“Thoroughly,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like a complaint. “And what about you? What do you do for downtime when you’re not reading romance novels in public places and nearly getting hit by cyclists?”
“Mostly just those two things, honestly,” I joke, then add more seriously, “I love exploring. Finding hidden bookshops, trying new restaurants, walking through neighbourhoods I'venever been to. Museums. Parks. Holing up at Saint Dunstan in the East when I feel the need to reconnect with myself. Anywhere I can feel the city breathing, you know?”
“You make London sound like a living thing,” he observes.
“She is,” I say simply. “At least to me. Every street has a story, every corner holds possibility. That's why I fell so hard for this place—she never stops surprising me.”
He's quiet for a moment, and when I glance up at him, there's something in his expression I can't quite read. “You're very strange, you know that?”
“I'll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.” The way he's looking at me, soft and warm and a little bit wondering, makes my heart skip. “Not everyone can make a jaded single dad believe in surprise and possibility.”
“See?” I grin up at him. “Maybe you're not as jaded as you think.”
His laugh is quiet but genuine, and there it goes again—that flutter in my chest I have absolutelynobusiness feeling.
We pass a few more stalls—one selling mulled cider that smells like autumn and Christmas had a baby, another with the most elaborate gingerbread houses I've ever seen, complete with tiny icing windows and candy cane fences.
Mom would love those!
And then I spot it.
A shop with a window display absolutely bursting with the most gloriously hideous Christmas sweaters I've ever seen.
I stop dead in my tracks, my arm slipping from Cole's as I turn to face the window with growing delight.
This.
This is precisely the kind of absurd, joyful distraction I need.
“Oh no,” Cole mutters, following my gaze with the expression of a man watching a disaster unfold. “No, no, no. Absolutely not.”
“Absolutelyyes.” I'm already tugging him toward the entrance by his coat sleeve, grinning at his theatrical reluctance. “You can't have Christmas without an ugly Christmas sweater, Hotshot.”
“They're jumpers in England, Sweetheart,” he corrects, though there's a hint of amusement in his tone. “And Icanandwillgo without one.”
“Where's your Christmas spirit?”
“Back at the office, along with my sense of adventure and my sanity, obviously.” But he's letting me pull him inside anyway, and the look he gives me—exasperated and fond and a little bit helpless—makes my heart squeeze.
And just like that, I forget all about keeping my distance.
CHAPTER 10
Cole
The shop can only be described as a treasure trove of festive horror. Jumpers with 3D reindeer noses that actually light up. Ones covered in tinsel and bells and pom-poms sewn directly onto the fabric. It's a sensory assault of Christmas cheer, and Rory is in her element.
“This is a hate crime against fashion,” I mutter, picking up a jumper with a snowman wearing sunglasses, and holding it at arm's length like it might attack me.
“This isjoy, Cole. Pure, unfiltered Christmas joy.”
“Say what you will, butthisis a nightmare.” I put the snowman jumper down and pick up another—this one featuring a reindeer with a red pom-pom for a nose. “It has a bell on it. It jingles.”
“That's kinda the point!”
She giggles when I shake it with a wince, and the sound does something to my chest. The same thing it did last night when her unfettered laughter at her smutty romance book drew me to her like a moth to a flame.
