Wrapped Up in You

by Talia Hibbert

  Will opened his mouth, closed his mouth, looked at Ms Tricia very hard, and tried to figure out why the nice old lady who used to pick him and the Farrell kids up from school every afternoon would lie to his face like this. Because information often fell out of Will’s head, and he frequently made ditzy mistakes, but he knew one thing for absolute certain: he would never, ever, forget or mistake or misunderstand even the barest mention of Abigail Farrell’s name. Never.

  Before he could think of a way to sternly interrogate a woman who’d once caught him drinking squeezy honey from the bottle, the sound of a car engine came from outside. He and Ms Tricia turned toward the window. Ms Tricia’s ancient border terrier, Haddock, remained uninterested and unconcerned in his dog bed. Will wondered if it might be worth gifting Ms Tricia a guard dog for her birthday, now that Haddock was getting on in years. Surely it wasn’t good for an older lady to be alone in the middle of nowhere like this?

  Then something clicked inside his head. “Wait. If Abbie is coming today—is that Abbie? Outside? Right now?”

  “Maybe. Likely. Yes.”

  Shit.

  Will rocketed to his feet. This wasn’t ideal. This wasn’t remotely ideal. For one thing, he hadn’t run his plan by Jase. The whole thing could be a wash, and he would have no fucking idea because he hadn’t run his plan by Jase.

  Second, the house wasn’t ready. He hadn’t had a chance to put up the rest of Ms Tricia’s Christmas decorations, the ones that required power tools or stepladders. The house was barely festive at all—there weren’t even any lights outside—which meant there was zero evidence of his many practical talents to overwhelm and impress Abbie with.

  Although… it suddenly occurred to Will that Abbie didn’t care about lights. Or practical talents. And now he was wondering why lights and practical talents had ever featured in his Very Important Plan when he knew very well that Abbie cared far more about pizza and sarcasm. Fuck. He’d already miscalculated somewhere. The plan was flawed. This was why he had to talk to Jase about things, but now Abbie was here and it was too late and—

  And, third disaster of the day: like the house, Will wasn’t ready.

  He was aware that he looked good—it was hard to ignore that sort of thing when you’d built your career off of it—but right now he didn’t look his best. His hair wasn’t done—it was flat as shit from being stuffed under a knit hat—and his outfit was whatever he’d thrown on before leaving his mother’s house this morning, Christ, he barely even remembered, but he just hoped his fucking socks matched, and—

  And nothing. He took a breath and wiped a hand over his face and reminded himself to calm the fuck down. He wasn’t eighteen anymore, and he didn’t need to be a self-conscious nervous wreck. He was a grown man who’d learned his strengths and weaknesses the hard way, and most importantly, he was a man with a plan. Sure, the plan might have holes, but he’d figure it out as he went, and—

  “Aren’t you going to help Abbie with her luggage?” Ms Tricia asked lightly.

  “Shit,” Will said, and rushed out of the kitchen.

  Ready or not, the moment was here, and he would take it. For the very first time, he would take it.

  Because all he wanted this Christmas was one Abigail Farrell.

  * * *

  Christmas made Abbie uncomfortable.

  She understood its popularity, of course. For one thing, there was the whole, er, Christ aspect, which she imagined some people found very affirming. Then there was the food-and-presents part, which she was hugely in favour of. Life in general could do with more food and more presents, as far as Abbie was concerned.

  Really, the only thing she disliked about Christmas was the vile and inhumane level of cheer. The constant noise, the never-ending lights, the incessant colour. All of it said, Hey, you, you miserable cow! You should be happy and earnest and spiritually at one with your fellow man!

  Well, Abbie’s baseline emotional status was mild irritation; being earnest appealed to her about as much as the idea of sending nudes to her headmaster, and as for the whole “forced intimacy” aspect of Christmas, she’d been raised in a two-bedroom house with three older brothers. Abbie had lived as close with her fellow man as it was humanly possible to get, and she had found it a loud, messy, BO-scented experience where vulnerability would get you ruthlessly pranked.

