by K. A. Hobbs
She continues to unwrap the present while I watch her, eager to see her reaction. When the first letter is visible, she glances back at me quickly before she pulls the rest of the paper off.
“You did not,” she yells excitedly.
“Oh yes I did,” I squeal back, bouncing on my knees. “Because, frankly, it’s shameful that you, a fully signed up member of the Harry Potter out of control obsession club doesn’t own them. Every fan ought to have the DVDs. Plus, they’re totally Christmas films so this means we can watch them tonight when we’re full of turkey and groaning on the couch.”
“These are the best.” She beams, clutching the box set to her chest. “We are absolutely going to watch them until we pass out. Thank you so much.”
The rest of the presents are quickly cleared until the floor is covered in paper and I’m pretty sure I’ll be finding glitter in places I didn’t even know I had places for weeks to come. Stuffing a chocolate sprout in my mouth, despite the fact I threw them at her when I opened them, and cuddling my new stuffed hermit crab, Ernie, to my chest, I shuffle through to the kitchen in my brand new cookie monster slippers to check on the turkey.
It smells amazing in the kitchen. The scent of every Christmas ever drifts through the air and makes my mouth water. I always used to love to cook. I’d spend hours in the kitchen at weekends experimenting with new recipes and ideas, and testing them all out on poor Ben. But since that godawful February morning, I haven’t really felt the thrill that being in the kitchen used to give me. Until today.
Dancing around the island in the middle of the room, I hum along to the music Ben’s iPod is churning out and wiggle to the beat as I slice carrots, pouting in the general direction of the compulsory sprouts of the non chocolate variety.
When the time comes to prepare them, I realise that I have no idea how, nor any real desire to even touch them. I hadn’t even realised how lost I’d got in the task of preparing dinner until I glance around looking for Imogen to help with them and find myself alone in the room.
“Immy?” I holler, trying to force my volume higher than the music and failing miserably. “Immy,” I call again, grabbing the little bag of offending items and swinging it from my hand as I move off in search of the slacker. “If you want sprouts, you can damn well come and—oh.” I freeze in my tracks as I enter the hallway and see her standing there with possibly one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen.
He’s so tall, dragging my eyes up from his perfectly polished shoes until my neck strains to meet his eyes that are staring at me with intense curiosity. Despite their intensity, though, his gaze is kind as he takes a regal step forward, glancing at Imogen as though prompting her to make the introductions, like she’s forgotten. And when I look her way, I realise she probably has. Her eyes are stuck on him, and her tongue might as well be lolling on the floor for all the good her trying to hide her attraction to him is doing.
He clears his throat and holds out his hand. “I don’t think Imogen will be much help right now,” he teases. “I’m George. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Molly.”
Smiling, I slide my hand into his, surprised at its warmth when he’s just stepped in from the cold. “It’s nice to finally meet you, too. I’ve heard a lot about you.” I smirk, nudging Imogen’s calf with my toe, or rather the cookie monster’s nose. “Come on in. You must be freezing. I hope you like turkey. The bird Immy bought is big enough to feed the whole of Cornwall and still have leftovers for soup on Boxing Day.”
“Turkey is a particular favourite. I’d be honoured to join you. I brought this for the dinner.” He holds out a bottle and I take it.
“Thank you,” I say, scanning the bottle until my eyes practically pop out on stalks. It’s not just any old bottle of wine from Aldi he’s brought. It’s vintage Champagne, whose vintage is vintage. I’ve never even seen a bottle like this before. “Christ,” I cry, pushing it back towards him. “I think you better carry this. I don’t have a great track record with, umm, not breaking stuff. Case in point,” I mutter, showing him the finger I sliced with the vegetable knife earlier and the small burn on my wrist from the oven door. “I’m basically a walking, talking disaster. And I’m rambling. Shutting up now.”
I don’t know why, but there’s something about this man that intimidates me. He has this air about him that speaks of wisdom well beyond his boyish good looks. He can’t be older than thirty and yet he looks at me more like a father assessing a child than a man a woman. And in spite of myself, I like him already. You don’t find many gentlemen like him anymore.
