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CHAPTERTWO
Sera
No.
The word reverberates round my head.
What was I thinking? What did I expect? I could tell from our conversation that the man who has haunted my dreams for two decades had absolutely no idea who I was. I knew him in a heartbeat. Twenty years of remembering. Twenty years of dreaming. Twenty years of wishing. And then there he was. Sitting in a cubicle with a bandage on his head, waiting for me to take his observations.
Not quite how I’d dreamed it, but there you go.
And he had no idea who I was.
That definitely wasn’t part of my reunion dream. At no point in my long-held daydreams did I feel my heart smashing into pieces.
I could tell instantly. No hint of recognition flickered across his handsome face. His eyes twinkled as he cracked jokes in an attempt to relieve the seriousness of the situation, to keep things light for his young niece, but there was no trace of our connection, our spark. Not even the faintest ghost remained of what we’d shared. What we felt that night. Or, what I felt, at least.
I cocoon myself more deeply into the blanket and flick through the endless array of Christmas movies currently hogging the television schedule. Tinsel-bedecked happily ever afters are not what I’m in the mood for right now. Even a long slug of marshmallow stuffed hot chocolate can’t shake the bitter taste from my mouth.
My night with Ali Whyte was short but I had always been sure it meant something. My heart told me it did. Now the what-ifs, and the daydreams, and the long-cherished hope that one day we would find each other once again, perhaps even…well, they seem so stupid. The silly hopes of a love-struck idiot.
I was always so certain it would happen. That one day we’d meet again, and he would reach out, take me into his arms and hold me there forever.
Turns out I was wrong.
With a heavy sigh, I select the title of the Christmas movie I think is least likely to reduce me to a sobbing mess. As the opening scene rolls, my eyelids begin to droop. The combination of comfortable couch, warmth from the blanket, physical exhaustion from a long Christmas Day shift in A&E, and mental exhaustion caused by not being recognised by someone who has held my heart for two decades threaten to overcome me.
I gaze into the dancing flames of the open fire, waiting for sleep to claim me. But it doesn’t come. Instead, my fuzzy brain offers me memories of that one wonderful night: the feeling of his lips on mine, the goosebumps that raised on my flesh as his hand brushed over my skin, his tongue exploring my mouth with such tender gentleness that it made my head spin…
It was his gentleness that did it for me. For such a big, strong man, his touch was like the lightest breath of fire flashing across my skin. A flame like that burns. No one else has ever come close to touching me the way that Ali Whyte did.
Heat flushes my skin, and it has nothing to do with the fire.
BRRRRIIIIIINNNNNGGGG!
The shrill ringing of the doorbell jerks me from my daze. What the hell? I’m not expecting any visitors. No one knows I’m here. Feeling quite discomfited, I creep to the window and peek through a crack in the curtains.
I thought my big, handsome daydream would be next door, tucking into a turkey dinner, pulling crackers with his family, wearing a silly paper hat, and telling bad jokes. The life and soul of the party.
Except he isn’t. He is standing on the front doorstep of Aunt Molly’s - my - house, holding a picnic basket. I jump back from the window. My heart pounds in my chest. Am I imagining this? I’m tired. I’ve just finished a long shift. My feet hurt and clearly my eyes are playing tricks on me.
I reach out and pull back the curtain again.
Alistair Whyte is indeed standing on my front doorstep.
His shoulders raise. He pulls the hem of his jacket into place, then reaches to press the bell again.
Despite watching him press it, I jump when the sound rings through the house. I stand rooted to the spot, my mind in turmoil. I look down at my Christmas jumper, festooned with tiny strings of tinsel hung across a bright green knitted tree, regretting my post-work clothing choices, and thinking that I’ve never been less in a position to answer the door to anyone in my life, never mind to the man literally of my dreams.
A thought hits me like a punch in the gut. What if he isn’t here to see me? What if he is here to check on Aunt Molly, to see whether she is alone on Christmas Day? That’s exactly the sort of thing he would do. Maybe he hasn’t heard…I close my eyes with a sigh and rest my head against the coolness of the windowpane, wishing I could form some kind of coherent response. If my heart would just stop pounding in my ears for a second.
The crunch of gravel sends my eyes flying open. Damn! He’s leaving. In my discombobulation, I’ve failed to respond to the doorbell. Could this get any worse? Turns out it can. He’s standing on the driveway waving. At me.
He can see me.
Fuck.
I give up. I wave back.