  Speaking of… She pulled up outside Grandma’s big old house, grabbed her handbag from the passenger seat, and made sure her emergency can of Silly String was safely stashed within. When her brothers arrived, she would need an appropriate weapon to stop them messing with her hair or leaving worms in her bed. (Yes, Abbie’s brothers were all—allegedly—adult men. Not that they seemed to know it.)

  Silly String located, she flipped down the sun visor to check her lipstick before getting out. The matte, aubergine stain was still firmly in place, and so were the razor-sharp wings of her eyeliner, neither of which mattered since she was only going to see Grandma and … and possibly Will, and … and neither of those people especially cared about her appearance, and nor did she. So there.

  She flipped the mirror back up and looked around the gravel drive. There was Grandma’s ancient Estate. There was the battered ’90s Corsa Will kept at his mother’s house. But there were no other cars in residence, no brothers, no Mum…

  And no ring on Abbie’s finger. No husband waiting at home, the noose of his disapproval forever pulling her up short.

  Two years after the divorce, she was still getting used to that part. Still surprised by the freedom.

  Taking a breath, she gathered herself and got out of the car. A second later, Grandma’s shiny red door swung open.

  Abbie turned toward the noise, toward the spill of light across the rapidly darkening drive, toward the shadowed outline of a man she’d recognise anywhere, which didn’t mean jack-shit since half the world would too. Will was bigger than he seemed on-screen, probably because everything was huge in Hollywood, but here in Britain, stuff was normal-sized. Except for Will, who had hands like plates, a chest like a very well-defined barrel, and biceps like cantaloupe melons. She tried to think of him like that—in terms of ludicrous comparisons, in terms of various body parts stuck together—but then he walked toward her and made himself real.

  “Abbie,” he called, warm enough to make her forget the bitter cold biting at her fingers. His face was a technical work of art, but when he smiled, it turned into something sweeter. Something softer and realer. He had smiled on the cover of People, and Abbie had seen it and felt nothing but disorientation—but when he smiled at her now, when he smiled in the semi-dark without a camera to coax him, she felt the corners of her mouth lift in response. She felt a tug in her chest and took a step, an actual step, toward him, as if he’d pulled. She felt fifteen-year-old butterflies wake up in her stomach, which was fucking ancient for butterflies. No wonder they felt so enormous and sticky-slow these days. Like they were huge enough for their wings to brush her hips, her ribs, her throat. Like they were fluttering through honey, somehow.

  God. She gave herself a moment. Then she sucked down a lungful of inky, frosty air and got over it. Just like always.

  “Will,” she replied, and her voice was almost flat because if she didn’t exercise pristine control it would be the opposite. She let her gaze run impassively over him—at least, she hoped it was impassive, because otherwise he might notice that she found his knitted Christmas jumper and threadbare jeans hideously sexy. She reached his feet and bit her lip on a smile. “Erm… you’re not wearing any shoes.”

  “Yeah, I just now noticed,” he said, which wasn’t sarcasm. He was serious. His smile had been replaced by a wince as he danced across tiny, icy stones, light on his feet despite his size. “Ouch.”

  “Go inside, William.”

  “No, ma’am.” He had gotten it into his head that she found an American accent charming. What she really found char
ming was how badly he did it, but she’d never let on. He came to a stop in front of her, and even in his mismatched socks, he was eye-to-eye with Abbie in her high-heeled ankle-boots. This was problematic only because Will had very searching eyes. They were dark and sharp, and they tended to hold her gaze with unnerving intensity. If he hadn’t made a career of being professionally gorgeous, Will could have become a priest.

  “Abbie,” he repeated, softly this time, his breath a ghost between them. “You’re here.” This was the part where he’d usually drag her into a bear hug, just like her brothers, but he didn’t. Probably because everyone had been treating her as fragile since the divorce. Maybe Will was worried she’d shatter in his arms.

  She wouldn’t.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I’m here. Or I’m a figment of your imagination. Or I’m the ghost of Christmas past.”

  He released another breath, this one laced with laughter. Instead of pointing out that she hadn’t been here last year, that she’d stayed away while licking her wounds, he played along. “Do ghosts have luggage? If you do, I’ll take it for you.”

