chapter twenty-four

t w e n t y - f o u r

*

After what felt like a battle to the death to get to the food amidst throngs of people looking for Christmas Eve deals, and a thirty-minute wait just to get out of the car park once the supermarket shut, and another thirty minutes to drive in the traffic and ice, Casper and I make it home. It feels like we've been away for a lot longer than three hours, but those three hours were enough to make me miss being trapped in the house.

While Casper brings the bags in and unloads them in the kitchen, shivering all the while, I build a fire and get to work on a plan for tomorrow. I can't believe I've left it so late but when I think too much about that, I stress myself out so I try to focus on persuading the flames to grow and the logs to catch fire. It's a bit trickier with my duff hand, even more so when splinters of wood catch on the flimsy bandage material and at one point, I almost catch myself on fire.

Good thing I'm not running low on wood, a whole stash stacked up in the conservatory, because the fire's going to need to be running as hot as possible for as long as possible tomorrow, if I want to avoid complaints of the cold.

Casper comes in brushing his hands together and perches on the edge of the coffee table. "Everything's where it's supposed to be. Meat in the fridge; veg in the drawer; peas in the freezer; dry stuff in the cupboard."

"Perfect. Thanks, Cas."

"I was thinking we could do the cabbage now, and we could prep the roasties for tomorrow, right?"

"Mmhmm. And get the chicken ready."

"Gotta be honest, I've never stuffed a chicken before."

"I'll show you how."

He winks. "Sexy."

"It's the opposite of sexy," I say, closing up the fire and opening the vents to get the air flowing, so it can suck up oxygen and pump out smoke up the chimney. When I turn around to face Casper, he's wearing his cheeky face. It's adorable, all bright eyes and crooked smile and dimples. It's irresistible. But we've got a lot to do, so I have to resist. It's after five and I'm already tired, and we're down to seventeen hours before my family rocks up.

"You'll have to let me do it," Casper says. "I don't think it's very sanitary for you to handle raw meat and the insertion of more food into a chicken's arse with a gross bandage. Actually, speaking of which..."

His voice trails off as he gets up and leaves, taking the stairs two at a time and almost falling backwards when he tries to take three. I can hear his footsteps creaking on the landing above me and a couple of minutes later, he returns with a handful of first aid stuff. He plops down on the coffee table again. Our knees touch, closing the gap between us, and he takes my hand, lying it in his lap.

"I think it's time for a check-up with Doctor Casper," he says. "Wait, no, Doctor Boutayeb. I don't think I've ever called my doctor by his first name. I don't think I even know it."

I don't point out that I know mine, after everything I went through. I saw him a lot; I think we built up as close a relationship as it's reasonable to have.

Casper gently unwinds the bandage and peels off the plasters. Both of my cuts are still tender and red and not very healed. He holds my wrist in one hand, the other dabbing antiseptic cream on the wounds before he cuts another strip of plaster and does a pretty good job of protecting the cuts from the elements before he chucks the old bandage in the fire. The material crackles and burns, hissing until it's reduced to a pile of ash.

"Those can go in the bin," he says, nodding at the old plasters. "I think it's a bit too witchy to throw blood on the fire; it might be some ancient spell and we'll reawaken a demon, or accidentally make a blood oath."

He rambles on as he smooths the new plasters over my hand and rather than wrap it all in a bandage this time, he tapes it down with a couple of strips of the plaster tape, a less bulky way to secure it. I don't say anything the whole time, I just watch him work and listen to him mutter away about what he's doing.

"There we go. Good as new. Almost."

"If it gets infected, I'll blame you."

"Okay," he says. "Totally unfair and wildly unreasonable, but okay." He claps and stands. "Ready to do some prep? I, for one, cannot fucking wait."

*

As it turns out, not at all to my surprise, Casper can finesse any recipe he puts his hand to. While I cut huge potatoes into segments to be roasted tomorrow, he slices vegetables and finds spices and dices apples for an elaborate festive braised red cabbage dish, humming along to the music as he works.

