Page 8 of Short Stack 3

Later that evening, I slump on my stool at the counter in our kitchen and groan. “I can’tbelievethe behaviour of those children in that shop,” I say for what feels like the twentieth time. “It was like some sort of dystopian nightmare.”

Dylan snorts. “Have many of those, do you?”

I shudder. “And that tug of war over the shark ruler. I never knew children could be so violent. I think it was a bit of a shock to the gift shop employee too.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine once the swelling goes down.”

I look around our kitchen appreciatively. Warm, white fairy lights are draped over the cupboards, offering a twinkling display against the darkening sky outside the window. The sea roars in the background, and music plays softly. Charlie Hunnam sleeps at my feet, and I feel warm and cosy. Then my eyes narrow.

“Are those new fairy lights? Don’t we already own fifty thousand strands of them?”

He looks up from where he’s rolling pastry. “Ssh. You’re drowning out George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley.”

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

“It is,” he says earnestly. “Jude’s coming round for supper, and he’ssoclose to Whamageddon. Christmas is next week, and he’s gone until now without hearing ‘Last Christmas’.”

“I do that every year. I didn’t know it had a name.”

“I’ve never got this far,” he says enviously. “It’s a miracle.”

“Not one sanctioned by the Church of England.”

“Anyway, he and Asa have a lot of money riding on it this year.”

“So, you’re playing it when he’s due round here at any moment?” I say slowly.

He nods. “Strange things happen when you dump a school trip on your friends.”

I grin at my devious boyfriend. “Have I ever told you how much I love your mind?”

“Not as much as you wax lyrical about my penis.”

I raise my glass at him. “Well, Merry Christmas to both of them.”

“Ho-ho-ho.”

“Not right now, but we have all night.”

Tricky

This was written for my Facebook readers’ group for their Christmas story. It’s set a year after the events ofVow Maker.

Gabe

I come awake slowly and force my eyes open. The room is full of a dim light, and I raise my head, looking around blearily. We’d left the curtains open last night, and I can see huge flakes of snow drifting past the window. It’s a morning for staying in bed, and as if to mock that idea, the alarm clicks on, and the dulcet sound of Mariah Carey singing “All I Want for Christmas Is You” blares out.

I groan. “Mustwe have this cacophony?”

Dylan stirs and mumbles something, pulling the blankets over his head until only a tuft of brown-blond hair peeks over the top. He was at his office party last night and had reeled home in the early hours, happy and handsy.

I eye him for a second, and then, smiling wickedly, I reach for my phone and select Wham’s “Last Christmas.” He’s doing Whamageddon with Jude, so that’ll teach him.

“Ohno!” comes the plaintive cry from under the duvet.

With a happy smile, I put one foot tentatively out of the duvet. My smile becomes a wince when I feel the air’s coolness, and I steel myself before leaving the snug warmth of the bed. After dipping into the bathroom, I pad downstairs, pulling on my dressing gown as I go.

Charlie Hunnam greets me at the foot of the stairs, grumbling.

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