Always, in December(9)
She laughed again. “That’s so mean! What had you written?”
“God, I don’t remember. It was just the principle of the thing that stuck with me more than anything. I never did quite forgive him for it.”
“Aha. So James Winterbourne has been struck off the wedding guest list for a letter-writing faux pas.” Though he met her gaze, her smile wasn’t reflected.
“Quite.”
Damn, maybe she’d put her foot in it. Maybe he’d been married and it had all gone terribly wrong, or maybe he’d been jilted at the altar, or James Winterbourne had married the love of his life or something.
“So how come you’re out this way then?” she asked, her voice cringeworthily jovial at the forced change of subject. “Do you live in London?”
“No.” His voice was a little distant, but he shook his head and when he spoke again it was with a little more purpose. “No, I’m from Bristol actually. Well, from a few places, I suppose, but I grew up in Bristol, and live there now.”
“So you’re down here for Christmas?”
He grimaced. “No. Well, I wasn’t supposed to be.” He pulled a hand through his messy hair, and the coppery highlights in the brown caught the artificial light a little. “I was due to fly out to New York today, but my flight has been canceled because of some bloody storm.”
Josie frowned, looked up at the sky. It was cloudy, for sure, and the echo of misty rain still hung in the air, but it didn’t exactly seem stormy. She glanced at the man to see him raising his eyebrows.
“There’s obviously not a storm here,” he said, in a way that seemed condescending enough to make her flush again. “But somewhere over the Atlantic or something. Anyway. I’m now on standby for a new flight, but looks like I’m stranded here for now.”
“That’s so crap,” Josie said, hoping her voice was conveying adequate sympathy. “So will you go back to Bristol now then?”
“No, I need to be here in case of flights, so I checked in to a hotel I’ve stayed at before around here.”
She nodded as they came to a stop and gestured to her right at an old building. “It doesn’t look like much on the outside, but they do good beers, I think, and there’s a nice garden out back.”
“Ah yes, useful in this lovely English summer we’re in the midst of.”
It sounded like a joke. If he’d bloody smile or something, then she could be sure. “If you don’t like the look of it, I can…”
“I’m not fussy.” He turned to face her. “Thanks.” He pulled his hands out of his pockets and held one out to her. No wedding ring, so maybe the stolen love of his life theory was more likely. “I’m Max, by the way.”
She took his hand in her gloved one. His grip was firm, sure, and though she wasn’t exactly doll-sized like Bia, his hand made hers feel small. “Josie.”
He smiled, finally. Just a small softening of his lips, but it made his chiseled face look less sharp. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Josie, even if the manner of our meeting left a little to be desired.” She grimaced, though there was no venom in his voice.
He’d let go of her hand and turned away from her by the time she blurted out, “Why don’t I buy you a drink?”
He looked back at her, his brow furrowed over those shifting eyes. She rolled the bike back and forth on the pavement, pinpricks of heat traveling uncomfortably over her skin from the way he was considering her.
“I mean, as an apology. A drink in exchange for a phone.” And yes, that was part of the reason, because really, buying him a drink was the least she could do, but it wasn’t all. Stranded here, he’d said. Alone at Christmas, though he hadn’t explicitly said that. And right then, she didn’t want him to be lonely, at least not in that exact moment, not when she knew exactly how that felt.
He cocked his head, as if weighing up her offer. “A drink in exchange for a phone…” He shrugged. “OK.”
She bit her lip—he hadn’t exactly sounded enthused by the idea. “OK?”
“OK,” he repeated, completely deadpan, his expression giving nothing away.
She locked up her bike, slightly regretting the impulse, being as how they seemed to have already run out of things to say to each other, then led the way inside. She immediately had to strip off her coat to deal with the onslaught of heat from the fire in the corner and the impressive mass of bodies crowding the place. She headed to the bar decorated with that fake green tinsel and jars of fairy lights, wishing right then that she had a local pub she could have taken him to instead, one where the landlord knew her name, where she could be chatty to the staff, rather than risk being stilted and awkward, as she was feeling now. The closest thing she had to that in Streatham was the little pizza place down the road from her flat, which she and Bia often went to, where the waiters greeted them politely, but with an undercurrent of suspicion, like they were wondering if they had a secret, pizza-eating agenda.
A woman behind the bar, her hair in bunches despite the fact she’d got to be in her mid-twenties, sidled up to them, and flicked her gaze over Josie to settle on Max. She beamed widely, more at Max than Josie, and Josie looked at Max for the first time since entering the pub. Well, of course he’d have to be bloody attractive, wouldn’t he? He’d taken off his Sherlock coat and was wearing a petrol-blue jumper underneath, which fitted his body snugly enough to make it obvious that he spent some time working out. The two-toned eyes were more obvious now in the light, the dark green merging subtly into amber. His hair was ever so slightly wavy, though she wasn’t sure if the windswept look was something natural or because of their little accident just now, and there was exactly the right amount of stubble grazing his jaw.