I don't know if he realises that we're listening to my Christmas playlist. It started off as regular music, easing us into the atmosphere and to get him in a cooking mood, and now that he's focused, I've seamlessly switched over to my own playlist, starting out with less obviously festive tunes. I don't know how East 17's Stay Another Day became a Christmas classic when the lyrics make no mention of the season, and the video is just the band standing under falling snow. I love it though, singing along under my breath as I use a fork to rough up the potatoes, enough to make roasties for eight.

Eight is a lot of people. That thought jumps into my head, and my Christmas brain morphs it into one of my favourite lines from one of my favourite Christmas films, and my absent tongue speaks the words out loud. "Eight is a lot of legs, David."

Casper looks up at me. He's torn from his focus. "What?" He frowns. "Oh, no. The cabbage fumes have got to you. Is this the start of the end?"

"It's just a line from a film," I say, rolling my eyes at his dramatics. I don't care what he says, we're going to watch Love, Actually tonight. "I was just thinking that we've got to fit eight people in this house tomorrow, and eight is a lot. Do you reckon twenty-four roast potatoes will be all right?"

"Plenty, I'd've thought. There'll be mash as well, and four hundred different vegetables." He pulls the cabbage pan off the hob and sidles over to stand behind me, exploratory hands snaking around me as he rests his chin on my shoulder. His hands rest over my stomach where my slightly-too-small leggings dig in a bit around my waist, cutting me into fleshy rolls. He doesn't care. It used to be one of my biggest sources of insecurity, until I started dating people who didn't give a shit, people who touched my stomach and my thighs and my neck and my waist without recoiling. After that, I realised I like it.

A tingling shiver runs through me when Casper hugs me from behind and kisses my jaw and buries his face in my neck. I put down the fork and the potato to turn around. He doesn't let go of me, but his hands drop to the base of my spine when we're standing chest to chest, so close that even with my glasses, I can't focus properly on his face.

"Hi," he says.

"Hey."

"You're hot."

"It is a bit warm in here."

Casper laughs. "No, I mean like, phwoar, you're hot," he says, closing the gap between us until his nose nudges mine and he kisses me as my cheeks flush pink. Hot is not a word I've heard much to describe me. Never, actually, I don't think. Cute, maybe; sometimes beautiful, but hot is one of those words that, in my head at least, is usually reserved for skinny girls.

"You're not too bad yourself," I say. It makes him smile and he kisses me again.

"Fancy a drink? I was thinking of heating up one of those bottles of mulled wine."

"Mmm. Good idea. But we're not done in here – we still need to make the stuffing and do the chicken and wrap the piggies in their blankets."

"And we'll get that done," he says, "but I think we've earnt a drink break." He pulls away to find one of the bottles of mulled wine that I bought at the market, which feels like forever ago, and he pours it into a pan in its entirety. "Hey, you know what's super fucked up?"

"Quite a lot of things."

"Pigs in blankets. The blankets are bacon. Bacon is pig. That's like skinning someone and turning their innards into food and then wrapping them in their own skin and acting like it's a cute little party food."

"They tried that as the name, but for some reason it just didn't catch on," I say. "God knows why. Something about turning people off their food, perhaps."

Casper cuts an orange in half and drops both pieces into the mulled wine, and he roots through the cupboard for a couple of cinnamon sticks and a pot of cloves for a bit of extra spice. He stirs it until it bubbles and then turns down the heat so it can simmer for a while.

"While that infuses, we can get the chicken done," I point out. "Then we can relax. Have some wine; put a film on; check out your Santa outfit..."

He wags his finger at me. "Nuh-uh, Santa's for tomorrow."

"I'm pretty sure Santa comes on Christmas Eve."

Casper purses his lips. "Depends how horny he is."

I splutter at the sudden visual I'm hit with. Not Santa himself, but Casper as Santa. It's a bit much.

"You're bad, Cas."

"Guess I'm getting coal in my stocking this year, then." He gives me a sly grin and exaggerates the swing of his hips as he walks over to me, pouting. "I've been a bad, bad boy."

"Oh my god, fuck off," I say, laughing. I can't role play; I can't take him seriously with that face and that silly, breathy voice. I'm still laughing when he reaches me and cups my face in his warm hands and kisses me. Softly at first, then deeper, more hungrily, stealing my breath.

