He nods over his shoulder as he rises from his chair, playing up the casual in his tone as he adds, “Simply in the interest of conserving water, of course.”
“Of course,” I agree.
Ten minutes later, we’re “conserving water” so loudly I’m pretty sure the neighbors can hear, but I can’t seem to keep it down.
He’s just too good.
Way too good to say goodbye to in just a few weeks…
But there are so many obstacles in our way, obstacles that seem far more intimidating without Christmas punch in my system.
Pushing the thoughts from my head—I can’t think about stressful things until after the pitch is over—I phone the airport, yet again, only to discover that my luggage is still missing in action.
Because of course it is.
That’s just the Emily Darling Luggage Curse in action.
Oliver immediately offers to take me shopping. Again. This time for snow frolicking clothes. I try to refuse—he’s already been far too generous, and I can just wear a pair of his ski pants, rolled up at the ankles—but he won’t take no for an answer.
So, fifteen minutes later, we’re in a swanky outdoor shop not far from Fletchers, buying a brown snowsuit with white trim that makes me unreasonably happy.
Just like the man who takes my hand on the sidewalk as we head for Hyde Park…
Three hours later, I’m even happier.
And grateful for the snowsuit that’s kept me warm and dry as I’ve taken tumble.
After tumble.
After tumble.
Turns out I’m not as good at sledding as I remember, but that hasn’t made the day any less fun.
“Your steering remains alarmingly subpar, Darling,” Oliver says, standing over me as I lie in a snowbank at the base of Primrose Hill, laughing so hard my ribs are starting to hurt.
“Sorry,” I wheeze. “I swear, that hedge came out of nowhere.”
“Nonsense, you were aiming right for it,” he insists, fighting a laugh as he thrusts an arm toward the top of the slope. “I watched it all happen from up there. With horror, I might add.”
“I got distracted.” I swipe giggle tears from my cheeks. “There were puppies in Christmas sweaters on the path.”
“You and puppies,” he mutters as he reaches down to help me up. “You need a keeper woman. Come on, let’s turn these in. Before you break a bone.”
“No wait, can’t we go again?” I ask hopefully. “I promise to make it all the way to the bottom this time.”
“No, not a chance, you’re a menace to society.” But he’s already turning around, pulling both our sleds back up the hill. “No more steering for you. We’ll swap these for a double, and I’ll take the helm.”
“So bossy,” I murmur, rather enjoying it.
Nearly as much as I enjoy his backside in his ski pants…
“Someone has to keep you from terrorizing innocent shrubbery,” he says, before tossing over his shoulder in a sultrier voice, “And if I catch you ogling my backside again, you’re getting a spanking when we get home.”
Grin stretching wider, I ask, “You promise?”
“Naughty,” he says, faking outrage. Badly. “You’re very naughty, Ms. Darling. And I, for one, am appalled.”
“Deepest apologies, Mr. Featherswallow,” I say, faking penitence just as badly. “I’ll do my best to mend my wicked ways.”
