Page 57 of Christmas Ever After
Even though he hasn’t let go of my left hand, he holds his other hand out, inviting me to touch him with my fragile, broken hand. Inviting me to trust him enough to not make any sharp movements or do anything to make it worse.
The fingers that are broken are always cold where the tips of them aren’t covered by the splint, and my hand is shaking as I touch my freezing fingertips to his warm hand with a feather-light touch. The fingers are a constant dull ache, interspersed with sharp daggers of agony whenever I knock my hand or touch something or forget and go to use it, and this is the closest I’ve let anyone get to them since the nurse in the hospital.
His lower lip is held between his teeth and he’s watching my fingers without blinking. It’s a position where, if my hand was okay, he’d curl his fingers around mine and give them a squeeze, but he just holds his hand open, letting me trust him at my own pace, his eyes glued to the spot.
My hand is shaking, not with nerves, but at the implication of this gesture. I never thought I’d trust someone enough to let them getnearmy broken hand, let alone the person who inadvertently caused the injury in the first place, and it feels like a little, significant way of letting me know I’m not alone, which I’ve felt since the moment he walked into my shop with that snow globe.
Raff dips his head until he can press his lips to my broken fingers. I didn’t know it was possible for someone to be so gentle. I canseehis lips graze my skin but I barely feel a touch at all, and my breath hitches, not daring to breathe in case my hand twitches or the slightest movement makes one of us jump or jerk away.
‘I can’t wait until the day I can hold both of your hands.’ He squeezes the fingers of my left hand, his deep voice so low that it’s almost making the bench vibrate, and this closeness is making my stomach do somersaults. Showing this level of trust in him means something. Since my ex, I’ve never trusted anyone. I’ve kept everyone at arm’s length and never accepted help with anything, even if I’ve needed it, but Raff never gave me an option, and somewhere along the way, I’ve let him in and let my guard down, and I’ve fallen fallen fallen. And not just off that arch. I think I’ve been falling in a metaphorical way since the moment he walked into my shop, scooped me up off the floor, and treated a delinquent mouse like a queen.
There are tears running down my face and I’m sure he can read every thought that’s racing behind my eyes. He carefully takes his hand away from mine and reaches over to brush my tears away, his fingers weaving into my hair as he tucks it back, his hand at the side of my jaw, tilting my head so I can’t look away from his beautiful brown eyes, and the reflection of the fairy lights above us make it look like he’s got a cartoonish twinkle glinting in them.
‘You’re going to hate me for saying this, but bumping into you was the best thing I ever did.’
An unexpected laugh escapes but it makes my breath catch too and another wave of emotion rises up. ‘While I find it hard to agree completely’ – I hold up my right hand – ‘I like where you’re coming from. It’s had some… unexpected… side effects.’
He giggles too, and then turns serious again. ‘Can I…?’ His eyes move downwards to my lips, leaving me in no doubt about what he wants.
I let my eyes slip closed and nod, my head held in his hand, and he oh-so-gently lowers his lips to mine.
It’s soft at first, just a press of lips against lips, and I know he’s hyperaware of my hand after our first attempt, but I hadn’t realised how much I’ve thought about kissing Raff until tonight, and that innocent little peck is nowhere near enough.
The fingers of my left hand twist in his shirt again, and I desperately wish I could use my right hand to tangle in his hair and claw him closer. One hand isn’t enough to get across how much I need him to kiss me harder, but he gets the message anyway.
His tongue presses gently, and when my hand yanks his shirt with such vigour that there’s the definite sound of a stitch popping, he laughs into the kiss and it gets more forceful. We’re facing each other on the bench, and I hook one of my legs around his to pull him impossibly closer and he lets out an involuntary moan at how good this feels.
He tastes of the mulled wine we’ve just finished, and the scent of his spicy peppermint aftershave is more intoxicating than any alcoholic beverage would’ve been, and I lose track of everything outside of his lips and the feeling of his body at every spot we’re touching.
