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“I don’t want to talk about this,” she says sharply, heading to the fridge.

“Sorry, I know. We’re breaking one of your rules, aren’t we?”

Right. Breaking a second rule, technically. No touching, no talking about the past. She gets out the cooked beef, shuts the fridge door.

“It wasn’t easy, Mel.” She keeps her back to him, one hand on the fridge. “Leaving you. I’d hate for you to think it was.”

“But you did,” she whispers.

He says nothing.

Chapter Twelve

After trying Freya and Susan’s “cocktails”—all various mixtures of sugary drinks, in colors that Mel is pretty sure must have involved food dye—Freya is allowed to stay up and watch her iPad in the living room, while the adults gather around the table for Kristen and Mark’s first course in the “three-course Christmas extravaganza” (Susan’s words). It’s pitch-black outside, with a bright near-full moon bathing the back garden in a silver glow. Candlelight flickers along the length of the table, with the main light turned down low, and instrumental music plays in the background. Along with the smell of cooking comes the charcoal scent from the woodburning stove, adding a distinctly homey feel.

Under Susan’s instructions, they are all dressed up. Finn is in jeans and a tailored suit jacket—about as formal as he gets unless it’s absolutely necessary. She’s glad he’s not wearing the suit he wore to Hattie’s engagement party, but the black dinner jacket shows off his broad shoulders and muscled arms, which she has to pretend not to notice.

Hattie is in a bright red dress with Rudolf antlers that no one is totally sure where she found, and Dylan, of course, has on an expensive suit, completing the movie-star look. Mark is wearing an outfit that doesn’t look hugely different from what he wears every day, pale blue shirtsleeves rolled up, while Kristen has gone full out—green jumpsuit and a full face of makeup that doesn’t entirely hide how tired she is. Susan’s outfit is Mel’s favorite—a 1950s-style dress with a long-sleeved black top, giving way to a flared checked red-and-black skirt. Everyone has complimented it, and Susan said she’d had it for ages and was just waiting for the right occasion to wear it. She’s wearing a necklace Mel made her for her birthday two years ago to go with it—sunshine, a metaphor a bit on the nose, but one that was accurate and which Susan had loved.

Mel, meanwhile, is grateful she decided to bring the black sparkly dress after all. She’d debated about it for a solid half hour while packing. She’d worn it at a party with Finn once, had seen the way his eyes traveled the length of her body, over the places it hugged her curves.

She’d grinned. “Like the sparkles, do you?”

His eyes had been dark when they’d met hers, but his crooked mouth had quirked at the corner. “You don’t need sequins to sparkle, Mel. You do that just by being in the room.”

She’d worn it deliberately tonight—because despite Finn’s declaration that it hadn’t been easy to leave her, he still had—and she wanted him to regret that, just a little. She’s pretty sure it’s having the desired effect if the way he keeps looking at her is anything to go by—she felt his gaze scraping up the lines of her body when she’d walked into the kitchen earlier. However, she is now wondering if the dress is entirely sensible, given the way her skin tightens whenever he looks at her like that, the way she immediately loses track of what she’s saying. It doesn’t help that they are sitting next to each other, that she is too aware of the distance—or lack of it—between their thighs under the table.

I still say this is a terrible idea.

Oh, Priya, how right you were.

Kristen and Mark bring over plates of roasted figs with crisp Parma ham, garnished with rocket, and set one down in front of each person.

“I’m sorry it’s so simple,” Kristen says, biting her lip as she takes a seat.

Susan waves her comment away as she takes a bite. “It’s delicious, is what it is.” Mel takes a bite too—and Susan is right, the figs melt in her mouth and she just about resists letting out a groan.

After trying Freya’s concoctions, they’d moved on to champagne—posh stuff, which Dylan had brought with him—and now Mark hands around a good bottle of Bordeaux red.

Kristen declines the wine, then glances toward the kitchen door while everyone eats. “I should really get Freya to bed. She’s not used to being up this late.”

Mark throws an arm around her shoulder. “Relax, K, it’s Christmas. And if she falls asleep here, we’ll only have to move her.” Kristen bites her lip again, but says nothing.

“So are we all scoring out of ten for each one?” Hattie asks. “That’s what they do on Come Dine with Me, right?”

Susan dabs her mouth with her red-and-green Christmas napkin. “Well, I wasn’t sure if we’d actually mark everything. It’s more for fun.”

“What?” Hattie bangs her fist on the table lightly, faux outraged. “Where’s the fun if it’s not a competition?”

“If you can’t win, you mean,” Dylan says, grinning at her.

“Well, quite. Anyway, I give this a nine out of ten,” Hattie says. “Only not ten because I want more of it. It’s amazing, Kristen.”

“It’s only an easy dish, I know.” Everyone around the table shushes her.

“What about me?” Mark pipes up.

“Oh, I know all you will have done is the garnish,” Hattie says.