Page 61 of A Very Irish Christmas
I look up into his eyes, feeling the tug of our physical closeness.
‘Are you offering me a job, Charles?’
‘I’m offering you a lot more than that, Cassie, and I think you know it. Yes, you’ve been an asset in a professional sense, of course you have – but it’s more than that, isn’t it? These kinds of declarations don’t come easily to me, but I haven’t felt this way for a very long time. There’s something here, between us – a spark. The kind that I’d almost forgotten existed. The kind that I think could lead somewhere very special. It’s something I’d very much like to explore. Or am I just a deluded fool? Am I imagining it?’
His hands run up my arms, come to rest on my shoulders. He gently pushes a strand of wet hair away from my face, and I am suddenly a teenager, full of ideas she’s absorbed from romancenovels. I am standing with this man, this beautiful man, in this beautiful place, and he is looking at me with such intensity that I can barely think.
I could stay here. I could stay in England. If I let it, this fantasy could run and run – I could explore that spark with Charles. I could even marry Charles. I could be the lady of the manor. I could live there, in that life, in a totally different world to my own.
I could work, I could play, I could love. I could be anything I want to be – but I’m still not exactly sure what that is.
‘No,’ I reply shakily, ‘you’re not imagining it, Charles. The spark is real. But I don’t think I’m there yet. I don’t think I’m anything but a work in progress.’
He nods, sighs, and says: ‘You’re not ready for the tango?’
‘Absolutely not!’ I respond, laughing. ‘The tango is way too hot – the kind of dance that takes a spark and turns it into a raging inferno!’
He pulls away, but takes one of my hands in his. He opens my fingers, and lifts my palm to his mouth. It’s just one delicate touch, the soft skim of his lips against my sensitive skin, but it is enough to make me realise how close to ignition I already am.
‘Right,’ he says, smiling at my trembling response. ‘Well. I’m a patient man, and I don’t give up easily, I warn you. Now come on – you’re soaked through, and we have a long drive ahead of us.’
TWENTY-FIVE
I’m home for maybe fifteen minutes before Eejit scratches on the door, and I sit with him on the rug in front of the now-roaring fire as I call June.
When she answers, I see that she is sitting on a bench in Central Park, and feel a pang of homesickness. She says hello, and moves the phone around so I can see the familiar landscape.
‘It snowed!’ she says, sounding excited. She’s wearing pink ear muffs, and looks about ten years old.
‘I see that!’
‘I picked up a veggie gyro?—’
‘With extra hot sauce?’
‘Of course with extra hot sauce! Just thought it’d be nice to sit here and enjoy it all while it’s still pretty. Before it turns to urban slush. I’m meeting Neil for drinks in the East Village – it’s all feeling real Christmassy right now. How about you? Any news? I loved the pictures you sent! I can’t believe you went to the other side of the world just to work…’
‘I know. But it’s been good for me. Today, I went to see some stone circles.’
‘Oooh! Were you caught up in their pagan magic? Are you now pregnant with druid triplets?’
‘I hope not! And then I went to Oxford. It was even better than you can imagine.’
‘Oh my God! Was it just likeOxford Blues? Did you see Rob Lowe?’
I laugh at her excitement. We used to love that movie, even if it was old. She had it on an ancient VHS cassette in her basement, and we used to watch it and do terrible English accents. Now I come to think of it, it’s probably as much Rob’s fault as Hugh’s that I got so obsessed with coming here. Colin Firth doesn’t come out of it blameless either.
‘No, I didn’t see Rob Lowe – but gosh, June, it was so beautiful! Charles took me.’
She finishes a quick bite of gyro, and her eyes narrow.
‘Did I detect a little sigh there, Cassie? Something about the way you saidCharles, like you were out of breath… has something happened? Has he kissed you punishingly in the stables?’
‘No, because he’s not actually the hero of a Regency romance novel. But… yeah, I guess something happened. He told me he has feelings for me – though he didn’t specify exactly what, because, you know, English. There was talk of a spark.’
‘A-ha!’ she says, like she’s Sherlock Holmes figuring out a mystery. ‘Spark is surely code for wanting to ravage you? What else did he say?’
I scratch Eejit’s furry ears, and feel the warmth of both the fire and the memory.
