Page 55 of Butterfly

I LAUGH WHEN Alex and I finally sit in his dining room with a very happy Dart wagging his tail. The scrambled eggs, tomatoes, and mushrooms in front of me smell of spices, butter, and English breakfast. Alex’s plate is loaded with meat, for his growing-muscle diet.

“Are you laughing at my culinary skills?” he asks, handing me a glass of wine.

“No, it smells delicious. I’m just thinking about that butler. What would he say about our dinner?”

“No.” He frowns, putting down his glass. “This doesn’t count asourdinner, okay?” He loosens his tie and tosses it on the sofa next to Dart, who’s sniffing the air. “This is a setback.”

“Okay.” The eggs are indeed great. Creamy, not too salty, and fluffy. “I don’t care where we have dinner though.”

“Neither do I, but it’s a matter of principle.” He jabs a finger at the table. “He threw us out for no reason.”

“Rules are rules. Besides, likely, he would’ve been sacked if he’d let us in. He was doing his job.”

“My arse.” He smirks. “A long dress would cover your lovely legs. I’m not sure I’d like that. Did you get those legs by doing yoga?”

I gulp down a delicious bite of mushroom. “I don’t know. It certainly helps. And I started when I was a child.”

“You went to a boarding school, right?” He sips his wine, but he’s focused on me.

At the mention of my school, a little knot of anxiety ties in my belly. “A school for girls on the outskirts of London. Loved that place. In the summer, I volunteered at Harry’s clinic. Harry is Tyler’s dad,” I say when he frowns. “He has a vet clinic near Wheathampstead. That’s how I met Tyler. The school is literally at the end of the lane where the clinic is. I had a part-time job there when I grew up. I learned a lot from Harry. Stitches, diagnosis, injections. When I went to university, I already knew half of the things they taught me, which helped me graduate rather quickly.”

“Did you spend the summers at the school?” The tone sounds casual, but I detect a straining note in the question.

I nod. “I didn’t like returning to my foster parents’ house. I preferred staying at the school. Even at Christmas.” And thank goodness for that. I chuckle at the horrified expression on his face.

His eyes flare wide as he lowers his fork. “You didn’t go home for Christmas? You basically lived in that school?”

“I know.” I wave a dismissive hand, rolling my eyes. “It sounds so Dickens-ish, but Harry and his family were always close, and I enjoyed the quiet in the school, having the dorm all to myself, taking care of the animals. The school had three dogs, five cats, a donkey, and a few rodents. Even a couple of pigs and a cow. Enough to keep me busy.”

He puts his hands on the table, as if on the verge of telling me something serious. I either shocked him or…something else. “Have you ever had a proper Christmas with the tree, the presents, the dinner, and all that?”

“There was a huge Christmas tree at the school.” I nod with enthusiasm. “It was a real one. We spent days decorating. Loved it.”

Grief and sorrow show in the slant of his mouth, which confuses me. My Christmases weren’t that bad.

“That sounds lonely,” he says in a solemn tone, “especially for a child. Don’t you spend Christmas with Tyler and Phoebe now?”

I wipe my suddenly clammy hands on the napkin. The conversation is taking a turn towards Pity Lane, heading for Miserable Avenue. “They always ask, and I always refuse. I don’t want to intrude into their celebration with their families. And Phoebe’s parents live in Scotland. They all travel up there. I don’t want to impose on them, especially now that they have Zoe. Christmas is overrated, anyway.”

Sheer horror scrunches up his face. He closes his hands around mine, his eyebrows knitting together. “Why don’t you come with me this Christmas?”

“Where?” God, the mushrooms are indeed great.

“My home, with my mum, brother, sister-in-law, and Dart, of course. Maybe my Aunt Jane. We have dinner, then we might sing something, and exchange presents. It’s nothing fancy, but I love it. It makes me feel normal.” He grins.

I stop eating. My tongue tastes like sand as the implications of what he’s just said drop on me like a tonne of bricks. “You want me to meet your family?”

“Yes, why not? What better moment than Christmas? I don’t go home as much as I want. Christmas is one of the few occasions I return to the Peak District. For a few years, I managed to visit my mum for her birthday, but then my job became too demanding.” His voice lowers when he says that, and a distant look glazes his eyes.

“Are you sure your mum would be happy?” I swallow the last bite as my throat tightens. “No offence, but after tonight, I’m going to be a little sceptical about your dinner plans.”

He laughs, an open, deep laugh that makes me laugh too. “I promise she’s going to be fine and very much happy to have you for Christmas. What do you say? The Peak District is magnificent in December, covered in snow, quiet, and with dramatic views.” His thumb rubs the back of my hand. “I’d love to have you there with me.”

My throat keeps tightening. Christmas isn’t exactly my favourite holiday. My foster father died the day before Christmas. Correction. I killed him the day before Christmas. “I don’t know. I’m not fond of Christmas.”

He rises from his chair, taking me with him. The ease with which he picks me up is a testament to his strength. Like the other night, he sits on the sofa—his wide, four-person sofa—and sets me on his lap.

“What happened at Christmas?” he asks.

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