His whole face brightens as a smile creeps slowly from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘Why do you think I’m doing it?’
The oven has heated up the kitchen, but his words make me feel even more overheated. I’m sure he’s only joking, but the idea that he might not be makes butterflies start zipping around inside, and they don’t dissipate when the construction begins.
My hair is up in a ponytail and my fringe is held back by a Mrs Claus red sequinned bow with fluffy white trim, and it’s so warm in the kitchen that this is probably the first time James has ever seen me without a Christmas jumper on. He’s wearing a grey T-shirt too, and I made him put an apron on – one that’s patterned with rows of dancing mince pies and Christmas puddings, mainly because he seems to understand the benefit of novelty Christmas clothing now, and even he had to smile as I reached up and slipped it over his head. It’s almost as adorable as the reindeer antlers I made him put on to keep his hair back while he muttered and grumbled something about dying of embarrassment if anyone saw him like this.
The apron also means there’s not much fabric between us as I squeeze in between him and the unit and start setting all the pieces aside, wash and dry the worktop and lay down greaseproof paper to protect it from icing spills.
He goes over to the sink to wash his hands while I start lining up pieces of gingerbread house in some sort of formation and working out where they’ll be glued together. It’s been so many years since I’ve done this and I feel rusty and out of practice, but it doesn’t matter. Gingerbread houses are never perfect – and they’d be boring if they were. Each one is individual – that’s the point.
James comes back and instead of standing next to me like I expected, he stands halfway behind me, barely touching but close enough to feel the heat from his body. His chin is close enough that I can feel every breath against my hair, and the press of the elbow above his cast as he holds his broken arm out of the way and his right arm comes around from underneath my arm and he turns his hand over so it waves up at me. ‘Use me in any way you want.’
All thoughts of gingerbread houses go out of my head because all I can think about doing is turning around in his kind-of embrace, wrapping my arms around his neck and snogging him senseless, and it takes a lot of willpower to concentrate on the freshly baked walls in front of me. I pick one up and pipe a line of royal icing along the bottom and stand it up on the silver cake board base. I position his hand to hold the wall until the icing sets hard enough to keep it upright, while I pipe another line of icing along two sides of the next wall and stick it alongside the first one. He holds it in place while I turn the base around and pipe another line of icing along the adjacent side, and then pick up the next wall and splodge it in, wiping up the icing that splurges out and using it to plug the gaps.
James supports the structure while I pipe wobbly lines of icing, which probably wouldn’t be quite so wobbly if he wasn’t filling each one of my senses. His cologne is in my nose, some warming spice that would go on top of a steamy cinnamon drink, with an earthy hint of something natural like the wood of a newly sawn tree trunk.
Every breath is in my ear or stirring the hairs on the back of my neck. His body is warm and solid behind me, and his good arm is resting on my hip where it’s underneath my arm. I’m sure it’s not the most sensible position for gingerbread house construction, but I wouldn’t want it to be any other way, and it’s definitely a good thing that both my hands are occupied because I want to reach blindly behind me and pull him closer. He’s the perfect height to stand next to because my head tucks in under his chin and his stubble brushes against my hair every time he speaks, and I’m not sure if it’s being this close to him or inhaling so much icing sugar that’s scrambling my brain.
Somehow we get enough of a routine going that it doesn’t take long for the gingerbread house to be complete, and I stand back, my hands braced around it but not touching, ready to catch it the moment it falls apart.
‘Wow,’ James murmurs. ‘I had no idea how these were made.’
‘Well, now it’s your turn. You’re going to decorate it.’
He bursts out laughing so hard that it makes him wince. ‘It’s not fair of you to make me laugh that much when laughing’s still so painful. You are joking, right?’
‘Of course not. Decorating a gingerbread house is a rite of Christmas passage.’
‘Yeah, but with you. You do the bits that are supposed to look nice and I’ll stick some gumdrops on or something. You don’t have time to redo it when I destroy it.’
‘You won’t. And I don’t have time, that’s exactly why I’m delegating. You get on with that and I’m going to make a start on the Christmas cake. You know the one that’s supposed to have been fed with brandy every week since November?’
He looks down at the biscuit structure like it might morph into a flying reindeer and take a lap round the room at any moment, chewing his lip so hard that I want to reach up and free it from his teeth before he bites through it. ‘And you trust me not to ruin it?’
‘Of course.’
He smiles like