"Can I tell you something?" he whispers, his breath hot on my cheek.

"Yes," I whisper back, my mind spinning. Casper's hands trail down from my neck and land on my waist, his touch electric even through the three layers I'm wearing to keep warm in this house. He traces his thumbs in circles and kisses my lips, my cheek, my jaw, until his mouth is right by my ear. His breath tickles; his stubble brushes my jaw, a gentle scratch

"I can't wait to get wrist deep in a chicken."

"Casper! Fucking hell." I push him away, my hand planted on his chest. "You're such a pig."

He cracks up and almost loses his balance, stabilising himself against me; his hand slips to mine and he pulls me into a swirl before scooping me to his chest. "Want to be my blanket?"

*

Everything that can be done before tomorrow has been done, and it's with a satisfied sigh that I drop onto the sofa once I've stoked and secured the fire. Casper flops down next to me with an over the top groan of contentment, once we've prepped the chicken and left it in the fridge, and we've made space for an extra sofa in the sitting room. It's a bit of a squeeze in here now, but there's enough space for my entire family, and Casper.

"We've done good," he says, lazily looping an arm around my shoulders. It's getting on now, already past eight o'clock, and I can't quite believe it's almost Christmas Day. It's almost our shared birthday – less than four hours to go. Excitement rises to a pink flush in my cheeks, a giddy smile in anticipation of my favourite day of the year.

"We've done good," I agree, happy now that we have everything I need for tomorrow. Presents for my family are wrapped and waiting under the tree; all of my cards have either been posted or hand-delivered; we have enough food for a big, proper Christmas lunch. My tree is glorious with its lights, the type that give off a soft, off-white glow, rather than the brightly-coloured ones that flash like mad. There's only one thing missing.

I haven't put anything on top yet. Usually, it takes me forever to decide which topper to use, whether I go for an angel or a star or a reindeer or something else, but today, the decision is an obvious one. Hauling myself to my feet again, which takes more effort than usual when I'm so damn comfortable, I pull out from under the tree the bag that Casper gave me almost two weeks ago, and I take out the Santa that he bought for me.

"Ayeee, I forgot about that," he crows when he sees what I'm doing, leaning forward over his knees to watch as I stretch up onto my tiptoes to place the Santa on the very highest branch.

I wish he wasn't watching. This bit's always a struggle. At five foot five, I'm not exactly short, but the tree is a tall one, well over six feet, and I don't have enough of a reach. I'm just a couple of inches shy of the top, but it's a bushy tree and I can't get close enough. There's a step stool somewhere, or I could use the stool that lives in front of the fireplace.

Casper comes over. He stands just behind me, one arm around my waist, and takes the Santa from me. "This is a job for a big, strong man," he says. I raise my eyebrows at him, but I step back to let him try anyway. He does exactly what I did, scooting in close and stretching up onto the tips of his toes, but he's five seven at most, and he can't reach either.

I laugh. He drops back onto his heels with a sheepish expression and says, "Well. That was awkward." He hooks his foot around the stool and drags it over, and a moment later, the tree is graced with the perfect ornament right at the top.

"You have good taste, Mr Boutayeb," I say.

He bows and doffs and imaginary hat. "Only the best for my favourite Christmas pest."

But I can see the sincerity in his smile; I can see the lights of the tree reflected in his eyes.

"Not such a Scrooge anymore, huh?"

"I prefer it when you call me a grinch," he says.

"Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"Because," he says, heading back to the sofa, "I did my research, and I've learnt that the Scrooch is a capitalist. The Grinch, however, is anti-capitalism, and that's much more in line with my philosophy. So I don't mind being called the grinch."

"Look at you, googling Christmas stories," I say with a chuckle, sitting down next to him – we've switched sides, I realise, when he puts his other arm around me.

"Does that impress you?"

"Mmm. It does, a bit."

That makes him grin. God, I love that grin.

"Now," I say, "it's time for a bit of Love, Actually."

His face brightens for a moment, and then falls. "Oh. You mean the film."