“A gift from an old friend,” he tells me, flicking his eyes to Imogen’s and back. “And one I don’t feel should be consumed alone. I’d very much enjoy sharing it with you, if you’d like to?” He looks at me intently, like he’s genuinely interested in whether or not I would like to share this priceless bottle of champagne with him.
I look at Imogen and smile. I find it highly amusing that she’s not said a word. Is George the only person who can stop her from talking?
Interesting.
“I’d love to,” I reply with a wide smile, pushing my arm through his, far more confidently than I feel, and leaning in to whisper conspiratorially in his ear. “Did you break Imogen?”
“No.” He chuckles. “I must admit, however, she’s not usually so mute.” He turns to look at her and flashes her one of the most beautiful smiles I’ve ever seen. “Imogen? Are you okay?”
I wait for one of her usual snappy replies, but there’s nothing. She just has this sort of dreamy, glazed look on her face, and I realise her feelings for this man run a lot deeper than I knew before. “I think this is the longest she’s ever gone without speaking. Maybe we should call a doctor?”
The mention of a doctor soon has her snapping out of whatever daze she’s in. “Any doctor in particular, Molly?” She wiggles her eyebrows at me. “A certain cookie stealing one by chance? I’m sure we could track him down, don’t you think, George?”
My eyes roll involuntarily as I tug on George’s arm, dragging him towards the living room and hoping he isn’t averse to glitter. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do,” she says from behind us. “He’s tall with unruly hair and he has the most gorgeous dimples when he smiles? You walked into a door so he’d ‘check you over’ and then practically tried to hump him in the cookie aisle? Ring any bells?” She smirks, sitting on the floor and stretching her legs out in front of her, resting back on her hands with a far too smug look on her face.
Releasing George’s arm, I nudge him towards the couch, hurriedly pushing bits of wrapping paper off onto the floor, ‘accidentally’ flicking a fair few bits of it in Imogen’s direction. “Well that didn’t last long, did it?” I sigh, giving George a disappointed look. “Perhaps you can utilise that mistletoe and shut her up again?”
“Funny.” She grins. “I could have sworn I heard you ask the doctor the very same thing yesterday while you were arguing over a packet of bloody cookies.”
Ignoring her blatant baiting, not to mention the outright lie she just told, I turn back to her male friend pointedly. “Would you like something to drink? I’m sure my ex friend will be happy to get you anything you’d like.”
I hear her laughing behind me and I have to admit, just the sound of it makes my lips pull up into a smile.
“I really don’t mind. Whatever you have will be great.” He smiles at me and I can sort of see why Imogen’s knees melt every time he looks at her. There’s no denying he’s handsome. He has that something about him that turns even women like Immy into jibbering wrecks.
“I think you’re meant to have eggnog at Christmas, but I have absolutely no idea what it is. I think we have eggs,” I offer, scrunching my face up. I’ve been hearing about the drink all my life but I’ve never actually had it.
“I always worry that will make people sick.” He frowns a little. “Do you have any wine? Or even a beer? I’m happy with either.”
I’m tickled for a moment at the thought of this man kicking back with a beer. He seems so… stately somehow. Otherworldly. The thought of him chilling with football and a beer just doesn’t fit. So, naturally, that’s what I bring him then sit a little nervously in the armchair across from them both, unsure how to act around them both together. Suddenly, my cookie monster slippers seem so juvenile. Should I change them? Or would he think that was weird? I don’t want to embarrass Imogen by being an idiot in front of the man she obviously has pretty non-PG feelings for.
“Look what Molly got me for Christmas, George.” She beams, breaking the silence and holding up her wrist where the bracelet I got her sits proudly. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
I watch as he gently grasps her wrist and reverently inspects the gift I bought for her, a small smile curling at his lips, and I suspect that her feelings may not be quite as one-way as she thinks. He touches her as though she’s made of glass, a precious thing to be cherished, and I find I like him even more.
