Page 44 of The Duke Who Saved Christmas
Queueing was a national pastime. To leave a queue for anything less than an emergency was sacrilege.
Christmas lights being switched on was certainly not in the criteria for leaving a queue.
Not even a car alarm was.
You just leant in the general direction of your car, waving your keys in the air, and jabbed the button on your keys in the hope the signal reached the obscure corner you’d parked in to make sure some arsehole kid didn’t ding your door when they opened theirs.
I was projecting there a bit.
It was me. I was the one who parked in obscure corners.
“What do you want?” Thomas asked, looking at the menu board that hung at the side of the hut.
“What do I what?” I asked. “Oh, we’re almost at the front.”
“Are you daydreaming?”
“So what if I am?”
“What are you thinking about?”
Oh, no. I wasn’t giving himthatammunition. “What all women think about. The easiest way to commit murder and hide a man’s body.”
He held my gaze for a moment.
“I considered using the pig, but I’m not sure she could eat all of you.” I shrugged and stepped forwards. “Three waffles with Nutella and some whipped cream sounds like a good idea.”
“Are you sure you can eat three?”
“Of course I can eat three. What kind of weakling do you think I am?” I dug in my bag for my purse.
Thomas put his hand on my arm. “What are you doing?”
“Getting my purse out.”
He tugged on my wrist to pull my hand out. “No. I told you I’d get them.”
I frowned as he stepped up to the counter and ordered, starting with mine, then getting some for him, Beth, and Danny. He paid while I pouted, and then he turned to me with a smirk and handed me the first box.
“Peace offering.”
“A very festive peace offering,” I replied.
“You could just lead with ‘thank you,’ or is that too much for you?”
I fought a smile. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
We moved to the side so others could get to the window of the hut to order.
“It is very festive though,” I said, opening my box. “Especially for someone who hates Christmas as much as you do. You must be dying here. I can practically see the Grinchy green fur sprouting from your skin.”
Thomas side-eyed me, clutching onto the other polystyrene containers. “I don’t hate Christmas itself, really. I just don’t like this time of year. It’s justified.”
“Beth did say about your dad.” Guilt gnawed at my stomach for bringing up something like that during what was really quite a nice conversation. “When we had lunch,” I added awkwardly, glancing up at him.
“Yeah, finding out your dad is dying does kill one’s Christmas spirit.” He peered over at me with a tiny smile on his face, and he didn’t look put out by my idiotic mouth bringing it up at all. “Was that all she told you?”