I snort a laugh when I realise what that sounded like. "Yes. I mean the film." For now, anyway. I switch on the TV and navigate to my collection of Christmas films. Love, Actually is the third on the list, which is in no particular order, and it's one of my favourites. The opening scene always gets me, all those airport greetings, and I can never get over the joy of figuring out how everyone's connected.

As it starts, I settle against Casper, comforted by his arm around me. He lets out a sigh, ruffling my hair, and I feel his lips against my temple. As much as I want to watch this film with him, for him to actually enjoy it, I'm also quite okay with this – me watching, him cuddling and nuzzling. Ever since we both spilled our feelings to each other all over the kitchen floor, he's turned into a total puppy, desperate for attention and belly rubs.

Ten minutes in, Casper lets out a low whistle and says, "Big cast. Wow. This is, like, a who's who of the cream of the best British actors crop."

"Another reason to love it," I say. "Even if you don't dig Hugh Grant's bumbling Britishness, you've got Colin Firth and Emma Thompson; Alan Rickman and Keira Knightley. Even Liam Neeson! Never mind Joanna Page and Martin Freeman, and that guy from The Walking Dead."

"You can reel off all those names and you can't give Andrew Lincoln the recognition he deserves?" Casper tuts, his hand squeezing my shoulder ever so slightly. We go quiet again, almost half an hour elapsing before he starts to move his fingers over my shoulder again, swirling patterns that trace over my collarbone and tickle my neck. My stomach flutters at his touch, pulling me out of the beauty of the film.

His nose nudges my cheek. When I turn my head, he brushes a kiss over my lips and shifts so he's facing me, one hand on the back of my neck and the other resting over my hip. His fingers toy with the hem of my jumper before slipping under the fabric, setting my skin on fire when there's nothing between the soft pads of his fingertips and my stomach. When his lips travel down to my neck, I close my hand around his wrist.

"Wait a sec," I say. He leans back, his hand still under my jumper, and gives me a lost look, like I've just reprimanded him for something he doesn't understand. "I just want to check ... tomorrow, when my family get here, do I introduce you as my boyfriend?"

His expression changes to one of joy and light when he realises he hasn't done anything wrong. "That sounds good to me," he says.

"Okay. Good. It sounds good to me too."

"So, if I'm not wrong, that would make you my girlfriend."

"I think that's right," I say, my smile growing. Casper's my boyfriend. My whole body erupts in goose pimples, every inch of my from my neck down to my toes tingling at the thought. I pull him close again, and this time I initiate the kiss. My glasses get in the way a bit, but I don't want to discard them yet; I want to be able to see.

Casper's hand explores further, grazing over my waist and my stomach and up to my chest, pushing my jumper up as he goes. But it's a bit too cold for that, even with the fire – it hasn't been going long enough to heat the entire room yet, and it's too cold for bare skin.

"Are you trying to distract me from the film?" I ask, suppressing a shiver.

"Yes. Absolutely," Casper says with a solemn nod. "Is it working?"

I nod and swallow hard. "Yes. It's working."

"Is this okay?"

"Yes. Very much so," I say, my voice coming out a bit shaky. That's the anticipation, I think, the excited nerves of knowing where this is leading, of wanting it to lead there.

"How about this?" His hand brushes over my bra, my nipple stiffening under his thumb, and the film is totally forgotten. It's still playing and the volume is still up, but it's like I can't even hear it, like it's playing in another dimension when all I think about is Casper touching me, kissing me, loving me.

"That's good," I say. "But..."

"What?"

I push his hand away, my skin going cold where he was touching it, and heating up where it was exposed. "I think it's warmer in my bedroom."

"Oh. Oh. Oh, I see," he says, so adorably awkward when he realises what I'm saying. "I think that's a good idea. More comfortable, too. No offence to your sofa."

I laugh and stand and take his hand. Confidence roars through me when I push my hands through his hand and kiss him, and I lead him up to my room.

*

apologies for the lack of an update yesterday! i struggled with an allergy attack in the morning and a family engagement in the afternoon so i just didn't have time. i hope to get more writing done later today and get ahead again!

anyway, what did you think of this one, eh? ;)