Page 83 of A Manny for Christmas

He pulls the fork out from between Toby’s lips. ‘Well?’

Toby looks dazed. ‘It’s really good,’ he says through his meagre mouthful.

‘Told you so!’ Daisy sing-songs.

Max throws his arms up. ‘Well, Hallelujah. It’s a Christmas miracle.’

‘Well done, Tobes,’ I tell him, holding back my laughter. ‘I’m proud of you for trying something new. Would you like some more?’

‘Yeah.’ He nods his head enthusiastically, and Max feigns weeping as I scoop a spoonful from the communal portion onto Toby’s paper plate.

‘It’s almost as if you haven’t just inhaled a super-sized pulled pork bap,’ I tell Max.

He punishes my sarcasm with a hard squeeze of my thigh as he slides his hand the whole way up under the table, his fingers dangerously close to the tops of my inner thighs through my skinny jeans.

‘I plan on working the whole thing off later,’ he says, leaning in to whisper in my ear. ‘I’ll be calorie-neutral by the end of the night, you mark my words.’

I purse my lips and shake my head in mock disapproval. When Max has turned back to his tartiflette, I put my finger to my mouth in a warning to the kids, who are sitting opposite us at the wooden picnic table, to be quiet. Then I sneakily pick up the end of my left plait and stick it into his right ear, tickling him with it.

Toby and Daisy shriek with delight as Max lets out a roar and catches my wrist easily, tugging the plait away from me and using the end of it to tickle my ear, my cheek, my throat. He clamps a hand around my waist and digs under my coat, finding my tickle spot on my stomach and going for it. Hard.

I flail around as an attack of the giggles gets me, hitting Max’s ridiculous bicep with my hand in an attempt to free myself. There’s nothing remotely sexual about what we’re doing, and the kids are screaming with delight as Max attacks me with his terrible, ticklish hands, but I’m still gloriously, light-headedly, perfectly content as he taunts me, and my children cry out with delight, and we sit around this table, playing Happy Families.

Max lowers his mouth to my neck and blows a noisy raspberry, and again, there’s nothing necessarily sexy about that (except, you know, that it’s Max’s mouth. On my bare skin). Daisy squeals in utter delight at the noise and at the resounding belly-laugh I emit. My head is thrown back in surrender, my entire body is revelling in this gorgeous, intimate, slapstick moment, and for once, I’m actuallypresentinstead of obsessing about what Max’s motivations are, until I hear my name.

Molly? Hi there.

My chin snaps back down at the male voice that sounds like—and, yep, is indeed—Paul Lancaster.

Ohhh, fuckity fuckshire.

Max clocks him at the same time as I do and hurriedly extricates his hand from under my jacket while releasing my plait. Paul is standing there, looking handsome and dashing and like he’s just stepped off an expensive menswear photo shoot. Two beautiful little girls hold his hands, identically dressed in smart pale pink wool coats with velvet collars and buttons—the kind of coat Princess Charlotte favours.

The kind of coat my feral rug-rat would destroy before you could sayhot chocolate.

I’m not sure why I feel so guilty. I’ve been straight with Paul. My conscience wouldn’t have allowed me to do anything else after he was so lovely. I replied to his sweet text the morning after our date, thanking him but not suggesting a further meet up. I found myself texting him again the day after my scorching hot rug-fest with Max, because even if nothing came of it, I couldn’t see myself being able to bear going on a date with any other man, not even one as handsome and eligible as Paul Stafford.

Not after the things Max did to my body and my heart that night.

Obviously, I didn’t mention that something had happened with Max, but I felt I was clear in drawing a line under me and Paul.

But he’s looking at me now with a mix of affection and wistfulness. And, if I’m honest, he looks a little gutted. And ugh, it’s the worst. Because if Max hadn’t come streaming back into my life and filling it with colour and joy—and explosive orgasms—I might be dating Paul by now. Tentatively, slowly, but still. And while Max and I aren’t doing anything wrong or overtly sexy or even flirtatious, it’s clear we’re comfortable with each other. Intimate, even, in the non-sexual sense of the word.

Paul’s not stupid. He knew something was up with Max the night of our date, despite my protestations, and he can read between the lines of our cosy little display. The way he’s looking from me to Max and back again tells me there’s no need for me to spell this situation out.

‘Hi, Paul!’ I say, breathless with panic. Said panic means I hit a squeaky note of false enthusiasm which makes me inwardly cringe even as I greet him.

Max, to his credit, doesn’t behave like a total arse.

Unlike last time, that is.

I assume he feels he can afford to be gracious, given it’s him and not Paul who’ll be getting me naked in, oooh, approximately ninety minutes. He stands up as straight as he can beneath the picnic table, which is not very far, and holds out his hand.

‘Good to see you again, mate,’ he says in a remarkably mature voice, and because Paul is a born gentleman, he graciously accepts Max’s hand.

‘You too,’ he says. ‘Max, isn’t it?’

I put a hand on Max’s shoulder so I can get a leg over the bench without face-planting. He grabs my spare hand and steadies me as I do, another gesture that’s probably significant because it’s so casual. So easy.

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