Centaur.
It’s funny, but I don’t really care that he’s got horse legs. I mean, I keep staring at them, but I don’t care that they’re there.
I like the voice and the things that it says. The handsome face that scowls more than it smiles.
Right now, his scowl deepens. “Fancies himself, doesn’t he?”
“I guess. I just thought he was confident.”
“A confident bloke doesn’t have to announce it, doesn’t have to shout it with his actions. Just gets things done. All right. I could get you up to the bedroom, or you can sleep on the couch by the fire. Might be warmer down here,” Nigel says.
“I’m comfy here.”
“I’ll run along and do the washing up so you can change.”
“Got it. And again—I’m really sorry for all of this. I’m ruining your Christmas spirit, I bet.”
Nigel freezes over me.
Geez, this guy is huge.
I should absolutely not sneak a glance towards the back end of him, but I do.
I wonder how much truth there is to that phrase hung like a—
“Are you tired?” Nigel suddenly asks, voice almost a growl.
“No. Overtired, yes. I’ll crash at some random point.”
“Want eggnog? It’s very good.”
“Love some.”
“Good. You change, I’ll fetch it, and then I’ll tell you why you haven’t ruined my Christmas spirit at all.”
I DON’T KNOW WHY Iwant to tell her. I’ve never told anyone else, never even discussed it, unless you count the heated exchanges with Mum.
Because she’s miserable and has been dumped by someone messing with her about two days before Christmas, and my story feels close enough to... I don’t know what. Connect us?
I shudder. Connection is messy.
She’ll be gone tomorrow. Maybe the day after.
Why would I want a connection?
Maybe it’s the whiskey. Or the brandy. Or the rum in the nog.
All of it.
Or the way she clung to me, and her heavy heart thumped next to my cold one.
Stupid to dream.
Better to drink and smile, and raise a glass to the ones who didn’t get away—the ones that are yet to come.
“RIGHT, THEN.” NIGELplunges right in. He clinks his small cut glass cup against mine and settles to the floor with a heavy thud. “Centaurs usually have a bit of help finding the right spouse. There aren’t too many of us left. A few thousand scattered ‘round the globe.”
“You have to marry a centaur?” I ask, sipping the thick, creamy yellow eggnog. It’s like an instant shot of serotonin. “I need the recipe for this,” I gasp and gulp more.
