Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
“Answering a question with a question isn’t answering a question,” I say, taking in the madness again. “We should stay.” I can do this. I should do this.
He passes our coats to the cloakroom attendant and gives his name to the maître d, who guides us through the tables to the very back. It’s no quieter, but at least it’s no louder. Dec pulls my chair out and orders water. “Give me two minutes,” he says, dipping and kissing my hair, before strolling away, presumably to find somewhere quieter and call his sister back. A waiter introduces himself and hands me a wine and Christmas menu.
“Thank you.” I put the wine menu at Dec’s place and cast my eye down the Christmas menu. “Excuse me,” I call as he’s walking away. “I don’t suppose you have the normal menu?”
He recoils like he’s been shot. “The normal menu?”
“Yes, the normal menu. The one that doesn’t have everything Christmas on it.”
“I’m afraid not, ma’am. We only serve the Christmas menu from December tenth through to January.” And then he wanders away, passing Dec as he goes.
“What’s up?” Dec asks as he lowers.
I wave the menu at him. “I hope you like Christmas food, even if you hate Christmas.”
“I don’t really hate it,” he says, picking up the wine menu. “I just don’t love it. I’m indifferent.” I remain quiet as he peruses the choices, eventually peeking up at me. He sighs and lowers the menu. “Christmas doesn’t hold fond memories for me.”
“Oh.” I have no idea what to say.
“Like I said, my father’s an arsehole.”
“You called him a self-important wanker, actually.”
He laughs as the waiter pours us some water. “No wine, but we’ll take two dirty martinis.”
“Do you actually like dirty martinis?” I ask.
“I hadn’t tried one until recently.”
I smile. “They’re not my favourite,” I admit.
“Then why do you drink them?”
“Because they’re strong.” I shrug. That and my words are very revealing. The sharp hit of alcohol was like taking a pill, instantly numbing me. Then it became habit. A habit for a dark, bleak moment of time that stretched into years.
Dec’s eyes squint as he sips his water, his arm raising in the air. “Excuse me, sir,” he calls, getting the waiter back. “Scrap the martinis. We’ll take a bottle of champagne.”
My lips twitch with my smile. “What are we celebrating?”
“Mr. Percival’s saved turkey.”
A sharp shot of laughter rises and flies out of my mouth, and Dec rests back in his chair looking very satisfied with himself.
“Laugh often, Camryn.” He puts his hand on the table palm up, his smile small but telling. I rest my hand in his and relish the feel of his fingers wrapping around mine. “I want you to feel like you can talk to me,” he says. “About anything. Nothing will change. I’ll still feel the same way about you.”
The promise of acceptance and understanding hits me hard in my chest. It makes me fall that little bit more. How open he is. How he communicates, both with words and actions. I should be crawling into my shell, retreating. The walls should be flying up, but I’m trying to digest what’s happening. What he’s saying. I’ve thought about it, of course—this has been happening for a few weeks—but I don’t think I truly appreciated what this could mean for me. And as I sit here now, looking at this man across the table, his eyes molten on me, for the first time, I do. I’m sitting in this absurdly busy restaurant at a time of year I absolutely abhor, and today it’s not so bad. I’m coping.
Dec is peace in a world I don’t recognise anymore. He’s a second chance I never considered or expected. “December isn’t a good month for me,” I say, digging deep, my eyes dropping to the table. I feel Dec squeeze my hand, and I look up to see him rising from his chair.
He comes to my side of the table and crouches beside me. “Let’s not do this now,” he says softly. “I can’t hear myself think. Let’s eat, go home, let me hold you, and if you feel like it, you can talk, and I will listen. Like I said, nothing changes for me.” He rises to half height and kisses my cheek, and the threat of tears gets me good. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I agree, soaking up the feel of his lips on my cheek. “Thank you.”
“Shut up.” He takes the bottle of champagne from the waiter and pours me a glass, putting it in my hand. “I have everything we need for a martini at home if you need something a little stronger.”
Something stronger for when I talk. “I don’t want another martini ever again.”
“Then I’ll make you something else.” He sits and rests his elbows on the table. “Back to Percy Percival. Ninety-fucking-nine?”