Falling for Mr. December (14 page)

‘That's not what I mean,' she said miserably. ‘It's complicated.'

‘I'm used to complicated situations in court,' he said softly. ‘Try me.'

‘Do you have any idea how hard this is to talk about?'

‘Having not been through cancer myself, no. But I guess it's as hard as I find talking about my marriage. And I told you about that.'

‘That she broke up with you because you're a workaholic.'

He grimaced. ‘I guess that's the anodyne version.'

She frowned. ‘What's the real version?'

‘If I tell you,' he said, ‘then you come clean with me. All of it.'

She took a deep breath. ‘All of it. OK.' She bit her lip. ‘I know I'm being a coward and putting it off, but...you, first?'

He reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘You've been through the kind of hell most people can't cope with—and you still smile your way through life, living it to the full. You're no coward, Sammy. But, OK, me first. I thought Naomi liked our lifestyle—I worked hard, so did she, and we had a nice flat and good holidays and a decent standard of living. I knew my dad had made that mistake with my mother, focusing on his job and leaving her to be practically a single parent as well as having her own career, and I'd got to the stage where I'd started wanting a family of my own. So I came home early one night. I intended to take her out somewhere to spoil her, tell her that I was going to cut back a bit on my hours and put her first, and suggest that maybe we could start trying for a baby.'

Everything Sammy wanted.

And something she might not be able to have.

She pushed the thought away and listened to him.

‘I heard voices when I got home. I thought maybe Naomi was home early and listening to the radio, or watching something on the TV.' He looked away. ‘And then I walked into the bedroom. She wasn't alone.'

His ex had been having an affair?

It must have cut him to the quick.

Especially as he'd said that his mother had had an affair and his parents had split up during his late teens. It must have brought all that misery back, too.

‘Her lover did the decent thing and left us to talk. And Naomi told me she'd started seeing him because she was lonely, fed up with waiting for me to come home late from the office, and our marriage was over.' He blew out a breath. ‘And yet she'd always encouraged me to work late, to go for every case that would move my career forward. It was only later that I worked out she'd done that to cover her tracks and make it easier for her to see the other guy. But my job was the perfect excuse for me to be the one at fault.'

‘That's...' This time Sammy was the one to make a pithy comment.

‘Yeah.' He looked away. ‘She lied to me.'

She reached across the table to squeeze his hand. ‘And I lied to you, too. By omission, but it was still a lie. And I pushed you away without giving you a chance—just like she did.'

He said nothing, clearly not trusting himself to speak.

‘I'm sorry I hurt you,' she said. ‘It's not that I don't trust you. I know you're a good man, Nick. You're honourable and decent. All I can say in my defence is that I was scared.'

‘We've both made bad choices in the past. That doesn't mean we'll make a bad choice this time,' Nick said.

‘OK. Let me ask you straight. Can you cope with the fact that I'm in remission, but one day the cancer might come back?'

‘Yes.'

‘How?' she asked, wanting to believe him but not quite able to.

‘Because one day you might be knocked over by a bus, or have a piano dropped on your head, or be struck by lightning,' he said. ‘You can't live the rest of your life worrying about something that might not happen. Yes, there's a chance it might come back. But there's also a chance that it might not.'

‘You need to be realistic about this,' Sammy said. ‘Because there's more of a chance of me getting cancer again than there is of me having a piano dropped on my head. Quite a big chance.'

‘It doesn't make any difference to me,' he said. ‘In English law, there's the eggshell skull rule. You take your victim as you find them.' He flapped a dismissive hand. ‘Well, not that you're my victim, but you get what I mean.'

‘Yes.' She smiled.

‘And, for the record, I'm not going to wrap you in cotton wool. I remember you telling me not to do that to Xander, and I thought you were speaking about the way people treated your sister.'

‘It was the way people treated me,' she said. ‘And it drives me nuts.'

‘No wrapping in cotton wool, either. So that's the first elephant down,' he said. ‘Want to tackle the second? Because I have a feeling that this one's the really big one. The mammoth, you might say.'

‘Second?'

‘This thing about not being a real woman. I'm hazarding a guess here, but I read up on the side-effects of chemotherapy.'

So he knew?

‘You once asked me if I wanted children,' he said, ‘and I told you that I did. But when I asked you, you fudged the issue. Is that because you don't want children, or because you don't think you'll be able to have them?'

‘I do want children. I had some of my eggs frozen before the first chemo.' She dragged in a breath. ‘But there's no guarantee that IVF will work. So I might not be able to have children.'

