Page 52 of A Manny for Christmas

She even has her hair in two long, slender plaits that lie over her breasts.

It’s been a punishingly long time since I had the privilege of seeing her naked except for those plaits, and even longer since she used them to tickle my balls and send me through the fucking roof.

More’s the pity.

18

MOLLY

Max has been positively angelic so far today. I recognise an olive branch when I see one, but instead of allowing me to move on from the damage he did last night, his thoughtful behaviour is reeling me in. Touching me in places I swore I’d never let Max Rutherford touch me again.

Running Mike and Mia home last night was a thoughtful gesture (unless he recognised the importance of getting out of my hair after pissing me off so royally at the Christmas market).

Handing me that heavenly lie-in, a concept that’s been about as real to me as a unicorn this year, was a giant step up from that. For someone who doesn’t want kids, he tolerates mine remarkably well. Granted, he hasn’t gushed over them much to me, but he seems to have a not horrible time with them. I heard the shrieks of laughter through my haze of sleep this morning.

He’s also good with them. They listen to him and seem to respect him. Kids can smell a bullshitter a mile off, and Toby and Daisy have taken to Max unquestioningly. If he despises their grimy little guts, they definitely haven’t got that memo.

Like now, for example. Max’spièce de résistancetoday has been taking charge of the massive headache that is decorating our home for Christmas. I know I should be all over it, especially given I work somewhere as gorgeous and inspiring and festive as Sorrel Farm. But it’s been just another painful item on the to-do list, one that requires sheer physical strength as well as high energy levels and, presumably, some festive spirit.

And I don’t have any of those.

But back to now. Not only did Max order us to dig out our Christmas jumpers from last year and sweep us all off to the farm, but he bought everyone hot chocolate (his and mine were laced with Bailey’s and were outrageously good). Now he has Daisy on his shoulders. For someone who’s not a fan of under-eighteens, he’s doing a remarkably convincing impression of a donkey, and for someone who should be able to tell if an adult finds her odious, Daisy’s all over him. She’s pulling his ears to steer him, and smoothing down his beanie, and squishing his face, and shriekingcome on donkey donkeyat the top of her voice, and miraculously he hasn’t bucked her off yet.

On the contrary, he has a strong grip on both of her ankles, just above her bright red wellies, and he’s laughing in between making ridiculous noises as he trots (yes, trots) around the field housing the felled trees. Toby, utterly delighted and overcome with excitement, cavorts alongside them.

So yes. It appears Max has magically transformed what was a much-dreaded chore into a delightful, festive outing.

But the worst part? The worst part is that, to all extents and purposes, he’s making it look like a delightful, festivefamilyouting. Because, come on. Hot, strapping guy prancing around with an adorable, tow-headed little blonde on his shoulders? It’s dad-porn! We could so easily be a family to any casual onlooker, and that gives me a kick and breaks my heart at the same time.

I want to shoutlook at us!But that’s ridiculous, because this is not real, so how pathetic does it make me that I’m happy to go along with the fantasy we’re portraying?

The answer is exceedingly pathetic.

The guy is perfect. He always has been, apart from the fact that his life vision dared to clash irreconcilably with mine. And, at one point, I think he would have said exactly the same about me.

It shouldn’t be this much of a revelation, seeing him like this with my kids. He never said he wasn’t up for the regular dad stuff. I know it was never about Max not having the energy or motivation to have children. It was, for him, far more about self-preservation. He was willing to forgo the highs of parenthood in order to protect himself from any potential lows.

I wasn’t.

And that’s the tragic kicker. Because the rest of it was pure magic, and the attraction has never gone away. I’m painfully aware of the tension between us. The heat. Aware of my own inconvenient feelings towards him—feelings that stopped me from having a perfectly lovely, harmless kiss with Paul last night—and of the feelings he’s communicated to me over the past few days.

You know, like telling me putting his hands on me had given him a boner.

Or that I lookedso fucking beautifullast night.

God, when that man says things like that to me I want to melt at his feet like a chocolate fondue and beg him to take me to bed. And it’s spectacularly unhelpful to think about Max’s erection, even for a split second. Becausethatmonster is something I don’t need to be reminded of. Even after twelve years, the thought of it makes me salivate. Literally.

But I am not a twenty-one-year-old anymore. I’m not some girl whose only agenda is whether she can get the youngest, hottest Rutherford brother to kiss her under the mistletoe.

I’m a mother of two kids, and my only two options are to stay deliberately single or find them a new father.Notto think with my lady parts. Even if the guy currently prancing around with my kid looks like something out of a premium weekend clothing campaign, with his soft grey beanie showcasing the sharp jut of his stubbled jaw and his warm jacket only accentuating the broad hulk of his shoulders.

He’s even making his festive jumper work for him. It may sport snowmen and snowflakes and Christmas trees in rows of Fair Isle, but it’s hot. The guy’s clearly managed to squeeze in a winter clothing shopping spree between processing my kids and repairing dry stone walls, and the results are working well for him.

Yeah.

It’s really, really shit.

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