‘First, he is going to make a fire,’ I whisper back, ‘to show he is a manly man and good provider.’
‘I bet they’re forced to share a bed,’ he says. ‘To keep warm and all that.’
‘Yeah, but he is a gentleman. So nothing’s gonna happen.’ I tip a cluster of popcorn into my mouth. The sugar dissolves on my tongue, sickly sweet and perfect.
‘Until he goes around the corner for a wank.’
I press my lips together to trap the laugh. ‘You’re a tad late. Which means you missed the Christmas tree lighting ceremony. Was a whole thing.’
‘Sorry. Oban. Family thing.’ He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask.
On screen, flannel-man indeed builds a fire. I wish she would light it. Why can’t she be the one to strike the match? Women can make fire too.
‘Knew it.’ Scottie sounds pleased with himself. ‘T minus nine until the chaste kiss. Camera won’t show his raging hard-on, of course. But we all know it’s there.’
I snort. Unladylike and graceless. His mouth twitches.
‘Wheesht! Fuck’s sake.’ The sound comes from a few rows down. A disgruntled hiss from the only other person in our section.
We grin at each other.
Ten minutes later, the music mounts into its final crescendo, and the emptiness in my chest has filled with warmth. He drove from Oban straight here for the last bit. That must mean something. I don’t know what, but it means something.
The lights flicker on, turning the shabby red seats the colour of rust.
Scottie stretches, and the denim of his jeans strains against gladiator thighs that have no business being that thick. It’s a distraction. A massive, beautiful distraction. He has chunky quads that could squat a small car. Or me. Repeatedly.
We stand slowly. My ankle is stiff from sitting and protests as I step into the aisle. My right foot lands wrong, the weak tendon folds beneath me, and my weight tips sideways.
Then his hand closes around my elbow, bracing me before I’ve even fully registered the tilt.
His fingers span my upper arm, and at this range, there’s no missing the individual glittery threads of copper in his beard. I feel his heat through the fabric. It travels inward, pooling behind my breastbone, downward, and my body leans into the contact instead of pulling away.
I haven’t been touched with this much care in so long that my brain has deleted the memory of how it feels. And now here’s this man, holding me upright in a cinema aisle with giant hands gentler than I expected from someone who voluntarily slams into people. Now I can’t unfeel it.
And…I don’t want to.
‘Awright there?’ His voice is low. ‘Was that saucy film kiss a bit much for your sensibilities?’
‘Shut up. I’m fine.’ The words come out thin. ‘It’s my foot.’
He doesn’t let go immediately. His thumb presses against the inside of my arm, light enough to feel accidental, firm enough to tether me. For a beat, we stand there, his bulk between me and the departing audience.
Then he releases me. ‘Careful on the stairs, Marzipan.’
I don’t trust my voice, so I nod.
We drift through the foyer, past the empty kiosk. The double doors open onto wet pavement and cold air, streetlights reflecting in shallow puddles.
Scottie falls into step beside me. He’s near enough that I hear his breathing. Far enough that we aren’t touching.
He walks me all the way to my car without asking. I stop at the driver’s door and catch my reflection in the window. My posture gives me away even in the dark. You can take the girl out of the tutu, but you can’t make her stand relaxed like a normal human being. I’m wearing leggings and a coat, but my body still expects the costume.
I turn to him. ‘So, you look like someone scraped you off a rugby pitch.’
‘It’s been a bit of a week.’ He cracks his knuckles. ‘Family stuff.’
‘The Oban thing?’