  “Don’t start treating me like a lady, Will, or I’ll be soft by the time my brothers get here.” She turned toward her car boot—and stopped when Will’s hand caught her elbow. It wasn’t the touch that shocked her—how could it? She could barely feel it through her winter jacket, and Will had always been a casual toucher, and anyway, they’d known each other forever. They used to play cat’s cradle together. Grandma used to force them all to hold hands when crossing the road. Once, Abbie had twisted her ankle, and he’d been the only boy in the group big enough to give her a piggyback home.

  So there was nothing shocking about the pressure of Will’s hand on her arm. The only shock was how it still made her breath catch, still made her remember the Christmas they’d…

  Well.

  Weren’t ancient feelings supposed to die eventually? Hers only ever seemed to hibernate. Every time she swore she’d kicked them, Will woke them right back up.

  “You are a lady, Abbie,” he said quietly, and then he ran his hand down her arm, all the way to her closed fist. Inhaling sharply, she looked up at his face. His blond lashes were lowered, hiding his gaze. The set of his mouth, soft against the scruff of his beard, told her absolutely nothing. His warm fingers eased open her cold, clumsy ones, and he took her car keys. Then he finally met her eyes, his own like beguiling mirrors in the dark. “You’re cold. Go on inside.”

  * * *

  As a child, Abbie had believed her grandmother knew almost everything, and her mother knew the rest. As an adult, she realised that couldn’t possibly be true. Because if Grandma had really known the unholy thoughts chasing themselves around in Abbie’s mind right now, she would’ve whacked her youngest grandchild with a saucepan.

  Instead, when Abbie entered the cluttered, spice-scented kitchen, Grandma turned from the Aga with open arms. Well, kind of open; there was a cat attached to her person, but that was to be expected. “Abigail! Come here, girl.”

  Abbie went. She’d taken off her boots at the door, but she still towered over Grandma, those silver-white curls pressing against her chest as they hugged. Once upon a time, it had been the other way around. But Grandma still smelled the same, like lily of the valley and cat biscuits and home, and Abbie’s heart still settled around her.

  “You good, darling?” Grandma asked quietly.

  “I’m good,” Abbie answered, her voice equally soft. When she was a kid, they’d have this same conversation, conducted in whispers, so no one would hear if the answer happened to be No. Abbie had always found weakness rather uncomfortable. Grandma was the same.

  “And how are you?” Abbie asked, letting the Up here all alone at your age part go unsaid. There was still time for Grandma to whack her with that saucepan.

  “I’m fine, sweetheart. This is Gravy, look—I showed her to you on the Face Screen.”

  “Yes, Grandma, I remember. Hi, Gravy. Hi.” Abbie reached out to stroke the little ginger thing and got a vicious hiss for her trouble. “Hm.” Turning away, Abbie went to Haddock’s bed in the corner and knelt to say hello. She’d always been more of a dog person. At the sight of her, his tongue lolled out in a grin and he rolled over, belly-up.

  She was still fussing the little terrier when she heard Will enter the room. Her back was to the door so she couldn’t see him, which suited Abbie just fine. She had no idea why he’d decided to pull a leading lady moment on her out there, with the arm-stroking and the eye-fucking and the luggage-fetching and whatever, but she was feeling a bit like a bottle of champagne tipped upside down, which was embarrassing and also infuriating. Didn’t he know it was impolite to switch on Hollywood sex appeal around ordinary people? Did friendship mean nothing to anyone anymore? Had he progressed from shagging fellow celebs across the pond to dazzling The Gals Back Home with his American-white teeth? Bastard.

  But that wasn’t fair. That wasn’t fair at all. Will wasn’t the conniving sort; he’d probably just forgotten to change gears. She exhaled her annoyance, gave Haddock one last pat, and stood. “Grandma. Did you know Will came out to meet me without any shoes on?” Her tease deployed, she turned around.

  Will was leaning against the kitchen counter, a tiny black-and-white kitten tucked under his throat. Fuck. Kittens made everyone a thousand times more adorable—that was basic physics—and Will was already too cute to bear in his red-and-green eyesore of a Christmas jumper. He stroked the little fluffball as if he didn’t have a fucking cat allergy, the twit, and then he looked up with smiling eyes that slammed into her like the first heatwave of summer.

