“What about the pub?”
“I lost one person I love, alright? Instead of sitting here stewing for the rest of my life on what could have been or what I should have done, I’m grabbing this fucking reindeer by the horns and holding on. I’m not afraid.” He cradles me close. “Or, rather Iam, but I’m more afraid of not giving it a go, and missing out on this. On you, us. Aren’t you?”
I watch him through the haze of tears and what I see is a man who’s as lost and lonely as I am, a man who’s as broken and who’s figured things out the only way he knew how. But all of that is beautiful. His messed up insides, his grumpy facade, the way a scowl’s right at home on his face, but a smile looks like someone plastered it on like the ads they paste up on the Métro station walls.
“Okay. Yes. I’ll do it. I’ll stay in Paris and…”
“That’s all. Just stay for now. The rest…”
“We’ll play by ear?” I whisper.
Suddenly, his chest heaves, like he’d been holding himself tightly and now we’re both letting out so much emotion. “Come here. Give us a kiss.”
I strain up and he bends down and our lips touch and it’s absolutely electric. Thrilling and warm and reviving.
“Fucking Christ.” He pulls away. “It’s still here, isn’t it? The spark is unbelievable.”
“Yeah,” I go back in for another kiss, my body shaky and alive. So alive. And so scared. And so ready. So completely, totally ready to give this thing a try, despite the doubts trying to convince me how badly it’ll hurt.
Somewhere behind me, the door swings open to the sound of bells jingling. It takes a second for Colin to pull away, muttering something about bloody terrible timing.
“Salut, les amoureux!” says Raf from upstairs, leading a group of people. Some I recognize from the neighborhood, others I don’t think I’ve ever seen.
“I’d better get to work, hadn’t I?” Colin says, setting me on my feet as he stands.
“Work?”
He grins. “Christmas party.”
“Are you serious?”
He leans in and kisses me again, that feeling zapping right through me the second our lips meet. “Suddenly got lots to celebrate.”
More people stream in, calling out hellos in English and French and hauling various offerings inside.
I’m introduced to pub regulars and neighbors and friends who’ve come from all over Paris. Some stop in and drop off food—bread and chocolates, an actual roast goose, candied chestnuts, a box of cakes. Others pull up a chair and grab a plate and drink and eat.
The pub’s warm and bright and smells like spices and wine and woodsmoke. The music coming through the speakers is carols and the kind of big band Christmas songs I’ve always adored.
Colin spends half his time kissing me and introducing me and the other half pouring out drinks behind the bar. After an hour spent greeting people and getting the food spread out and mingling and just enjoying all the warm mayhem, I head his way.
He watches me, every step, his eyes warm, welcoming, nothing like they’d have been before.
I lean against the bar and ask, “Should I run up and make some eggnog?”
“Not enough for you here, love?” He sweeps a hand around the room with its twinkle lights and piles and piles of food and drink. “Got every bloody thing you could possibly want.”
I grin because it’s true. I’ve honestly never seen such an actual feast or, if I’m being honest, felt this kind of warm, easy camaraderie.
“Can I come back there and help you, then?”
He considers. “Yeah. I’d like that. I’d like it a lot.”
Once I’m behind the bar, he leans down and whispers, “Can I just kiss you, like whenever I like? Would that be odd?”
“Not odd.” I stare at that sweet, soft mouth. “I want that. Badly.”
He swoops in and puts his lips to the side of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. When he comes back up to my ear, he whispers, “I reckon we’ve got another hour or so before people start heading home to their families or afternoon naps or whatever. And then…”
