Eventually, the party winds up, and just after midnight, Becca finishes her tour of Budbury with her final stop at the Rockery. The journey has been hilarious, all of us crammed into the motorhome, sitting on each other’s laps and perching on tables. We possibly broke some over-crowding laws, but the roads are completely empty, and Becca is completely sober.
Still wearing her slinky ballroom outfit and full face of make-up, but now with chunky trainers on her feet, she drives us through the glistening snowscape like a pro, giving us fake tour guide commentary as she goes. Highlights include ‘the famous spot where Midgebo once did the world’s biggest poo’, ‘the world-renowned bus stop where Lizzie once appeared without eye-liner’, and the cornfield where ‘respected vet and pillar of the community, Matt Hunter, first snogged my sister.’ Of course, being a bit drunk, we all find this totally side-splitting.
She drops off the Jones family at the Cider Cave, Edie, Sophie and Ivy Wellkettle in the village, Willow and Lynnie at their tiny cottage on the outskirts, before making a detour to Frank’s farm and then home. She parks up, and we all crunch our way through the snow back to the houses, saying our goodnights and sharing farewell hugs.
It’s a beautiful evening – absolutely freezing, but beautiful, the sky clear and dark and studded with brilliantly shining stars; a perfect full moon hanging in the sky like a giant cheese; the fresh layers of snow glistening in its yellow light. The snowman the kids made earlier is still there, wearing Cal’s Kiss Me Quick hat, its carrot nose slightly wonky, its mouth-of-sprouts grinning at us.
I pat him on the head as we pass, and all troop back inside Lilac Wine. It’s so warm and cosy in there, all the curtains drawn and the heating on, and we all seem to sigh a small breath of relief at being back inside. The snow is falling again, in small, wild flurries, and it feels good to be safe and comfortable indoors.
Cal has come back with us, allegedly to get his Christmas gifts before going back to Saffron, and there is still an air of unfinished business between us. I don’t know where any of it is heading, and feel edgy and nervous and excited. Also, a little tipsy.
I remind myself again of that part as I wander into the kitchen, and pour myself a glass of water. It’s not a good combination – tipsy and nervous. It’s making my tummy squish around and my brain fizz; I feel tired and wired at the same time, and even thinking about our Last Christmas kiss is enough to make me gaze off into space and sigh. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed so bloody thoroughly – he wasn’t lying that night he promised me godlike skills.
I’m standing there, leaning against the counter, sipping my water and wondering just how godlike it could get if we took things further, when Martha walks into the room. She has her boots dangling by their ribbons in one hand, and a packet of Cheezels in the other.
“I’m knackered,” she says, brandishing the bag. “And I’m stealing these. Need to get in touch with my Aussie heritage. I’m off to bed. And … well, happy Christmas and all that. I wasn’t looking forward to it this year, for obvious reasons, but … I suppose it wasn’t as shit as I’d expected.”
“Wow,” I reply, grinning at her. “High praise indeed. Sleep well, small evil princess.”
She grimaces at that, and flounces out of the kitchen. I hear her footsteps on the stairs, and a dull thud when she drops her boots to the floor, and the sound of her door closing firmly. That, I think, just leaves us – me and Cal. No audience. No teenager. No buffer zone. I wonder if I can make a break for it, and go and sleep in the motorhome…
Deciding that it’s way too cold and way too late for escape plans, I walk through into the living room, pretending to yawn, holding a hand in front of my face. I’m reminding myself of Martha now, which can’t be a good thing.
As soon as he sees this performance, Cal starts to laugh. He’s sprawled on the sofa, a few buttons of his shirt undone, golden skin peeking out, blonde hair all mussed up and wild, looking like some kind of cowboy Adonis. An amused cowboy Adonis.
“Really?” he says, once he stops laughing at me. “You’re going to pull the ‘I’m-so-tired-I’m-going-straight-to-bed-to-avoid-you’ routine? What are you so scared of?”
I make a small ‘hmmph’ noise – nobody likes being called out on their silly behaviour – and ignore the fact that he’s patting the space next to him on the sofa. Instead, I sit on the arm chair, and try to look both prim and unafraid.
“I’m not scared of anything. Apart from wasps,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at him.
“Yeah you are. You’re scared of me. Of us. Of that kiss – that pretty damn phenomenal kiss. You’re scared of what might happen if you kiss me again. You’re a great big cowardly custard, Zoe – no getting away from it.”
Against my better judgement, I have to grin at this. He is, of course, spot on in his assessment.
“You never told me,” I say, ignoring that assessment, especially as it’s correct, “how you got that scar. And you promised you would.”
