Page 60 of A Manny for Christmas

Closure, I think. We both got some closure there. And this existence we’re morphing into as we spend our days under the same roof is far more authentic than those early days of polite, relentless, mortifying awkwardness.

But still. Watching him poker the fire and put the fire-guard on before switching off the tree lights felt like such a quietly domestic experience.

‘I’ll pick up a timer switch during the week,’ he said as he straightened up from his crouch to hit the socket, inconveniently hidden behind the tree. ‘That’ll make life easier.’

As I thanked him, it occurred to me what ahusbandthing that was to do. To volunteer to run a small errand because he knew it would make my life easier.

These gestures are building up. Little ones like that, and larger ones. Like getting up at ridiculous-o’clock every weekday morning to de-ice my car. Or taking us tree shopping and managing the majority of the heavy lifting today (literally and figuratively).

These gestures are dangerous. Because they’re way too easy to get used to. And because they act as tiny, marshmallow-soft dams, plugging broken pieces of my heart. But his comments about his ex are a timely reminder that where Max and his non-existent desire to procreate are concerned, nothing has changed. I’d do well to remember that.

Now, I lie in bed. I can’t get warm, and I can’t stop my mind from racing. I’ve drunk enough champagne that sleep should come easily, but there’s far too much to think about. And all the things in my brain are either bad enough to make me spiral (like what Christmas will be like without Felix) or good enough to be dangerous (like the look in Max’s eyes when he gave me that innocuous kiss under the mistletoe).

Ugh. I brace myself and throw back the covers, my feet hitting the cold floor before I can locate and shuffle into my slippers. Hot water bottle it is. I grab one from a drawer and make my way downstairs. I leave the kitchen lights off. The room is adequately lit from the hallway.

As I wait for the kettle to boil, I stand and practically hug the AGA. The room is peaceful. Cosy. Maybe I should just bring my duvet down and lie on the floor in front of it.

There are footsteps on the kitchen stairs, and I jerk my head up in time to see Max’s bare feet appearing, followed by soft-looking, tartan pyjama bottoms.

Oh shit.

I stand there, gaping, as he treats me to a sight that suggests my guardian angel of gratuitous semi-nudity has indeed been listening to my prayers all this time. Because he’s topless.

Jesus fuck, the man is topless.

Suffice to say, he has not let himself go in the years we’ve been apart. Not a jot. He’s sheer physical perfection. Golden skin over sculpted, gorgeous muscles. Those domed shoulders I fucking love. And a smattering of hair on his chest that I know for a fact feels great against my face (and my boobs) and tapers off into the happiest of all happy trails.

I eye-fuck him for a moment before realising he’s smirking at me.

‘Eyes on my face, Mol,’ he says.

‘Fuck off,’ I mutter, averting my gaze from the glorious sight in front of me.

‘Everything okay?’ he asks. ‘I heard you come down.’

‘It’s fine. I’m just filling a hot water bottle. I’m so cold—can’t get warm.’

‘We should swap rooms.’ He takes a step towards me. ‘Mine’s toasty as fuck.’

‘Sadly, I wouldn’t be able to hear the kids if they woke. Otherwise I would have taken that one when we moved in.’

‘Exactly.’

I laugh and unscrew the top of the hot water bottle. ‘Please don’t ever be a parent.’

‘Believe me, I have no intention of it,’ he says dryly.

Just in case I needed a reminder.

‘Mol, you’re shivering,’ he says. He steps up behind me, and next thing I know, he’s pulling my back against his chest—hisbare, gorgeous man-chest—and wrapping his arms around me.

Despising myself, I sink against him, because this may possibly be the warmest, most delicious hug I’ve ever had. I can feel the heat radiating from his body through my own flannel pyjamas.

‘You are outrageously warm,’ I tell him.

‘Mmm,’ he murmurs into my hair. ‘Told you. Why don’t I come and get you warmed up in bed?’

I twist my head in an attempt to look at him, but all I get is shoulder and biceps. Ugh. ‘You have got to be kidding me.’

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