‘There are other ways,' he pointed out. ‘If we want children and IVF doesn't work, then we can foster or we can adopt. Or we can just enjoy being an aunt and uncle. I have two and you have four, right? I reckon that makes a five-a-side football team with one in reserve.'

Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Would that be enough for you? Being an uncle and maybe a godfather?'

‘If I have you in my life, yes.' His dark eyes held hers, and she knew that he meant it. Truly.

A tear spilled over her lashes and he brushed it away. ‘Don't cry. I never want to hurt you, Sammy. And, believe me, as far as I'm concerned you're all woman. I don't get how you can think otherwise. Unless your ex said that—and you already know that the man's worthless and his views aren't worth listening to, yes?'

‘I guess.' The wobble in her voice was obvious to her own ears. It was something she found it so hard to get her head around. ‘I can't make any promises that this is going to work,' she said, ‘but maybe we can start again and see how it goes?'

‘Learn to trust. Together. That works for me,' he said.

She took a deep breath. ‘OK. Then I think the first thing is...well, not something I want to do in the middle of this café.' A hurdle she should've tried to overcome long, long before. And one that would have to be cleared right now before they could move forward. ‘Your place or mine?'

‘Mine's nearer,' he said.

‘Your place, then. Which Tube station?'

‘The Tube changes from here are a bit messy. Actually, it's just as quick to walk—unless you want to get a taxi?' he suggested.

She shook her head. ‘Walking's fine.'

He paid the bill, and they walked back to his flat hand in hand. They didn't say much on the way. Sammy grew more and more nervous, the nearer they got to his flat, but she knew she had to do this.

‘What would you like to drink?' he asked when he closed his front door behind him.

‘I don't want a drink.' She shook her head. ‘We need to go to your bedroom.'

He sucked in a breath. ‘Sammy?'

‘With the curtains closed and the overhead light on full. In fact, every single light in that room on full,' she said. She remembered where his room was; she took his hand and led him there.

He guessed what she was going to do. ‘Sammy, you don't have to do this.'

‘Oh, but I do,' she said. ‘This is the third elephant. The last one. And it's bigger than a mammoth. Getting on for Amphicoelias size, I'd say.'

‘Amphicoelias?' He looked mystified.

‘You don't know the name of the biggest sauropod ever? And you an uncle of two boys. Tsk. You need to bone up on your dinosaurs.' Her tone was light, but her hands were shaking as she undid the button of her jeans.

‘Sammy.' Gently, he put his hands over hers. ‘Do you trust me to do this?'

The lump in her throat was so huge that she couldn't speak, just nodded.

Slowly, he undid the zip, drew the denim down over her hips, then knelt down and drew the material down her thighs to her knees.

She flinched.

He leaned back and looked up at her. ‘Do you want me to stop?'

She shook her head. ‘No.'

‘No?' His voice was so gentle. But there was no pity in his eyes. Just empathy. He understood, and he'd let her take this at her pace.

‘And yes,' she admitted. This terrified her. The moment when things between them would change. When he'd start to pity her and want to protect her. When he'd see for himself that she wasn't a real woman.

As if he could read her mind, he said, ‘It's really not going to make a difference between us. But you're right—I do need to see this for myself. And then I need to prove to you that it won't change a thing.'

She closed her eyes. ‘Then do it.'

Gently, he pulled the jeans down to her ankles and helped her step out of each leg.

She still had her eyes closed.

Then she felt him kiss her shin. Her left shin. The scar. All the way from the bottom to the top, his mouth soft yet very sure.

A tear leaked out and slid down her face; she couldn't stop it.

‘Sammy,' he said, his voice husky. ‘You're so brave and so incredible and so amazing. And this is just one little part of you. The part that makes me proud, because you've been through so much and you haven't let it hold you back.' He pressed another kiss to her scar, then got to his feet; she felt him cup her face with his hands.

‘Open your eyes,' he said softly. ‘Open your eyes and look into mine.'

It was one of the hardest things she'd ever done. If she looked into his eyes now and saw the slightest jot of pity, then she'd walk away. She'd have regrets, but she'd still walk away, because this was a deal-breaker.

‘Do it,' he said.

She held her breath and opened her eyes.

But there was no pity in his gaze, just understanding. And something else she didn't quite dare name, but she really hoped she wasn't wrong about it.

‘You're brave and you're beautiful, and I love you,' he said. ‘Yes, we'll have a few bumps in the road ahead of us—everyone does—but we'll face them and we'll deal with them as and when we have to. Together.'

