my glass, our fingers brush and my body comes to life with one little graze of her pinky, that seed of want growing within me the more time I spend with her, “tell me what it’s like living in England.”
The question catches me off guard. “What’s there to talk about?”
“Plenty,” she says, taking her first sip. “It’s England. That’s already more interesting than most people in Holly Creek. You also write books, my favorite books in fact. I’m imagining a little cottage in a small village, with a fireplace crackling while you read or write. Jude Law might be there.”
“You know Jude Law doesn’t live in all cottages in England?”
“Don’t ruin the fantasy for me.” She tips her glass to her mouth, eyes glinting. “You’re supposed to play along and say tea, scones, and charming accents.”
I swallow a mouthful of wine, its weight lingering on my tongue. “Being English isn’t a personality trait.”
“I disagree. You are the epitome of a Mr. Darcy type. Dark, mysterious, devilishly handsome, and of course, English.”
Sidestepping the handsome comment is my biggest flex of the night, but it does make me more brazen. “If I’m Mr. Darcy, that makes you Elizabeth Bennet, no?”
She snorts again; that ridiculous sound. “Please. I’ve been ready to put a brooding man in his place since I was twelve.”
The crimson liquid stains her lips, and once again, I’m transfixed. Those luscious lips coated in liquid make me want her more and more. I want to claim those lips, taste the wine from her mouth.
Her throat clears, my attention lifting back to her eyes. “So tell me then, do you drink tea constantly? Own a tweed jacket? Say ‘pip-pip’ and call everyone ‘guvnor’? Oh, oh, is your best friend a chimney sweep?”
I smirk, swirling my glass. “Yes. That’s exactly what it’s like. I rode a red double-decker bus to work every day, sipping tea and tipping my bowler hat to strangers. I also only make calls in red telephone boxes.”
“Knew it,” she chuckles, and I can’t help but do the same. “So how does it compare to being here?”
Her question isn’t prying, but it hits like a rock in my chest again. I hesitate, my fingers tracing the rim of my glass.
Her brow furrows slightly at my lack of response, her eyes steady on mine. “Or do you not want to talk about what you left behind?”
The silence after carries more weight than the question itself. Or maybe it doesn’t. I’ve avoided talking about this since the day I arrived in Holly Creek, even before that. Sharing the details feels like opening a door I’ve spent years trying to keep shut. But the way she’s looking at me, with big, kind eyes, makes it hard to keep the door closed.
“I just wanted a fresh start,” I say finally. “Everything back at home... it reminded me of them.”
“Them?”
I take a deep breath, then she reaches for me, her thumb brushing idly over the back of my hand. The simple touch feels so good, soothing something in me. Her skin is on mine, and for the first time in years, I don’t want to pull away.
“My ex,” I start, the words rough in my throat. “Lucy. Four years ago, she was… my fiancée.”
Frankie’s unwavering gaze coaxes more from me.
