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A look Lucy couldn’t quite place passed across his face before Dylan said, “Right, let’s get back before these get cold,” and started the car.

* * *

They listened to Bing Crosby crooning about a white Christmas while eating their dinner on the sofa.

“I got you an Irn Bru,” Dylan said, handing her the can from the bag. “I hope that’s OK.”

“Um, yeah, that’s great. It’s my favourite with fish and chips,” Lucy said. “How did you know?”

“You ordered it once when we were with Carrie and Michael. You said it was what you always used to get when you were on holiday when you were little and your parents took you for chips.”

“Right, yeah . . . um . . . well remembered,” Lucy said, opening her drink.

Dylan gave a little shrug. “I think the tree should go in front of that window there?” he said, before he started eating.

“Yes, agreed,” said Lucy.

“We’ll be able to see it lit up when we come back from our walks.”

“Those awful walks . . .” Lucy sighed.

“Stop complaining, they’re good for you.”

Dylan finished eating in record time, unable to hide his enthusiasm for getting started with the decorating.

Lucy lasted about two minutes until she snapped, “Stop watching me eat! Why don’t you go and get the tree off the top of my car and leave me in peace?”

Dylan didn’t need telling twice. He jumped up and headed downstairs. Lucy heaved a sigh of relief and sank back into the sofa. He was going to be exhausting until all the decorations were up. She supposed it was actually good practice for years to come when she had a child running around at Christmas . . . that was going to be so strange . . .

She got ten minutes of peace before it was shattered by Dylan bringing the soggy Christmas tree into the flat and spraying her with water when he cut the netting off. Thankfully she’d finished her food.

They put together the metal Christmas tree stand that they’d bought, and then Dylan huffed and puffed getting the tree into it and secured. He was covered in pine needles when he’d finished.

“Come here,” Lucy tutted. She stood on tiptoes and brushed them out of his hair. He smelled of outside and of Christmas tree, and she had to stop herself from breathing him in too obviously. Damn these pregnancy hormones.

She swallowed. “I’m going to put the kettle on,” she announced but something kept her stuck in place.

“Great,” Dylan replied. She watched him swallow. Was it her imagination, or was he blushing? “I’ll take the decorations out of their packaging.”

Lucy forced herself to move away from him and took as long as she could making two cups of tea, and allowing her traitorous body to return to some form of normalcy. When she returned to the sitting room, the decorations had all been set out on the floor, and Dylan was examining them carefully.

“I’m still not sure we should have gone for a star for the top of the tree,” he worried, as she passed him his drink. “Would an angel be more traditional?”

“Most of the angels gave me the creeps,” Lucy reminded him. “I think the star will look pretty.”

Dylan looked satisfied with this answer.

“The lights need to go on first,” Lucy pointed out.

“Thanks,” Dylan said, and moved over to where he’d put the lights in a pile.

“You sure you’ve got enough lights there?”

“Yes, but thank you for checking,” Dylan shot back. “You’d be the first to complain if there weren’t enough lights on this thing.”

They added the decorations onto the tree, with Lucy pretending not to notice Dylan rearranging most of the ornaments she’d put on. He was completely engrossed in the activity, humming along to the music and standing back every now and again to take a sip of his tea and admire his handiwork. He’d occasionally hang some of the many, many lengths of tinsel he’d insisted on around the room, but his focus was most definitely on the tree.

Finally, Dylan declared, “I think it’s done. It’s just the star left. Do you want to put it on?”