Page 67 of A Copenhagen Snowmance
It’s an offer. Honest and clear. And for many it would a good one, fantastic in fact. He’s a catch. But there is no way she can see to make this work. It’s a practical thing, it’s protecting him, it’s certainly notfear.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t see it,” is all she can say.
Jamie studies her face, then gives her a small nod with a flat smile, before pouring them both another measure, and raising the glass in toast. “To happy futures.” The separate nature of the futures isn’t lost on her.
Anna repeats it, but the words feel empty in her mouth.
ChapterTwenty-Nine
The kilt.
Oh. My. God.
Anna has to hand it to Jamie, he knows how to pull out the big guns. Having purportedly accepted her decision last night, from what she can see, he’s switched tactics today. He’s not badgering her, or touching her or even venturing near the subject of “them”, but he’s around her, being charming, thoughtful and wafting that scent of his close to her, causing something to coil in her core.
And now he’s just walked into the room, freshly showered, hair tamed–ish– in a thin, knitted grey V-neck over a white T and… the kilt.
Anna sinks a visible gulp.
This is a battering ram to her resolve.
“I told you I had a kilt,” he says, the smirk on his face saying he knows exactly what he’s doing to her and her nether regions. Damn him. He fights dirty– and on Christmas Eve, a time of peace and goodwill, no less.
She ducks her head, focusing on serving up their food, to hide the long, centring breath she’s letting out.
Though small, it’s the perfect Christmas spread. They’ve worked on it together all afternoon, having decided that just because it’s only the two of them forJuleaften, it doesn’t mean they can’t have a full Danish Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve. On each plate there’s a roasted breast of duck, red cabbage, caramelised new potatoes, blanched half-apples with redcurrant jelly in the middle, all swimming in brown gravy.
“Looks great,” says Jamie, walking behind her to collect the wine bottle, passing her in the narrow space between the far counter and the kitchen island, which makes her shoulder blades flex. She rolls her neck for inner strength. As he moves away, around the island, she’s finding it ridiculously hard to drag her eyes from the kilt. The perfect fall of the worsted wool over his equally perfect bum, the seductive sway of the tartan pleats as he moves. His easy swagger suggests he is absolutely aware. Argh. Her perving is verging on the obscene. Still serving, she stands on her own foot, hoping the pain will snap her out of the ogling.
“The smell alone takes me back to Vivi and Mads’ Christmases. Roast duck is Christmas for me,” says Anna brightly. She’s also dressed for dinner– nothing too fancy but still an upgrade from the leggings she’s been walking around in all day. A satin midi skirt and a loose wool sweater on top, both in navy. Yeah, so the thick home-knitted socks don’t quite go, but warm feet are always a priority in Anna’s book. She’s added some make-up– just enough to make it look like she’s made an effort.
A playlist with The Three Tenors singing Christmas carols plays low in the background, and outside there’s light snow falling. It isn’t forecast to get heavier, so there’s no anxiety about that. It’s just Pretty Snow.
Jamie pours two glasses of red wine and holds one to her. They clink the glasses.
“Slàinte Mhath,” he says, as she says, “Skål.” They drink, their eyes locked the whole time.
“What did you do last year for Christmas, Jamie?” Anna asks, as they settle down to their meal, clambering for the safe ground of regular conversation.
“I went home to see my dad. This year, though, what with the planes and everything, it’s a good thing we decided I’d stay here. He’s having dinner with my uncle’s family.”
Lucky for her, Anna thinks. He’d have not been home when she’d knocked on his door. She might never have met him. The thought gives her a pang in her gut.
“What’s your mother doing?” he asks.
“Well, apparently, she’s on some silent retreat. Which is bizarre. Normally, she’d be in a bar somewhere, living it up. She does like a party and on Christmas Eve there’s usually revelling of some kind, wherever you are.”
“You hadn’t planned to join her? Greece would have been warmer than here.”
“So true,” she says with an overegged sigh. She certainly wouldn’t be in knitted socks. And yet, it hadn’t even occurred to her to try to get a ticket to Greece rather than back to the UK, when she supposes she could have. Athens airport most likely wasn’t snowbound.
“We haven’t done Christmas together for years,” Anna says. “It works for us to meet up at other times. Ida isn’t big on traditional things and rituals, unlike most Danes. There’s comfort and reassurance in scheduled events, but Ida feels it hinders freedom and is the ‘product of lazy thinking’.” Anna rolls her eyes, remembering many of her mother’s monologues on the subject.
Jamie’s eyes widen. “Wow. I really want to meet her one day. She sounds like a maverick.”
Anna laughs. Obviously, it’s never going to happen, and even if it did, Anna would be a bundle of nerves as to how Ida would behave.
“So, whatdidyou have planned?” he asks, taking another sip of his wine. It’s a Barolo, and a good one. He’d overseen the drinks.
