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It is snowing when we emerge onto the near-deserted streets of Paris. Just a few people walking in the distance and a swirl of white in the air that ruffles my hair. I reach for Noah’s hand, lacing our fingers together, and my pulse pounds through my body.
How perfect this moment is!
‘Thank you for dinner,’ I say, looking up at him. My breath catches in my throat. He’s so handsome, so rugged and primal and masculine and hot. It takes effort to remember to put one foot in front of the other.
‘No problem.’ He is distracted, but when he looks at me he smiles. ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’
It’s such a normal question. I wonder what he was like a few weeks ago. Before whatever happened to reignite childhood traumas. Still, essentially, the same man, sure, but more socially functional. More able to perform as people expected. Without this huge chip on his broad, muscled shoulder.
‘My parents, brothers and Aaron’s mum will come over. Ivy is at an age where she wants to help with everything, so we’ll cook together.’ I lift my shoulders in a shrug. ‘What about you?’
‘Will it be a big traditional lunch?’ he asks, ignoring my own question.
‘Yeah.’ I smile but squeeze his hand because I want to know about him too. ‘Turkey, stuffing, potatoes, greens, pudding, mince pies—everything. You?’
‘Sounds delicious.’ He drops my hand but only so he can put an arm around my shoulders and hold me to him. I breathe in his masculine fragrance and something in the region of my heart pings.
I know all the dangers here and yet I feel myself sinking. I feel my heart cutting itself in two, leaping into another person’s body, offering half of itself to a man who will undoubtedly break it. Not because he’s an awful bastard like Aaron but because he won’t be able to help himself.
‘Do you spend Christmas with Gabe
?’
‘We both hate Christmas,’ he says. ‘We have an unspoken agreement not to speak of it.’
‘Wait. What?’
‘We hate it.’ His eyes shift to mine and they are swirling with emotions that are dark and resentful. His eyes warn me not to push this.
I don’t listen. ‘How can anyone hate Christmas?’
‘How can anyone love it? It has no significance to me. I’m not spiritual, religious. It’s not my holiday.’
I can’t imagine feeling as he does and yet I understand. With what he’s told me about his upbringing, I imagine Christmas was a time of great sadness. ‘Did you ever have a good Christmas? With presents and food and something that made you happy?’
His fingers stroking my shoulder pause, stilling as I speak. Then, as if he doesn’t want to, he says slowly, ‘Yes. Once.’
I am fascinated. ‘When?’
He clears his throat, tilts his head away from me. We continue walking through the snow with no destination in mind. We are moving nearer to the Eiffel Tower.
‘Years ago.’ A rebuff.
I won’t let him put me off, though. ‘How many years ago?’ The words are patient yet firm.
‘I was eight,’ he says.
Eight. My head jerks to his. ‘The Morrows?’
His answering smile is tight. Pained. The feeling that I am close to finding what has upset him settles around me. There is something in his manner that speaks of fresh hurt, not old ones. I must uncover it. And I will. But slowly, gently.
Cautiously.
‘How did you...?’
‘You told me about them,’ I say quietly. ‘Remember?’