‘You love me?' she whispered.

‘I love you,' he confirmed. ‘I think I fell for you the day I met you. The day you bossed me around and made me strip in front of you—and then you made me talk to you until I was comfortable about what I was doing. And you had dinner with me without being fussy about what you ate. And I knew you were straightforward and honest.'

‘But I lied to you,' she said.

‘No, you just didn't correct me when I made a wrong assumption,' he said, ‘and you didn't tell me about the thing that really scared you. And although I admit I was hurt when I found out, I understand now why you kept it from me—and it's not a problem for me any more.'

‘Thank you.'

He kissed her lightly. ‘We've got a chance, Sammy. Let's take it.'

She stroked his face. ‘For me, it was when you let Ned soak you in the water fight. You didn't care about your dignity. You just wanted the boys to have fun.'

He coughed. ‘Is that a roundabout way of saying...?'

She blinked. ‘I didn't say it already?'

He looked pained.
‘Sammy.'

She smiled. ‘I love you, too. Though I'm still scared it's all going to go wrong.'

‘We've both been here before and it's gone wrong,' he said, ‘but it doesn't mean that it'll be like that this time. Let's give it a go—see if we can help each other learn to trust again.'

‘I'd like that.'

‘Starting now,' he said.

‘With me half-naked and you fully dressed?' she protested.

‘I think we've been here before. Or something like that. Except this time I hope you're not going to ask me to leave.'

‘We're in your flat. I can hardly ask you to leave.'

‘Then tell me you're not going to walk away,' he said. ‘Because right now I need to be close to you. I want to make love with you. And I want to prove to you that you're all woman. You're all the woman I'll ever want or need.'

She didn't need a second prompt. She leaned forward, kissed him, and began to undo his shirt.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Two months later

N
ICK
SET
A
mug of tea down on the bedside cabinet next to Sammy and placed the Sunday newspapers on the bed next to her
.

‘Are you quite sure you have to work today?' she asked, patting the pillow next to her invitingly. ‘I was thinking we could have a lazy morning in bed, then go and look at the Christmas lights this afternoon. Hot chocolate, mulled wine, Christmas gingerbread, that sort of thing...'

‘I definitely have to work, so we need to take a rain check.' He leaned over and kissed her. ‘But I'll text you when I'm nearly done and you can come and meet me. We'll eat out tonight—my treat,' he said.

She smiled at him and kissed him back. ‘That sounds lovely, but will you be able to get a table anywhere? Most places will be booked up for office Christmas parties.'

He grinned. ‘I'm sure I can find something.'

‘Trust you, you're Mr December?' she teased.

‘Something like that.' His eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘I love you.'

‘I love you, too. See you later.'

Sammy spent the morning in bed reading the newspaper, had a light lunch and pottered round her flat in the afternoon.

Her phone pinged at three with a message.

Meet me at Temple Church and bring your camera.

Odd, she thought, or maybe Nick had found out that there was some kind of exhibition or a carol concert on today and wanted to make up for the fact that they hadn't been able to do anything Christmassy today. She locked the front door behind her, caught the Tube to Embankment, then headed for Inner Temple on foot.

As the sun set by four o'clock in December, it was starting to get dark by the time she got to the complex of buildings around the church. She couldn't resist pausing by the gas lamps and taking a few shots; she remembered Nick saying that it was like being back in Dickens' time with the streets lit by gaslight, and he was absolutely right. The light was different—much softer. All they needed was a sprinkle of snow and a few actors from a period drama walking around in crinolines or top hats and tailcoats, and the Inns of Court would look just like an old-fashioned Christmas card.

She headed to the church. It looked beautiful, with a Christmas tree scenting the air and the organ playing ‘Silent Night'. But if there was a carol concert on today, it couldn't be for a while yet; the place was virtually empty, apart from a couple of stray tourists.

As she walked in, the music changed. Was the organist playing Moonlight Sonata or was she imagining it? Were they even allowed to play secular music on a church organ? she wondered.

And there definitely weren't any signs up about a carol concert today. Sammy looked around the church for Nick, but she couldn't see him. Maybe he'd been caught up with a phone call or something. Well, at least this was a nice place to wait for him. And with beautiful music playing, because it was definitely Beethoven.

When she went to take another look at the Crusader tomb effigies, a church official came over to her.

‘Ms Thompson?'

‘Yes.' She looked at him in surprise. How had he known her name?