“It’s truly exquisite, Molly. You have exceptional taste. You’re very lucky to own something so precious, Imogen.”
I chuckle internally at the formality of his words. It’s like listening to somebody in a Jane Austen novel, and thoughts of Mr. Darcy tickle a small laugh from my lips that I quickly cover up with a cough. Imogen is lucky indeed.
“Thank you,” I reply softly, his formality provoking my voice to lower by several decibels. “Imogen has been like my very own angel. I had to get it for her when I saw it.”
They exchange a strange look at my words that I can’t decipher, his eyes zoning in on hers for a moment while she visibly turns to mush under his scrutiny.
“Shall I check the turkey?” she asks, flushing pink and jumping to her feet. “We don’t want to overcook it, do we?”
I escape into the safety of the kitchen and fill a glass with water, gulping the whole thing down in seconds.
Bloody hell.
Does he have to do that? Look at me like he can see past everything I show to the world and look right into my soul.
Take it easy, Imogen. It’s fine.
Fine.
I bloody hate that word. No one ever uses it when they’re remotely fine. It’s a stupid, shitty word.
“Imogen?”
My spine stiffens at his voice, yet my insides melt. “Yeah?” I reply, trying to sound together, calm.
“Are you okay?”
I blink a few times and take a deep breath. “Absolutely. Do you need another beer?” I ask in a stupidly cheery voice.
He smiles as though he can hear every single thought I’m having, and the way my heart is chattering in my chest. “No, no, I don’t need another beer. I would like to have a conversation with you, though.”
I smirk. “A conversation? We call it a chat, George. Remember it’s not the 1800s now,” I tease.
I have no true idea when his first life happened, but in my mind, I always imagine him in long coats and top hats. I imagine him riding in carriages, not cars.
He smirks, stalking towards me until his body is crowding me into the work surface and his hands rest on the marble either side of me, caging me in. “If it were the 1800’s, Imogen, as the man responsible for your well-being, I’d be well within my rights to demand an explanation of what you’re feeling.” He leaves a long, dramatic pause as his breath washes over my skin, drawing goosebumps from every inch it touches. “You’d also be trussed into a corset and do as you were told occasionally.”
I shudder.
A full body, completely out of my control, shudder.
“George,” I practically pant. His words have me picturing images I have never imagined before in my life.
“Imogen,” he replies confidently. “The truth. Are you alright?”
I raise a shaking hand to my forehead and swipe at it, removing a light sheen of perspiration. “Yes. At least I was before. Can you please step back? This is not the time or place to be feeling these… feelings.”
“Was that an honest answer I just heard?” he questions, his face moving closer to mine for just a moment before he takes a step back, giving me some much needed breathing space.
“Are you doubting my words?” I groan shakily. “You can’t seriously be doubting my reaction? You… you need to keep this…” I gesture between him and myself, “…under control. This is about Molly, remember? Not about whatever this is between us.”
He nods curtly, but I can see something burning behind the impeccably controlled expression in his eyes. “I believe I have things perfectly under control. Molly appears to be quite happy today. You’re doing a tremendous job.”
“She is now. Not so much when we woke up, or rather, she woke me up. Screaming. I managed to turn the day around, though, and of course,” I tease him, “the arrival of Gorgeous George has helped immensely.”
“Gorgeous George?” he repeats, one eyebrow raised and his lips twitching at one side.
“You’ve seen you, right? I don’t think there is a woman alive or, you know… who doesn’t find you attractive.” I pretend to consider my words a second before I speak again. “Or men for that matter. I’m sure Franklin finds you dashing.”
He scowls at me, and damn if it isn’t the sexiest thing I have ever seen. Those dark eyebrows, his amused eyes hidden behind his black framed glasses. George is attractive all the time, but sometimes, he takes it to a whole other level and reaches Godlike status.
“I’m certain if Franklin heard you saying that about him, he’d have no scruples about setting you straight.”
