Page 9 of Short Stack 3

“It’s not midday,” I inform him. “Stop complaining.”

I open the back door, letting in an arctic blast of air. The garden is already white with snow, and the sky is full of more. Devon will be beautiful, and I’m looking forward to being there. The cottage is gorgeous during the winter.

Charlie saunters out to water a few bushes, and I close the door and switch the coffee machine on to start my first cup of the day. While it’s brewing, I make Dylan his tea and then open the door to an indignant Charlie, who seems to be under the impression that I’m his footman and should have been waiting ready by the door for him.

He takes the biscuit I offer him with an air of martyred disappointment and retires to his basket, curling up with a contented grunt.

I check my phone while waiting for the coffee and answer a few urgent emails. The office closes today, and several senior partners greet this time of year with nihilistic despair. Maybe I’d have been like that if Dylan hadn’t come along. I try to imagine my husband’s face if I announced I would work on Christmas Day. Ire wouldn’t even cover it. Dylan treats every holiday as if he’s got the budget of Jeff Bezos’s party planner, and woe betide anyone who doesn’t fall into line with him.

When I come back into the bedroom, Dylan has somehow managed to extricate himself from the covers, and he gives a piteous moan and holds out his hand for the mug of tea.

“Good morning,” I say extra loudly.

He grimaces and holds a hand to his head. “Must you?”

“What, my darling?”

“Must you be soloud?” he whispers in a dire voice.

I smirk, setting my mug on the table and shrugging off my dressing gown. I slide into the still-warm sheets and grin at him.

“You’re a very interesting shade of green. Hang on.” I reach into the bedside table and pull out the paint chart we were looking at yesterday. I run my finger down the little colour chips. “Hmm. You appear to be the exact shade of Farrow and Ball’s Calke Green, which is very handy. We won’t need a sample pot after all. We can just prop you against the wall.”

“So many words,” he grumbles. “You’re very cruel to mock me.”

“Did you expect anything else?”

He offers me a wry smile, the piss-taking curl of his lips still having the power to make my heart flutter. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he assures me.

He puts his mug down and throws himself back onto the pillows. “Is it dim in here, or is my vision finally failing me in my last breaths?”

“Dylan, you have a hangover. You are not dying, or if you are, you’re doing it very noisily. Not that I’d expect anything else. If you’d been on the execution block in Tudor times, they’d have had to gag you when your farewell speech took everyone else’s allotted slot.”

“Yes, but I’d have been very fetching in a doublet and hose.”

“Anyway, it’s snowing.”

“What?” He lifts his head up and then winces. “I’m sorry, I can’t even summon the enthusiasm for that. I’ll just stay here, nice and quiet.”

“Good grief. It’s like you’ve been body snatched and replaced by a normal person. I’m not sure I’ll pursue getting you back if that’s the case. It’s quite nice.”

“Gabe, I’m pretty sure my wedding vows mentioned not taking such a delight in my hangovers.”

“You lie, Mr Foster.”

I grab his hand, straightening out the long, elegant fingers and admiring the gleam of gold on his ring finger. I kiss it, not missing the delighted curve of his mouth.

I lever myself over him, holding myself up on one hand, and he bites his lip, his eyes tired but still full of mischief.

“So,” I say after kissing him and feeling his hands come up to tangle in my hair. “I was reading about this special remedy for hangovers.”

He cocks his head. “Oh?”

“Oh yes. It’s entirely natural.”

“Because you and natural medicine go so well together. You have a more intimate relationship with Lemsip packets than Reckitt, who makes them.”

“Hmm. You could be right. It’s just very interesting that scientists have recently extolled the benefits of a blowjob for hangover alleviation.”

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