Page 12 of Christmas Spirit
“Doesn’t matter, not now. He won’t be back until the end of January, and I’ll be gone soon after that.”
Georgie picked up a mince pie, pausing before he bit into it.
“Don’t you want any of this?”
“I’ll wait for dinner.”But then I had breakfast, and lunch.
Georgie nodded, not meeting Roland’s eye as though, Roland thought, he’d guessed at his thoughts.
Roland sat back and closed his eyes. The crackle and pop of the burning logs was soothing, the aroma of pine and apple wood filled his senses, and soon he began to drift.
“These are really good, you sure you don’t want some?”
“What?” Roland said, jerking out of the half sleep he’d drifted into.
Georgie, across the other side of the small table, was staring at him, his mouth bulging with food. He swallowed hard at the same time as he picked up another mince pie.
“They’re better than yours.” Georgie bit down on the pastry, his grey eyes trained on Roland, almost daring him to rise to the challenge of his statement.
“I doubt that very much.”
Roland picked up one of the icing sugar dusted mince pies. He inspected it like the connoisseur he was. It certainly looked appealing, rustic without being messy. He bit into the pie and his eyes widened, as sweet yet tangy vine fruit burst on his tongue from the butter rich, crumbly golden pastry. The balance of flavours was a parcel of perfection.
“I told you, didn’t I?” Georgie smirked.
“They’re good.” They were more than good, but he wasn’t going to confessthatto Georgie Forrester.
* * *
Mince pies, stollen, Christmas cake, each tasty morsel seemed better than the last. Roland tried them all, assessing each and every mouthful. Whoever had baked them was an artist, a master, or mistress, of the craft. He’d arrange to meet the pastry chef, perhaps ask to see the kitchen. Maybe arrange a discussion regarding an opening at the Manor. Whoever had produced baking of this quality was more than worthy of a place at Pendleton.
“That was lovely.” Georgie slumped back in his seat. A satisfied smile clung to his lips, along with a dusting of icing sugar and a sprinkling of golden crumbs.
“Yes, I can tell,” Roland said, laughing. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted every single one.
Georgie’s face flushed hard. “I was hungry, okay?” he mumbled. “This is the first I’ve eaten today. Well, since yesterday lunch time.”
Georgie rubbed at the dry skin of his red and raw knuckles, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed, the muted light from the lamps and the crackling fire making his ink-dark hair gleam.
He’s not much more than a kid…twenty-one, twenty-two perhaps…
What had made him think that? Roland never thought of Georgie, hardly noticed him. Except to scold and criticise.
But that’s notquitetrue, is it?
Roland’s shoulders jerked, and he swung his head from side to side. The words had been loud and clear, as though somebody had leaned down and spoken at his ear. He was tired, he was fed up, it was just his imagination… but the words, the knowing words, echoed around his head.
Because he had noticed Georgie.
Because he kept noticing Georgie.
Because a shiver tumbled down his spine every time the boy champed on his plump lower lip, staring out at the world through his impossibly big, soft grey eyes.
And Roland despised himself for it, because he had vowed never to let himself notice another man again.
He rushed his fingers through his hair, and stared into the fire, at the dressed mantle, at the ornamental clock on the wooden sideboard. Anywhere but at Georgie, anywhere than at the huge bed.
Roland felt in his pocket for his phone. They hadn’t had any signal when they were out on the road, but at the hotel it would surely be different. He powered it up. Nothing. No phone signal. No internet. No email. Try again later, the robotic voice said.