“Interesting choice of words.” I giggle childishly.
“I think you know exactly what I mean. Now, stop changing the subject. How is your first Christmas as one of us going? You still haven’t convinced me that you’re alright.”
How do I even begin to do that?
Am I okay? Yes. But do I also long to be back with my family, sitting down to a big Christmas dinner, everyone wearing their silly cracker hats and taking it in turns to read and laugh at the bad jokes?
Of course.
But it’s a strange feeling having someone who needs you so much, whose happiness relies on your presence, who needs you more than you need them.
“It’s okay. Molly is keeping my mind off of Olivia and everyone else, and now I have you here, I would say I have pretty much everything I need.”
He smiles his devastating smile that if I didn’t know better would have me expecting to hear angels singing. When his arms twitch at his sides, I half expect him to hug me, and God, do I want him to? But as he’s so fond of telling me, he’s from another time. He remains stoically in place, but his expression is full of compassion. “The first Christmas is hard for everybody. You’re remarkably strong, Imogen, but I’d be worried if you weren’t at least a little homesick today.”
I nod, accepting his words but not wanting to admit it’s exactly how I feel. “I’m okay,” I tell him, reaching for his fingers and squeezing. “I need to check on the turkey. Do you want to risk your fancy clothes? Or will you go check on Molly?”
Sighing, he watches me silently for a moment, his gaze cutting through me with its intensity, and I feel utterly naked to his scrutiny. With one look, he can see through all of my evasion. “Imogen,” he repeats sharply, but not unkindly, dragging my attention from the pointless fluttering I’m doing around the oven.
“Yes?” I whisper, holding my breath.
His hand lifts, his fingers lingering just millimetres from my cheek as a pained look takes over his face. I can almost see the war he’s fighting with himself as his hand hovers there before dropping to his side like a stone once more. “It’s my job to take care of you, to ensure you’re able to cope. I need you to be honest with me.”
“I am being honest with you. I always am. I’m just saying… Look, can we do this later? She needs us today, and right now, I don’t need you to help me. But I’m positive later I will. Be there for Molly now, and me later? I won’t always be
this strong and I’ll need you much more then, okay?”
Finally, he loses his internal battle, and warm, gentle fingers softly brush against my cheek as he pierces me with his eyes. “I’ll be here for both of you. Molly is your concern, but you… You are mine. I won’t tolerate you suffering in silence, Imogen. I am trusting you to be honest with me. Whatever you need.”
You are mine.
How utterly crazy that he speaks words of such truth and yet has no idea of how very right they are.
“I need you to check on Molly,” I tell him, meeting his eyes. “And later, when we go home, I’ll need you to help me find something that is just mine out of today.”
“Consider it done,” he says, his voice almost a croon before his fingers disappear, taking their warmth with them.
I grip the counter and inhale deeply as I hear his feet carrying him out of the kitchen and into the lounge with Molly.
I can’t explain the reaction I seem to have to him, how my body responds before my mind has caught up. Without thinking about it, I’m drawn to him. I follow him, and I feel safest and happiest when I’m with him.
When my life changed beyond recognition, when I had to start over, the first person I found any kind of peace with was George. And since those very first moments where everything hurt, when I longed for the life I knew and wanted my old life back, George has been there.
When I woke up night after night screaming, he was there to comfort me and wipe the hair off my face. When I pushed the boundaries, he was there to explain everything to me and make sure I did what was right.
For months, it’s been George and I don’t think anything could have stopped me falling for his kindness, his wisdom and the inner beauty that shines through his strikingly blue and expressive eyes.
I shake the thoughts from my head and check on the turkey. It’s doing well so I turn the roast potatoes and put the stuffing in. The air smells amazing as I ensure everything is under control and amuse myself with the thought of George and Molly—two of the most socially awkward people I know—trying to make small talk with each other. Eventually, I decide to take pity on both of them and meander through, expecting to find them both sitting on opposite sides of the room in a stunted silence. The scene I walk in to, though, is somewhat different.
