Page 82 of A Manny for Christmas

Toby and Daisy are vibrating with excitement at the prospect of ‘a night out.’ Max and I have already agreed that we’ll have them home by seven-thirty, but as far as they’re concerned, it’s pitch black and therefore night time already.

We pull up in the Sorrel Farm carpark and unload the kids. The air is thick with the scent of spices and firs and burning wood, thanks to the enormous fire pit in the centre of the main courtyard. Max takes Daisy straight out of her car seat and deposits her on one hip, but she’s too excited to sit still and wriggles out of his grasp to the ground.

I lean in. ‘Give her half an hour. She’ll be knackered, or she’ll want a better view of the choir, and she’ll be on your shoulders. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts.’

He grins at me, his cute red beanie accentuating the sharp cut of his jaw. He is so fucking sexy it’s actually ridiculous, and I don’t even want to think about the damage that seeing Daisy in his big arms does to my ovaries. For someone who doesn’t want kids, he’s remarkably warm and fuzzy—oh, and tolerant—around my two.

‘I wish I could hold your hand,’ he says, and my ovaries twist a little more. Because not only do I want to enjoy the delicious sense of security that having Max’s large gloved hand clasping mine would bring, but, similar to the morning of our Christmas tree purchase, I’m mentally playing an outrageously stalky mental game of Happy Families. A game that I’m sure would horrify Max if he could read my mind.

But I can’t help it.

Even so. I’m not going to let a lack of handholding ruin my date with my hot manny. Or whatever the hell he is. Because, presence of small and demanding humans notwithstanding, I’ve decided this is a real, live date. It’s slightly horrifying how much more excited I am about this evening than I was about coming here with Paul. The poor guy didn’t set a foot wrong, but I was all nerves and no thrill. And right now?

I’m positively skittish. I’m even more excited than the kids.

I seriously need to get a life.

I smile suggestively at Max. ‘You can hold any of my body parts you want with those hands when we get home.’

His jaw tenses. ‘This is going to be the quickest excursion in history.’

I hit him playfully on the arm. ‘You wouldn’t be that mean. Look at their little faces.’

He sighs, looking down at Daisy, who’s pulling on his arm, while Toby squints up at the festive signpost just in front of us.

‘Fine. I can show my people a good time. But you’re getting it later.’

It’s a testament to how much this man is fucking up my heart when his utterance ofmy peoplemakes me body tingle more than his threats about what’s in store for me when we get home.

‘Thank you, handsome.’ I bat my eyelashes at him.

‘You look beautiful, by the way.’ He lowers his voice so the kids won’t hear him. ‘Feeding my Heidi kink.’

I laugh and roll my eyes. He’s ridiculous. I’m in a fluffy white faux-fur jacket and white bobble hat, my hair in two long plaits. Felix bought me the jacket last Christmas. It came in a Selfridges box and I suspect was the fruit of a rushed request into their personal shopping team rather than any heartfelt gesture on his part.

But I don’t care. I love it, and now my hot houseguest with benefits digs me in it.

And I’m going to get well and truly seen to later.

So stuff that up your arse, Felix Stafford.

* * *

‘You’ve gotto at least try it, mate.’ Max holds up a wooden fork laden with tartiflette while Toby blanches. ‘It’s seriously amazing.’

‘It looks weird,’ Toby says. ‘It’s gloopy.’

‘It’s like potato mac ’n’ cheese,’ Daisy tells her brother, which is pretty accurate. ‘Wiv bacon.’

Daisy, my little fireball, will ingest anything that’s put in front of her. Her attitude to all new food is preemptive FOMO, while her brother’s runs the spectrum from suspicion to outright horror.

Figures.

‘I don’t want to share it with you,’ Max tells him. ‘Madam here is already eating far too much of it for my liking.’ He stops to mock-glare at Daisy, who’s tucking in like nobody’s business. ‘I’m just being nice. I don’t want you to miss out.’

Toby sighs theatrically, like he’s agreeing to be a sacrificial lamb for the good of the family. ‘Okay. Fine. But that’s too much.’

Max agreeably tips a couple of potato slices off the fork before holding it aloft again. Toby squeezes his eyes shut and opens his mouth as if he’s being force to eat a frog or a slug. Max feeds him a sample of tartiflette so small, it can barely be called a forkful.

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