‘Fa-la-la-ing’s not going to help, is it?’
‘How will you know if you don’t give it a try?’
He looks between my face and the nutcracker I’m still holding out as a microphone. ‘Fine. Fa la la la la,’ he says in a totally deadpan voice. ‘Happy now?’
‘Go on …’
He rolls his eyes but his mouth quirks up into a smile this time, and his face softens at the exact moment he gives in.
I push the nutcracker-microphone into his hand and grab another one for myself and I can’t get the grin off my face when he joins in the sing-along because it’s amazing to see him let go and relax, and judging by the impossibly wide smile and the way his eyes are shining, even enjoy himself. He’s always uptight and self-aware, and even though he wears casual clothes to work now, he still seems as taut as if he was wearing a smart suit. For a while, I put it down to the injuries, but it seems to be more than that, almost like he’s constantly looking over his shoulder for something.
‘I love that I can be silly with you and you don’t judge me for it,’ he says when the song ends and his eyes are glinting like a tiger’s eye gemstone when you move it under the light so it reflects different colours.
I know the feeling. It’s been a long time since I let myself go in front of someone, and the only person I’ve ever sung in front of before is Stacey, but it doesn’t seem to matter with him. ‘Everyone needs a dose of silliness sometimes. I think we all get caught up in the stresses of life and forget that far too often.’
The opening bars of “A Winter’s Tale” by David Essex start playing, and James takes the nutcracker out of my hand and puts them both down on the completed empty shelf behind him.
‘C’mere,’ he murmurs.
When I step towards him, his right arm slides around my waist and he pulls me against him, and his left arm rests around my shoulder, touching at the elbow above his cast. We start doing some sort of slow dance, mainly just stepping around the room to the sweet, melodic tune, occasionally stepping on each other’s toes and murmuring an apology.
My head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck and his chin rests on my head, the first hint of his dark stubble catching on my hair. I let out a breath against his collarbone and sort of snuggle into his chest. I’m unsure of where to touch him that isn’t going to hurt and one hand goes around his hip to rub gently at the right side of his spine and the other drifts up to his left shoulder, letting my fingers trail over the back of his neck.
He makes a noise and I still instantly. ‘Am I hurting you?’ I whisper, because everything feels so quiet and peaceful that talking at a normal volume would break the spell.
‘The opposite.’ His arms tighten around me, pulling me closer, and it must be hurting, I must be pressing against some of his bruises, but he whispers, ‘This is the most comfortable I’ve ever been.’
I don’t need to look up at his face to hear the blissed-out tone in his voice or tell that his eyes are closed or feel the way his shoulders droop as he exhales against my hair.
It would be so easy to tilt my head and kiss his jaw. He seems so quiet and relaxed and I wish there was a bit of mistletoe nearby to give me an excuse. I can’t kiss him for no reason. I don’t even want to kiss him. I just want to see if what I felt yesterday when he kissed my cheek was a one-off brought on by hysteria at granting wishes again, or proximity to too many nutcrackers or something. That’s all. It was some weird sort of nervous system malfunction. Nothing more.
‘This is such a lovely song. So romantic.’ He says it so quietly that I’m not sure if I’ve heard the words so much as felt the vibration of them through his chest. ‘Why have I never heard this before?’
‘Because you close your heart to Christmas and decide you don’t like things without giving them a chance.’
He doesn’t say anything, just squeezes me tighter and I let the fingers around his shoulder trail up to play with the hair at the back of his neck, carding through it and drifting up and down to the collar of his jumper and back, and I feel the shiver that goes down his spine, and I have no doubt that it’s the good kind of shiver. Maybe I’m not the only one who felt something under that mistletoe the other day.
We slow-dance aimlessly around the room, listening to David Essex sing his 1980s tale of failed love.
‘Sorry, I dance like I’m made of wood.’
I stiffen in his embrace. I’m a hundred per cent sure he isn’t a nutcracker come to life, and then every so often, he’ll say something that makes me think … is he? ‘You dance like you’ve got broken bones and severe bruising and should be sitting down with your feet up.’ It’s the end of a long day, and although he’s clearly trying not to show it, there’s a tautness around his eyes and a wince at certain movements that suggest he’s already overdone things.
‘Nia, I need to tell you …’ He lifts his head and looks me in the eyes, his pupils wide. The look is so intense that it makes my knees turn to jelly, which must be something to do with the earth’s magnetic
