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“Not this Christmas though. I am going to eat that delicious pudding you made, and whatever else you want to feed me.”
“You know, that sounds vaguely chauvinistic,” Claudia said with a laugh, banishing the dark thoughts of Rhiannon and her cleverness from her mind.
“I cooked tonight,” he pointed out.
“You ordered room service.”
“Same thing.”
Claudia couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her. “It really isn’t.”
“So what are you making us on Christmas day?”
Her heart twisted. No. It squeezed and plummeted and soared from her chest. It took on a life of its own. It hammered against her ribcage so hard she thought it might explode.
Us.
Such a tiny word with such enormous ramifications.
Most of them good. Some of them horrifying.
“Turkey,” she said, the word slightly unsteady. “And all the trimmings.”
“A turkey, just for us?”
“A small one,” she nodded. “And pudding with custard and egg nog, and fruit mince pies. We’ll go into Bath for the carols on Christmas Eve,” she said, getting carried away. “I always do that.”
“Since when?”
“Since I was at school. I was usually in the dorms over Christmas,” she said, and though there wasn’t a hint of blame in the statement, something like guilt and regret slid through him. “There were maybe ten of us left behind each year.” His remorse intensified. “So our headmistress, Mrs Burns, would organize for us to go to carols in the village. We’d do the late-night service, and then come back to the dorms and have a supper of non-alcoholic egg-nog and gingerbread, and stay up late chatting.” She sighed. “It was beautiful. And then, since I got to London, I always go to my local church, just down the street.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You must have some family traditions.”
She blinked at him with obvious confusion. “Why must I?”
“Well, because, it’s a special time of year.”
“Not for my parents.” She kept her heartbreak out of her voice.
He was quiet for a moment, his eyes roaming her face thoughtfully. “I often wondered why you weren’t closer to your father.”
She didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m different to him. Like you said.”
“Yes.” He frowned. “But I also think you are like him, in many ways.”
“Really?” Pleasure flickered in her chest.
“Well, yes. Apart from your aversion to anything book-related.”
She held her breath, fear spreading through her veins. “What do you mean? I like books.”
“You like books?” He laughed. “When was the last time you read one?”
“What? I read all the time,” she lied, the words thick with emotion.
“What was the last book you read,” he challenged.
“You know it wasn’t The Taming of the Shrew.”
