Page 68 of Check the Halls
“Pity. What about running shorts? What I wouldn’t give to get a glimpse of that man’s thighs. They look like they could do damage. And his shoulders?” She sighs wistfully.
I’m so grateful when we arrive at the boutique and my boss is forced to stop talking about my ex-boyfriend's various parts.
We step inside, and I’m grateful to get out of the bitter early November wind. Immediately, we’re greeted by a slim man in sleek, black attire.
“Welcome to Soiree. My name is Claus and I’ll be assisting you today.”
Claus leads us towards a back room. Rows of perfectly tailored suits and sleek dresses surround us. The gowns almost glitter in the soft light. Every piece is meticulously displayed, almost as though it’s been prepared to be displayed at a museum.
Mannequins stand poised in the middle, showcasing outfits so perfect, they almost seem too flawless to wear.
“I believe we are still waiting for one more from your party,” Claus says as he holds back a curtain for us. I hold my breath as I walk through, wondering which host arrived first.
Ben stands at the center of the room. His broad shoulders effortlessly fill out the slim-fitting crew neck sweater that clings to his frame. The dark jeans sit snugly on hislean hips, complementing his height. He holds a champagne flute that appears to be filled with orange juice, the delicate glass nearly dwarfed by his large, strong hands. He looks so good, it’s almost unfair.
“Ben!” Chanda exclaims, her voice bright and welcoming as she strides toward him with open arms. “It’s so good to see you again.”
His smile is warm and genuine, the kind that could make anyone feel like the most important person in the room. It makes his sharp, clean-shaven jawline even more prominent. “It’s good to see you, too.” He pauses, his eyes landing on me. There’s a flicker of something in his gaze I can’t read. “Both of you.”
“Thank you for working the fitting in.” My voice is steady, but my throat feels parched. I glance at the champagne flute in his hand, wondering if it’s just orange juice or something stronger. If itisstronger, I’m half-tempted to steal it and down it in one gulp. Maybe a little liquid courage would make this easier.
Chanda checks the delicate rose gold watch on her wrist. “We’re still waiting on Annika?”
“I haven’t seen her yet,” Ben replies.
“I can message her,” I offer quickly, latching onto the idea like a lifeline. “See if she has an ETA?”
“No, no,” Chanda waves me off. “I’m sure she’ll be along shortly. Why don’t you two look around, and I’ll see if Claus has any suggestions for where to start?” She’s already moving away, heels clicking decisively, before I can object.
And just like that, it’s only the two of us. Again.
The silence between us feels heavy. I can feel his eyes on me again, their intensity making my pulse quicken. Imove to a rack of dresses, flipping through the brightly coloured designs just to give my hands something to do.
“How are you?” Ben asks tentatively behind me, his voice softer than it was when Chanda was here.
“Great!” My response is overly bright, the forced cheeriness practically echoing in the large room. Definitely didn’t need that extra shot of espresso in my morning latte. “Busy. So busy. But being busy is good!” My words tumble out like they’re trying to drown out the nagging voice in my head. If you keep moving, keep working, keep filling your hours, you don’t have to think about all the ways you’re screwing up your life.
“Maddy.”
“Cheshire loves your place. I swear, I’ll never get him to leave.”
“Maddy, please.”
It’s the “please” that makes me freeze. His tone is calm, but there’s an undercurrent of torment there. I don’t want to turn around. I don’t want to look at him. But I can’t ignore him forever.
When I finally meet his eyes, my heart clenches. The confident man who can fill a room with his presence—who always seems so sure of himself, so unshakable—looks lost. His broad shoulders are slumped. His hands are buried deep in his pockets, his usual ease replaced by a raw vulnerability that makes my chest ache. He looks like a man who bet everything he had and lost it all.
“Can we talk about what happened on the balcony?” His voice is quiet, almost pleading.
“We really don’t have—” I start, desperate to shut this down, to avoid reopening that wound.
“Please, Madness.” The nickname slips out, and it breaks me a little. “Just let me explain.”
“You don’t have to,” I say, though my voice wavers.
“Of course I need to explain. And I want to.” His eyes search mine. “Please?”
I exhale sharply, the breath burning my lungs, and nod. Bracing myself for whatever comes next.
