Wetter. Hornier.Angrier.
Because I wasn’t used to letting someone else lead. As much as he made me weak at the knees, I also wanted to just pin him down and take what I needed, so I could get it out of my head.
Gethimout of my head.
fourteen
AMANDA
Otterleigh Bay villagesquare was bursting at the seams with chaos.
Christmas hat-laden children with runny noses performed in a nativity on a central stage, while all around, people bustled from market stall to market stall, laughing and chatting and purchasing treats. String lights criss-crossed from one building to another, while the sheen of frost made it look straight off a Christmas card.
There was no denying that it was a picturesque place. And that the people who lived there were friendly. The place practically dripped with community spirit. Heck, even Merv was invited.
The Petersens had descended in mass, oohing and aahing over every charming little detail. The children were crowding around Merv’s pen beside the nativity, while their parents were truly putting their spending power to use. There would be a lot of very happy crafters come dinner time. Bill bought a scarf so longit could outdo Dr Who’s one, and his adult son, Elijah, carried two steaming mugs of spiced cider and three bursting bags of fudge while his husband tried to convince their son he didn’t need a six-foot willow reindeer sculpture. I’d followed along behind Rita for a while, until it became perfectly obvious that she didn’t need my assistance.
Children screeching by the bandstand, clambering over tartan-blanketed hay bales while worrying mothers adjusted the angel’s wings and wiped the shepherds’ runny noses.
Merv happily munched on a carrot offered to him by the child narrator of the nativity, looking pleased with himself. They’d draped him in a fleece blanket with two humps that looked very pillow-shaped on his back. Despite there very much being a donkey in the nativity story, Merv appeared to have been cast as a camel. Not that he seemed to mind one bit.
All seemed to be going well until halfway through a high-pitched rendition of Away in a Manger, when Merv decided the set was tastier than the carrots. First, he plucked a shepherd’s hat, a tea towel with a band of elastic, clean off of a boy’s head. Then he pushed the side of his pen over and took the steps up to the low stage, tucking in to the manger hay after having yeeted the plastic baby Jesus into the audience.
Mary was beside herself, tears streaming down her face as the teachers tried to coax Merv back into his pen. Joseph, however, took to pulling handfuls of hay from the bales and hand feeding Merv, looking utterly delighted with the chaotic turn of events.
Parents filmed the nativity and laughed, most having likely sat through endless nativities and having never seen one go quite so sideways to fast. Henry eventually left his wreaths to go save the day, encouraging Merv off the stage and back into the pen, holding him there quite firmly as the teachers tried to restore order on stage.
A glassblower’s stall caught my eye, the intricate ornaments glittering in the low sun. I made my way over, charmed by the colourful tree decorations, each utterly unique. Swety golden angels with halos so impossibly thin. A family of spotted deer. Red-breasted robins. But one in particular made me stop.
A glass donkey, just like Merv. Albeit better behaved. With spindly legs and the sweetest nose, and tall ears, a ribbon fastened to his back to hang him on a tree. Imperfection shaped his face, the nose a little short, and the eyes not perfectly matched, but it only added to its quaintness.
Would it be crazy to buy it for Henry?
It’s not like we were… well, anything really. Other than both horny and single. Gift buying felt a little premature.
He kissed you between your thighs not three hours ago.
I supposed a little gift wouldn’t hurt.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I passed over a twenty-pound note and accepted a striped gold bag. I carefully tucked it into the pocket of my coat, glad of the box the seller had secured it in. I could decide whether to hand it over later. If all else failed, I guessed I’d have a glass donkey to find a home for. Or a little memory of my one Christmas in Otterleigh Bay.
‘Amanda,’ Owen Harris, the local whisky distiller, beckoned me to his stall and offered me a plastic shot glass of amber liquid. ‘Bottoms up.’
He looked like a tourist's wet dream. Clad in a kilt and cosy jumper, and surrounded by booze. His fiancée, Claire, stood with her arm wrapped around his waist, her nose pink and her cheeks pinker.
‘It helps with the cold,’ she said, taking a shot for herself.
‘I’m still working.’ I swirled the whisky in the glass and took a sniff.
‘I’m not sure your clients will mind,’ Owen replied, reaching for a tiny glass. ‘Rita’s already visited us three times, and I’mquite sure we’ll be sending a barrel up the road to the manor if she comes back again.’
With a shrug, I gave in and took a sip.
The whisky hit my tongue and heat shot down my throat, so intense and unexpected that my eyes began to water.
‘Bloody hell, that’s potent.’
Claire clapped with glee.