He’s laughing softly when he pulls back, his breathing shuddery and his cheeks deep red, and I unfurl my hand fromhis shirt and reach up to tuck his hair back because it looks so dishevelled, you’d think he’d been snogging in the gardens of a castle on a cold December night. I let my finger trail down his face, brush over his cleanshaven jaw, and then I lean forwards until I can press my lips to his glowing cheek, and his eyes close and he leans into me and lets out a sigh that sounds bare and exposed and like a sound that no one’s ever heard before.
He leans over for another kiss, which turns into definitely more than one, and then forces himself to pull away and shift on the bench until he can drop an arm around me and tug me into his side and press his lips against my forehead.
It’s cold. Kissing has kept the chill at bay, but now it starts to seep back in and I’m shivering, and so is he, but it doesn’t matter because nothing seems as important as sitting here together. I feel like there are a billion butterflies whirling around inside me, and I lean my head on his shoulder and look out at the beautiful castle gardens.
Just one more day, one more challenge of saving our shops, and one more month of wearing the splint, and then we can start a new chapter, and this December will be consigned to history as one of my worst Decembers ever, and strangely, quite possibly the best too.
17
I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I’ve spoken to these people hundreds of times. I wasn’t nervous when I was merrily telling them about Raff’s wrongdoings, but now my knees are shaking when all I have to do is tell them about his rightdoings and how much things have changed since that meeting in November.
I look around my fellow shopkeepers, but there’s tension in the air – we can all feel it. Something doesn’t feel right today. I’ve woken up with a prickly feeling all over me. Is it nerves or have I just used the wrong washing powder?
It’s 3p.m. on Sunday afternoon and Mr Hastings and Mrs Willetts, the co-councillors in charge of the Ever After Street area on behalf of Herefordshire Council, are visiting the market in an official capacity. As this is only about Christmas Ever After, the regular Ever After Street shopkeepers are minding our stalls for half an hour while we’ve snuck off into the castle and are huddled in the entrance hall for the follow-up to the November meeting and the outcome of the nutcrackers-versus-snow-globes challenge.
Mickey who runs the antique curiosity shop The Mermaid’s Treasure Trove is minding my stall, and her best friend Lissa,who runs the Colours of the Wind museum, is looking after the Love Is All A-Round stall. Ali and Imogen are here, so are Nina and Joshy, and Mitch has got a hand on his son Cedric’s shoulder, while Mandy stands on his other side, facing away with her arms folded. Mitch never said what he bribed them with, but I hope it was good enough to hold up to the council’s questioning, because right now, the hatred between them is palpable.
‘Hello, hello, what a lovely festive bunch waiting to greet us,’ Mrs Willetts says as she and Mr Hastings come in. ‘Nothing formal today, just a quick check-in with our favourite festive traders. How are we all? All ready for Christmas?’
Mr Hastings is the grumpier of the two and doesn’t bother with any conversational niceties. ‘The market looks splendidly busy and the castle is looking quite delightful. I hope you’ve booked this space again for next year!’
Mitch assures him we have, and there’s a bit about post-Christmas sales advertising, but everything’s already winding down for the year, and there’s not much else to say. They’ve only called us all together because of me and Raff, and the deadline they imposed to see which one of us would come out on top.
There’s an atmosphere in the vast entranceway. Most of our fellow shopkeepers are standing around. Some have taken seats on the stairs, or the aged furniture, or on the floor, but that unseen tension is bubbling under the surface. Everyone looks festive – most of us have got Christmas jumpers on, or some kind of Santa hat or reindeer antler headband, and a lot of earrings are ones that flash like Christmas lights and people have their hair tied up with tinsel scrunchies, but no one seems happy.
‘Miss Andrews, Mr Dardenne.’ Mr Hastings looks at me and then at Raff. ‘There’s a small matter of the events at the last meeting to discuss. We’ve certainly been following your journeywith interest sincetheunfortunate incident, and you both have our thanks for enticingsomany pairs of eyes to look at Christmas Ever After.’
If I wasn’t already feeling totally nauseous, the reminder of the viral video would certainly have done the job.