‘I believe there's a message for you,' he said.

From Nick? she wondered. But why hadn't Nick just called her mobile phone?

The church official gestured to the effigies and Sammy realised that propped against the little stone dog that had captured her imagination last time was a cream vellum envelope—and her name was written on it in bold black ink. She recognised the handwriting as Nick's.

Why would he leave her a note here? And why next to the little stone dog?

‘Thank you,' she said, and opened the envelope. It contained a cream vellum card. On the front, there was a brief message.

Life's short—eat dessert first.

Something she'd said often enough to him. Hmm. So were they meeting somewhere for dessert rather than a full meal? Well, that was fine by her.

She opened the card, and inside there were directions to go to the café where they'd had brunch. The place where they'd talked over all the misunderstandings and agreed to start again.

Maybe he was going to meet her there, then. But it was strange that he'd asked her to come here to the church first.

‘Thank you,' she said to the church official.

She also stopped by the organist, because she was starting to suspect something. ‘Thank you,' she said quietly. ‘The Moonlight Sonata is my favourite piece of music, and I have a feeling that you might have been asked to play it especially for me.'

The organist smiled. ‘I was, my dear. And it was my pleasure. I love Beethoven, too.'

Her favourite piece of music, the Crusader tombs and the café where they'd had brunch. What was the connection? Or was Nick doing some kind of treasure trail?

She dropped some money into the church donation box on her way out, and headed to the café, intrigued. What was Nick up to?

Icicle lights were hanging everywhere on shop fronts along the Strand, and she knew that if she peeped in at Somerset House there would be skaters in the ice rink in front of a massive Christmas tree. As she passed the entrance, she could hear ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You' belting out, and she could smell hot chocolate.

This was definitely something she needed to take Nick to in the future, she thought. Somewhere they could both play hard, after a day's work.

‘Good evening, Ms Thompson,' the waiter said when she walked in to the café.

She wasn't even going to ask how the waiter knew her name. Nick had clearly given directions of some sort. ‘Good evening,' she replied.

‘Come this way,' the waiter said, and seated her at a small table with a candle in the centre, next to a sparkly reindeer with a red ribbon round its neck, and a miniature Christmas tree decorated with red and gold baubles. Though only one place was set, and there was no sign of Nick.

‘Mr Kennedy says to have dessert on him,' the waiter told her.

‘Dessert?' So was this going to be a mince pie, or Christmas pudding with brandy sauce? she wondered.

‘He was very specific,' the waiter said. And Sammy couldn't help smiling when he brought out a tiny hazelnut waffle, finished with berries and cream, together with a small coffee. Not Christmassy, but just what they'd enjoyed on their first visit here.

‘Thank you,' she said, and texted Nick.

The waffle's a very nice touch—but what are you up to?

Wait and see,
he replied.

So you *are* up to something...

This time, he didn't reply. OK. If he wanted to be mysterious, she'd let him have his fun. Because this was turning out to be just as fun for her, too—trying to guess what his next move was.

She enjoyed both the waffle and the coffee. When she'd finished, the waiter handed her another cream vellum envelope. This time, she was directed to the National Portrait Gallery, to one of the portraits that Nick had really liked when they'd visited together.

She loved walking through Trafalgar Square; the massive Christmas tree next to the fountain was lit with vertical strands of white lights, and the fountain itself was lit up, the jets spraying higher than usual. The trees in Trafalgar Square and St Paul's Cathedral were two of her favourites in London, and she had plenty of shots of both in her portfolio—even so, she couldn't resist taking just a couple more.

Almost as soon as she walked into the art gallery and found the painting Nick had specified, one of the curators came over to her. ‘Ms Thompson?' he asked.

‘Yes.' She smiled, now absolutely sure that Nick had planned some sort of treasure trail for her. Something based on their dates, unless she was missing something.

‘I have a note for you,' the curator said.

It was another vellum envelope, although this time the message was written on the back of a postcard of the portrait she'd been directed to rather than on plain cream card. The directions were to the gallery's café, and the message read:

I'm
not going to make you climb over the Dome tonight as the sun's already set—but I thought you might like these.

So this trail of his was definitely based on their first few dates, she thought with a smile. Her table in the café was specially reserved for her, set with a single red rose in an exquisite crystal bud vase. After the waiter had seated her at the table, he brought over a glass of champagne and two tiny squares of toast with Welsh rarebit. Just like the afternoon tea they'd had together at the posh hotel.