  Abbie went to the sink to get herself a glass of water. This kitchen was always too damned hot.

  “No shoes?” Grandma laughed. “Someone was excited to see you.”

  Abbie snorted. “More like he thought I was Jase.”

  Grandma laughed harder.

  “Fine, yes, I forgot my shoes,” Will said over the noise, but while those words would have been defensive from Abbie, they were grinning and good-natured from him. Will was a sickeningly straightforward individual who’d never known a moment’s self-consciousness. Which made sense; it must take mammoth levels of confidence to pretend to kill CGI aliens in front of an entire set.

  “I forgot my shoes,” Will repeated, “but Abbie’s forgotten half her clothes, so we’re even.”

  Abbie sucked in a breath of mock outrage and looked down at her outfit. It was true that her midnight-black knit dress barely hit mid-thigh, but it wasn’t her fault women’s clothes didn’t come in five-foot-eleven. It was also true that her black stockings were incredibly sheer, but that was what happened when your thighs stretched nylons to the max. “Screw you, Will Reid, I look good.”

  “Never said you didn’t, Abigail,” he replied, and then—behind her Grandma’s back—he winked.

  With a kitten on his chest.

  That had to be some sort of war crime.

  “Now, now, children,” Grandma interjected. “Dinner’s ready. So make yourselves useful and lay the table, lazybones.”

  “She’s talking to you,” Abbie murmured as she and Will approached the cabinet.

  “She’s talking to you,” he shot back, cradling the kitten in one hand and grabbing a stack of plates in the other. For a moment, it was almost like old times. Before things had gotten … complicated.

  Then he leaned in close, so close his face must’ve brushed the dense halo of her hair, and added, “Your grandma was right, you know. I was excited to see you, Abbie. Always am.”

  She almost dropped the silverware.

  Three

  @DoURe1dMe: Hey. I can see you, you know.

  @AbbieGrl: ???

  @DoURe1dMe: Arguing in the comments of that gossip account

  @AbbieGrl: -typing-

  @AbbieGrl: -typing-

  @DoURe1dMe: You can’t
defend me from every bullshit rumour.

  @AbbieGrl: Factual inaccuracies grate at my soul and there’s nothing interesting on TV.

  Will woke up the next morning to cool, white sunlight spilling through the cracks in his curtains—or rather, the curtains in one of Ms Tricia’s spare bedrooms. This Christmas, he, his mother, Abbie’s mother, the twins, and the two older Farrell brothers would all be crammed into this five-bedroom house, which meant he’d be sharing his bed pretty soon. But until then…

  Until then, it was he and Abbie alone on this floor, their rooms opposite each other’s. If he hadn’t been so bone-tired last night, he would’ve done something about that. He remembered from their teenage years at impromptu house parties down the street and piss-ups at the park that Abbie had always been more open in the dark. But Will was still pretty jetlagged, so he couldn’t speak to Midnight Abbie just yet.

  Soon.

  That decided, he sat up, stretched, and grabbed his phone. 10:01 a.m., which meant Abbie had been awake for hours and Ms Tricia was still semi-unconscious. Perfect circumstances for a bit of light wooing. (Will was an expert in the theory of wooing, having attended the premieres of many period dramas.) He read his news alerts, which always depressed him horribly, but seemed like the right thing to do. Next, he opened his top-secret Instagram and tried not to feel disappointed at the lack of messages from Abbie. It was probably weird that they’d DM’d each other last night from across the family room. He shouldn’t expect her to crave his conversation the way he did hers. So Will shook off his frown and checked his texts.

  Kara: You’re killing me here, kid. Call me back.

  He deleted that one.

  Jason: You know, when you ring someone four times in the dead of night without sending a text to explain why, they might wake up the next morning and see the missed calls and think you were having a cat-induced asthma attack and they slept through it and left you to die in the wilds of Scotland. And then they might call their annoying sister to check on your welfare and be ruthlessly mocked. Learn to text, you fucking donkey dick.