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Freddy I-want-to-snog-your-face-off Bale shoots me a puzzled glance. “And the snow? I asked how hard it was snowing, although your engine impression is sterling.”
So much for common sense. I do that insanely childish thing I’ve done since juniors and shove my tongue into my lower lip making a “Duh” sound.
“Come on, let’s check this car of yours. I can’t leave you in the snow with a car going, grrrrr eeeee grrrrrrrrnd eeeeee.” In one swift move he is up off the wheelie board thing, his long legs straightening, making him tower over me and cast me into a Freddy-shaped shadow as he holds his hand out for mine. My hand meets his and instantly sweats in his firm grip. I allow him to heave me up off the floor, which is embarrassing in itself. I’m not of a supermodel waif build—I’m more on the short and stocky side—but as he doesn’t groan with the suppressed effort of lifting me off the floor, I am going to accept the rumours about his arms of steel as solid fact. Very solid indeed. I’d squeeze them if it wouldn’t be obvious I was feeling him up.
The objectification of any sex is very, very wrong.
I stare at his arms with deep regret.
“I’m Freddy,” he tells me, totally unnecessarily, as he wipes his greasy hands down his soft grey t-shirt. My mouth falls open again as my gaze traces the motion of his hands skimming along his toned stomach. Mmmmm, objectification be damned, you.
“Amber,” I eventually respond when my brain kicks back into gear. “My car is a dead old Clio, if that’s any help?”
“I know who you are, Amber, and what car you drive.” He grins at me while I’m all red-cheeked, my mouth hanging open at his glorious sexiness. “Shall we?”
“Shall we what?” Kiss like penguins in the snow? Hold hands as we run through Christmas card perfect snowy banks? Sit down around a roaring fire and consider the future names of our babies?
“Shall we go and look at your car?” His tone is questioning now, and just a little on the alarmed side. Because I am CRAZY and he’s starting to figure it out.
“Yes, let’s do that.” For the record though, my plans were better.
At the door, Freddy peers up into the heavy snow falling from the gloomy sky and gives a little, “Yes,” under his breath. He really likes snow, there’s no denying it. I try to look at the white, thick flakes with some of his enthusiasm, but it’s hard to find. I’m like the Grinch who stole Christmas, but rather the Evil Snow Queen who melts ice with one laser-beamed glare. His smile as he turns to me is so boyishly endearing, I almost feel bad at perving over his arms of steel—almost. “Come on, let’s get you home before we get snowed in together.”
Ah, man. I should have waited in the car for another fifteen minutes before coming for help.
