Well, Abbie’s baseline emotional status was mild irritation; being earnest appealed to her about as much as the idea of sending nudes to her headmaster, and as for the whole “forced intimacy” aspect of Christmas, she’d been raised in a two-bedroom house with three older brothers. Abbie had lived as close with her fellow man as it was humanly possible to get, and she had found it a loud, messy, BO-scented experience where vulnerability would get you ruthlessly pranked.
Speaking of… She pulled up outside Grandma’s big old house, grabbed her handbag from the passenger seat, and made sure her emergency can of Silly String was safely stashed within. When her brothers arrived, she would need an appropriate weapon to stop them messing with her hair or leaving worms in her bed. (Yes, Abbie’s brothers were all—allegedly—adult men. Not that they seemed to know it.)
Silly String located, she flipped down the sun visor to check her lipstick before getting out. The matte, aubergine stain was still firmly in place, and so were the razor-sharp wings of her eyeliner, neither of which mattered since she was only going to see Grandma and … and possibly Will, and … and neither of those people especially cared about her appearance, and nor did she. So there.
She flipped the mirror back up and looked around the gravel drive. There was Grandma’s ancient Estate. There was the battered ’90s Corsa Will kept at his mother’s house. But there were no other cars in residence, no brothers, no Mum…
And no ring on Abbie’s finger. No husband waiting at home, the noose of his disapproval forever pulling her up short.
Two years after the divorce, she was still getting used to that part. Still surprised by the freedom.
Taking a breath, she gathered herself and got out of the car. A second later, Grandma’s shiny red door swung open.
Abbie turned toward the noise, toward the spill of light across the rapidly darkening drive, toward the shadowed outline of a man she’d recognise anywhere, which didn’t mean jack-shit since half the world would too. Will was bigger than he seemed on-screen, probably because everything was huge in Hollywood, but here in Britain, stuff was normal-sized. Except for Will, who had hands like plates, a chest like a very well-defined barrel, and biceps like cantaloupe melons. She tried to think of him like that—in terms of ludicrous comparisons, in terms of various body parts stuck together—but then he walked toward her and made himself real.
“Abbie,” he called, warm enough to make her forget the bitter cold biting at her fingers. His face was a technical work of art, but when he smiled, it turned into something sweeter. Something softer and realer. He had smiled on the cover of People, and Abbie had seen it and felt nothing but disorientation—but when he smiled at her now, when he smiled in the semi-dark without a camera to coax him, she felt the corners of her mouth lift in response. She felt a tug in her chest and took a step, an actual step, toward him, as if he’d pulled. She felt fifteen-year-old butterflies wake up in her stomach, which was fucking ancient for butterflies. No wonder they felt so enormous and sticky-slow these days. Like they were huge enough for their wings to brush her hips, her ribs, her throat. Like they were fluttering through honey, somehow.
God. She gave herself a moment. Then she sucked down a lungful of inky, frosty air and got over it. Just like always.
“Will,” she replied, and her voice was almost flat because if she didn’t exercise pristine control it would be the opposite. She let her gaze run impassively over him—at least, she hoped it was impassive, because otherwise he might notice that she found his knitted Christmas jumper and threadbare jeans hideously sexy. She reached his feet and bit her lip on a smile. “Erm… you’re not wearing any shoes.”
“Yeah, I just now noticed,” he said, which wasn’t sarcasm. He was serious. His smile had been replaced by a wince as he danced across tiny, icy stones, light on his feet despite his size. “Ouch.”
“Go inside, William.”
“No, ma’am.” He had gotten it into his head that she found an American accent charming. What she really found charming was how badly he did it, but she’d never let on. He came to a stop in front of her, and even in his mismatched socks, he was eye-to-eye with Abbie in her high-heeled ankle-boots. This was problematic only because Will had very searching eyes. They were dark and sharp, and they tended to hold her gaze with unnerving intensity. If he hadn’t made a career of being professionally gorgeous, Will could have become a priest.
“Abbie,” he repeated, softly this time, his breath a ghost between them. “You’re here.” This was the part where he’d usually drag her into a bear hug, just like her brothers, but he didn’t. Probably because everyone had been treating her as fragile since the divorce. Maybe Will was worried she’d shatter in his arms.
She wouldn’t.
“Yes,” she agreed. “I’m here. Or I’m a figment of your imagination. Or I’m the ghost of Christmas past.”
He released another breath, this one laced with laughter. Instead of pointing out that she hadn’t been here last year, that she’d stayed away while licking her wounds, he played along. “Do ghosts have luggage? If you do, I’ll take it for you.”
“Don’t start treating me like a lady, Will, or I’ll be soft by the time my brothers get here.” She turned toward her car boot—and stopped when Will’s hand caught her elbow. It wasn’t the touch that shocked her—how could it? She could barely feel it through her winter jacket, and Will had always been a casual toucher, and anyway, they’d known each other forever. They used to play cat’s cradle together. Grandma used to force them all to hold hands when crossing the road. Once, Abbie had twisted her ankle, and he’d been the only boy in the group big enough to give her a piggyback home.
So there was nothing shocking about the pressure of Will’s hand on her arm. The only shock was how it still made her breath catch, still made her remember the Christmas they’d…
Well.
Weren’t ancient feelings supposed to die eventually? Hers only ever seemed to hibernate. Every time she swore she’d kicked them, Will woke them right back up.
“You are a lady, Abbie,” he said quietly, and then he ran his hand down her arm, all the way to her closed fist. Inhaling sharply, she looked up at his face. His blond lashes were lowered, hiding his gaze. The set of his mouth, soft against the scruff of his beard, told her absolutely nothing. His warm fingers eased open her cold, clumsy ones, and he took her car keys. Then he finally met her eyes, his own like beguiling mirrors in the dark. “You’re cold. Go on inside.”
* * *
As a child, Abbie had believed her grandmother knew almost everything, and her mother knew the rest. As an adult, she realised that couldn’t possibly be true. Because if Grandma had really known the unholy thoughts chasing themselves around in Abbie’s mind right now, she would’ve whacked her youngest grandchild with a saucepan.