“I’ll tell you,” he responds, “if you move your arse from that chair and at least come and sit next to me. I promise I won’t bite. Unless you want me to.”
I weigh up my options, and without even knowing I’ve reached a decision, find myself settling down on the sofa. Crikey – it’s like the man has mind-control powers on top of everything else. He immediately pulls me closer, and I end up nestled against his chest, my hand on the flat of his stomach, inches away from the belt buckle. Big gulps.
“Well, it happened when I was 12,” he says, once we’re still. “No sharks. No crocs. No Russell Crowe in a barfight. Basically, just me, a skateboard, and the back windshield of my dad’s jeep. Went straight through it – dad was more concerned about the car, obviously, being a sensible bloke, but it was pretty nasty. Ended up with a few surgeries, and a lot of stitches in the face. Just like that, my future as a male model was gone.”
“Is that it?” I say, looking up at him, tracing the pale line of the scar with my finger. “I feel strangely disappointed. I think I’m going to forget you told me any of that, and tell myself it was definitely a shark attack. While you were rescuing Nicole Kidman from cannibals.”
“That works for me,” he replies, laughing. He catches my hand in his, and kisses my palm gently. It’s not much of a touch, but it’s enough to make me breathe faster, and feel a delicious kind of panic wash over me. My fingers seem to have found their way beneath his shirt, and his skin is warm and smooth over the hard planes of his belly. They drift upwards slightly, meeting soft hair, firm muscle.
I hear him pull in a breath of his own, and he moves his lips from my hand to my mouth. It doesn’t take much to ignite things all over again, and as he kisses me, he pulls me onto his lap, my legs straddling him, my hair covering both our faces. He holds me close, and kisses me hard, and wraps his fists into my curls, both of us lost in the moment.
His lips move to my neck, the sensitive skin of my throat, and I seem to be unbuttoning his shirt. He’s a glorious creature, and my fingers fly to touch his flesh, skimming his shoulders, exploring his back, arching to meet his touch when his own hands start to explore my body.
I can feel him, hard beneath me, obviously as aroused as I am, and it makes me feel even more hungry for him. I writhe and wriggle, and groan when his fingers find my nipple, as his mouth lingers on my neck, as I hear him breathe out my name. Months of foreplay are suddenly exploding for both of us, and I badly want him naked. Naked, and inside me, and on top of me, and beneath me. I want him everywhere, and know that I’ve wanted him since I first met him – I was just too sensible to do anything about it.
Being sensible isn’t really an option any more, as I find my hands reaching down, leaving his chest, heading for his waist. For the belt, with the big buckle, that I very much want to remove, along with the rest of his clothing.
He’s grinning as I start to fumble with it, swearing as I struggle to get it undone, and it gives us just enough time to remember where we are, and what we’re doing, and where we’re doing it. And more importantly, who is upstairs.
I hear the sound of Martha moving around through the ceiling; a door opening, water running in her bathroom – and I can tell from his reaction that he’s heard it too.
We both freeze like guilty teenagers, staring at each other in horror as we wait to hear her footsteps on the stairs…
I jump off him, just in case, and land in an undignified heap on the floor, hair all over the place, face bright red, bra unhooked and bunched beneath my T-shirt. He takes one look at me, and laughs.
“It’s okay,” he says, offering a hand to help me back up. “We’re safe. Sounds like she’s gone back to bed.”
I stand up, feeling wobbly and unsteady on my feet, and back away from him as though he’s radioactive.
“Yeah … but …” I mutter, still in fight-or-flight mode, trying to contort my arms backwards under my top to re-hook the naughty bra.
“I know. It doesn’t feel right, does it?” he says, sighing and running his hands through his hair in frustration. “Not with her upstairs. If we’re going to do this – and I very much want to do this – then we should do it right.”
I feel my heart rate soar as I imagine that … if we’d just been doing it wrong, then what would right feel like? I nod, and take a few more steps away. I need a bit of distance. I need to cool down. I need to not be looking at his bare chest, the fair hair snaking down his stomach. I need to not still be thinking about the way it felt to have those big hands touching my body.
“I’m going to bed,” I say, quickly, turning to leave before I can change my mind. “Erm … thank you?”
I’m not sure that’s an appropriate thing to say, but feel that I have to say something.
“My pleasure. And Zoe?”
I pause as I reach the doorway, look back at him. Long and lean and still very clearly ready for action.
“Yes?”
“This is to be continued, all right? Don’t go to bed regretting this, or conjuring up reasons to pretend it never happened. The lyrics to Last Christmas do not apply here, and this is not 1993. Your heart would be safe with me.”
I nod, and scurry up the stairs on all fours, like a terrified monkey.