Page 62 of Last Christmas in London

‘Oh, it is,’ I said, neatly lifting myself up as Simon’s legs rolled from under him. If I wasn’t distracted by laughing at, and with, him, I would have been amazed by the discovery of my natural centre of gravity.

‘You’re the worst.’ His face was still half buried in his scarf.

‘Happy to oblige.’ I beamed as Simon continued to flail around like a turtle on its back.

‘Having you suck at skating is making me feel so confident in my own ability,’ I admitted, offering him my arm to help him up. He took it hesitantly, fearful I would let him go again.

‘Happy to oblige,’ he repeated my words sarcastically, finally righting himself. With a large exhalation he huffed, ‘Right,’ finally getting to his feet. ‘Bend the knees—’

And then – like some ice-skating prodigy – he took off.

‘What the—’ I gawked. ‘Where did that come from?’

‘Your lack of faith in me gave me a second wind,’ he called over his shoulder.

Sure, his arms were thrown out and he was waving them like a baby bird just out from the nest, but he was skating.

I chased after him, the two of us moving faster now, cackling as we weaved around the near empty rink.

It wasn’t long before the marshal raised a large sign that said ‘Five minutes left’ on it, just as ‘Only You’ by the Flying Pickets came over the speakers.

‘May I have this dance?’ Simon asked, offering his hand now both of us were less fearful because we had already fallen over.

We skated into the centre and I took his hands, feeling steadier immediately.

‘You may.’

He paused for a moment and released one hand to grip my back. My chest pressed into his and I felt his breath on my chin.

We swayed, gliding in slow, lazy circles as the other skaters departed around us.

‘This has been incredible,’ I said.

‘A nice surprise?’

‘The best.’ I meant it. Every second of this night had felt like something plucked straight from a Christmas movie, the kind with just the right balance of charm and absurdity.

‘Would it be even better with hot chocolate after?’

I grinned. ‘Can you read my mind or something?’

His smirk grew wider. ‘Maybe.’

And then – under the glow of fairy lights, with the ice glistening beneath us – he kissed me.

It was our first kiss and, by all reasonable standards, it would have been acceptable to be bad or awkward or completely misjudged. We could have bumped noses, miscalculated angles, or, given our shared lack of skating skills, toppled over in a heap of crushed dignity, just as we had before.

But no. This was just disgustingly perfect.

The meet-cute of a million Christmas romances perfect.

The Richard Curtis kiss of dreams. Except I’m not American and he’s not called Bernard. Thank God.

His lips were warm, tinted red by the mulled wine, and when I pressed my tongue against them – just a hint of invitation – he deepened the kiss.

‘Only You’ reached its crescendo and, balance be damned, I leaned into my toe pick, lifted my arm from his, and wrapped it around his neck, pulling him in closer.

His cologne – spiced apples, cloves, and vanilla – wrapped around me like the cosiest Christmas sweater and the light scrape of his sandy stubble against my cheek sent a shiver down my spine.