“I feel steam-rolled by Lucas most of the time. Oscar is quieter than most kids and I can think around him. But children in general are exhausting and loud and chaotic and I just can’t do it for long periods. I guess that makes me a terrible Aunt.”
I look at her for a long second and see the genuine insecurity in her eyes. “You arenota terrible Aunt. Those boys love you. So, you aren’t in any hurry to have any of your own?”
She pulls a face like I’d just asked her if she wanted a jam and pickle sandwich. “There will benochildren in my future.”
I smirk at her determination. “Mine neither.”
“What?” She snaps her head to me, her face incredulous.
“I don’t want children,” I shrug.
“How can that be? You’resogood with kids, you’re like super Uncle to the boys, even the twins adore you and they hardly know you. You’re a teacher! You love kids!” The passion she has for the topic is really quite funny.
“Idolove children. Kids are funny and curious and blunt, and they’re our future. But they’re also a lot of hard work and a lot of emotional ups and downs. The best thing about being Super-Uncle and a teacher is that at the end of the day, I get to give them back.”
She chuckles. “Well, that makes me feel better. Most people think I’m some wicked villain for not wanting kids. But if a perfect human being like you doesn’t want them, I guess I can’t be so bad.”
I frown at her, ticking over what she said. “You’re a little obsessed with ‘perfect,’” I note, using air quotes.
She hangs her head. “I’m not normally. I guess just being around Harry and Lisa and you makes me feel ever soimperfect.”
Well, I don’t like that. Not one bit. “I’ve already told you. You’re perfect, to me at least.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“It’s like trying to enjoy your favourite chocolate bar whilst cleaning your teeth.”
NEL
Jake is right. Kids are curious. I have had to make up a lot of answers to unexpected questions in a very short time. For example, did you know that when there is no chimney on a house, Santa enters from the drainage and pops out the toilet? Yeah, well neither did I until I sprouted that little fact from the panicked recesses of my brain.
There are loads of them, children I mean. Every household from The Old Orchard must have children under thirteen. The line to sit on ‘Santa’s’ lap was nearly out the door at one point. Of course, out the door are four fluffy reindeer that the kids are more than happy to fawn over. Luckily, the queue has subsided so Jake and I have a moment of respite. The hall is loud with the symphony of merriment and festivities. Couples seem to be more affectionate in the holiday spirit, which may have something to do with the strong holiday spirit in the spiked hot chocolate. Harry bought both Jake and I one of those tasty treats, mine with salted caramel Bailey’s and his with peppermint liqueur, because he is apparently an animal.
“What’s wrong with peppermint?” he asks defensively when I turn my nose up.
“Whoever thought that it should go with chocolate was not right in the head. It’s like trying to enjoy your favourite chocolate bar whilst cleaning your teeth.”
“Riiiight,” he drawls. “But putting salt in caramel was a perfectly normal thing to do?”
“Everyone knows it brings out the sweetness.” I scowl at him over the rim of my paper cup. “Savour that, Santa. No one wants a sloppy Chris Cringle.”
“Sloppy Chris Cringle indeed,” he scoffs, taking a dainty sip from his own cup with his pinkie sticking out. I can’t help but laugh.
My giggle is cut off with a yelp when I feel a sharp pinch on my bottom. Spinning around, I’m horrified to find a young boy grinning up at me, he must be no more that twelve and smells strongly of that cheap body spray that teenage boys seem to like to bathe in. It reminds me of school discos. I’m too shocked to find words.
“Hey!” Jake barks and the kid runs away. “Are you okay?” he asks me.
“Of course, just surprised,” I say, rubbing my sore cheek.
“One minute.” He walks away, approaching a couple in the crowd. The young boy is hiding behind the man’s legs.
I watch as Father Christmas talks to, who I’m assuming to be the boy’s parents, speaking low and looking very serious. Quite a feat considering he’s wearing a fake beard and teddy bear stuffing. They all look over to me and the mother makes an audible gasp, turning to her son and raging at him through clenched teeth. I can only watch it all unfold with my brows practically tucked under my hairline. Then, to my utter horror, they all approach, the boy being dragged by his upper arm by his father.
“What do you say to the lady, Scott?” the father growls.
Scott was not happy to be stood in front of me. His face practically turns in on itself and he only grunts at me until his mother flicks his ear. “I’m sorry, Miss.,” he mumbles at the ground.
“We are so sorry,” the mother says with genuine regret.