‘Enjoy, ma'am,' he said with a small bow.

‘Thank you,' she said, and ate the Welsh rarebit before it went cold, then called Nick.

His phone went straight through to voicemail.

She sighed and left a message. ‘Nick, thank you. It's very nice having a backwards dinner, complete with champagne, but it would be even nicer if I got to share it with you. Where are you?'

A few seconds later, her phone beeped with a reply.
Patience...

So he
was
there. Just not answering her. ‘Arrgh,' she said, rolling her eyes, and sipped her champagne.

When she'd finished, a man wearing livery and a peaked cap came over to her. ‘Ms Thompson? Please come with me.'

The next stage of Nick's trail, she thought. So wherever she was going next was clearly by car, because this man was definitely dressed as a chauffeur.

Not just a car, she discovered: a limo. Very shiny, very black, and very swish. Which, she supposed, went perfectly with a chauffeur.

There was another envelope in the car
.

I do hope you meant it when you said you're not scared of heights.

Hmm. Nick had already said they weren't going to walk over the Dome tonight, so what did he have in mind?

She had no clue as the car drove along the Victoria Embankment; they were driving in the opposite direction to the London Eye, so he couldn't have meant that. But then the driver turned along London Bridge, and she could see the lights from the bridge, the riverfront buildings and the fairy lights on the trees all reflected in the dark water of the Thames. London by night was beautiful—but she'd always thought that London by night at Christmas was even more magical.

And finally the driver pulled up outside the tallest building in London—the Shard, its very top storeys lit up with the nightly-changing Christmas light show.

Now she understood what he meant about heights.

Hopefully this meant that Nick would be at the top, waiting for her.

The driver opened the door for her and ushered her inside.

She was met at the doorway by someone that she assumed was part of the attraction's PR team. ‘Ms Thompson?' the man asked.

‘Yes,' she said, wondering quite what was coming next.

To her surprise, he handed her a filled water pistol, together with another of the vellum envelopes. The note said:

Choose your target carefully.

She remembered the day they spent in the park with Nick's nephews and smiled. Was he planning to have another water fight with her?

‘This way, please, Ms Thompson.' The man took her to a corridor. Set in the middle was a table, with three photographs set on a small ledge. As a nod to Christmas, all the photographs were decked with a sprig of holly, making her smile. The first photograph was of Nick wearing his full barrister garb; the second was Nick wearing a suit, and the last one was Nick in jeans.

Which one was she supposed to shoot?

This was a tough decision. The barrister garb was linked to the very first day she'd met him, albeit he hadn't worn much of it; the suit was what he wore whenever she met him from work; and he'd worn jeans to the park when she and the boys had ganged up on him and soaked him.

She tried to second-guess him. A barrister would be super-protective—so Nick, knowing how much over-protectiveness drove her crazy, would want her to take that target down...right?

She aimed the water pistol at the photo of Nick in his barrister dress and knocked it over.

There was another small vellum envelope underneath the photograph. She read the message:

Good choice. Now go to the lift
.

So she had got it right. That was a relief.

‘Um—could you direct me to the lift, please?' she asked.

‘Of course, Ms Thompson,' the PR man said.

As soon as the lift doors opened, Sammy saw tasteful Christmas decorations—swathes of beautiful greenery. But there was also a handmade sign bearing a photograph of a pile of fluffy cotton wool balls, with a red X scrawled through it in pen, and she burst out laughing before grabbing her phone and calling Nick.

This time, he actually answered his phone.

‘So are you telling me this is a cotton-wool-free zone?' she asked.

He laughed. ‘Got it in one.'

‘Where are you?'

‘Not far now,' he said. ‘Pay attention.'

‘Yes, m'learned friend.'

He laughed again and hung up.

She wasn't quite sure what he had in mind but she was enjoying this. He'd clearly spent time setting this up and she loved how very personal it was.

The lift stopped halfway up the tower, and the PR man said, ‘You need to get out at this floor.'

Nick wasn't at the top?

‘OK,' she said.

But just outside the lift was another table. This one had three cards on it.

The first was a gorgeous shot of lightning—one she would've loved to have in her own portfolio. Inside, he'd written:

Chance of being struck by lightning—roughly one in a million.

To her amusement, he'd listed the source so she could look it up and prove it to herself.

The second was a picture of a piano. Inside, he'd written:

Chance of a piano falling on your head—apparently this is an old movie trope and there aren't any actual recorded cases of a piano being dropped onto someone's head.