Chapter 14
IZZY
As a consequence of our morning giggles and lazy lovemaking, the day starts later than usual, breakfast becoming lunch and lunch becoming dinner. I could get used to this lady of leisure thing. This Robinson—Robin-snow?—Crusoe existence. Lazy lunches served with wine, dinners on our knees in front of the glowing fire. Games of Scrabble—where Greg endeavours to put down nothing but smut, and I wipe the floor with him every time—and card games, too. I’ve never really had the patience for card games or board games, nor the interest, I suppose. But being forced to slow down and having nothing on my calendar but free time has taught me I don’t have to live life at a frenetic pace all the time. I can shut off work from rotating constantly in my mind. The earth hasn’t imploded, and the ice caps haven’t melted. I can make time for myself, and I can meet a good man.
I might have the weather to thank for forcing me to slow down, but I also have Greg to thank for the rest. He’s taught me so much about myself, and I doubt he even realises. Yes, the sex has been fantastic. It’s been so good, I just don’t have the words. But it’s not just that. Apart from his terrible sense of humour, he’s been the perfect host, and it sounds totally trite, but he’s restored my faith in men.
But I’m mindful of the fact that this experience is just an interlude, not a way I can spend my life. Meeting Greg, however odd our initialcontactwas, has made me realise that I must make more of an effort if I want to settle down. That doesn’t mean I’m going to reinstall Tinder or any of that. I have to work less and do more other stuff to get out and meet people. I might sign up for a cooking class or a wine tasting event. Things to take me out of my usual element. And yes, the fact that Greg cooks and has great taste in wines might have had some influence on those thoughts.There has to be more Gregs in the world, doesn’t there?I think as I dip my head into the sweater he’s loaned me, which smells woodsy and spicy with the musky undernotes of his skin.
‘What have you got there?’ As the sofa dips, Greg hands me a cup, handle first. He holds a second mug in his right hand.
‘A book,’ I say, taking it from his hand. The book I’d promised myself I’d make time to read. ‘Haven’t you ever seen one of these things?’
‘I’m surprised you’re interested in the dead wood offerings from the number of times you’ve lamented about the lack of internet and the way you’ve stared longingly at your phone.’
‘Those weren’t longing looks,’ I say, inhaling the fragrant steam drifting up from the cup. ‘More like worried ones.’ His expression clouds, but I hurry on. ‘What have we got here, then?’ What are you spoiling me with now?
‘Mulled wine, orGlüwine, to be more exact. The German version.’
‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to make me so fat I can’t get through the door when the snow eventually thaws.’
‘No worries, you’ll be dead by then, anyway. Oops,’ he adds, covering his mouth with the tips of his fingers, all cutesy. Well, as cutesy as a six foot plus slightly hirsute Scotsman can. I’d just like to take a moment to say I’m digging the beard. ‘I’ve let the murderous cat out of the bag, haven’t I?’ he adds, taking a mouthful of his own wine.
‘Death by overfeeding, or are you going for theit-puts-the-lotion-on-the-skinthing?’
‘Nah. I was thinking death by fucking. I’m just keeping you fed for stamina.’
‘Good plan,’ I reply, taking a sip of my sweet-scented wine. ‘God, this is gorgeous.’ It tastes of cinnamon and spice, citrus and, ‘Is there rum in this?’
‘Shh. It’s the secret ingredient. Haven’t you ever had it before?’
‘Yeah, but never as nice as this,’ I answer as the warm liquid heats me right though to my bones.
‘Next time we meet up, we’ll have to make it happen at a Christmas market.’ I don’t think Greg realises what he’s said or notices my double take as he carries on. ‘Maybe somewhere in Germany, the home of realGlüwine. Hamburg and Berlin have these great Christmas markets, Christkindlmarkt, have you been?’ I shake my head mutely because all I can think ishe wants us to meet again. This is new territory—things yet unspoken of. My insides feel all warm and tingly, and it’s not just from this rum-laden drink.
‘We could sit under one of those warm blankets they give you, drinking mulled wine from those wee traditional ceramic mugs, reminiscing about the good old days.’
‘The good old days? You mean, that one time we go snowed in.’
‘Aye.’ He sighs sort of beatifically, leaning against the couch back as he lifts my legs to place them over his jean-clad thighs. And before I can ask him if in this scenario we’ll be older, there with our respective partners and perhaps kids, he carries on. ‘And we can indulge in your favourite pastime.’ If he thinks I’m going to have sex with him in the middle of a German market square, blanket or no blanket, family or no family, he is much mistaken. ‘We can eatschmalzgebäck, which are kind of like German donuts, andkartoffelpufferpancakes. And of course, there will always bekochwurst.’
This one I understand. And by the look on his face, I know where he’s going. ‘Sausage,’ I deadpan. ‘There will always be sausage.’
‘Can you see it being any other way between you and me?’
‘Sausage obsessed,’ I grumble, turning my head to hide my smile from him.
‘You can’t help it,’ he replies, pulling on the end of my toes. ‘In fact, it’s one of the things that endears you to me.’
‘One of the things, hmm?’
‘One of the few things.’
‘Right.’
