Page 38 of Playing for Keeps

The music slowed.

“This,” I said quietly, with relief in my voice, “is more my speed.”

We moved together, her hand warm in mine and her body brushing against me with every step. One hand was on the small of her back, and I could feel the heat of her through the fabric of the dress. I didn’t want to lose it. It wasn’t just a spark anymore. It was more steady than that, a pull I could feel everywhere. And I wanted more. I wanted to get closer to her, to stop pretending this was only about research for her book.

The words came out before I could stop them. “Emma… go out with me.”

Her eyes went up, steady but unreadable. “Max…”

“One date,” I pressed, holding her gaze. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Her body rose against mine as she took a deep breath. “I can’t. Not because I don’t want to… but because it wouldn’t be fair. I don’t know how long I’ll be here. Probably just a few more months, until the end of term. And I don’t do flings. They can get messy and I won’t put myself or you through that.”

Her words hit me hard, but I wasn’t going to let them knock me down. I stopped myself from trying to convince her right then and there, so instead I said. “Then I guess you’ll just have to forgive me for trying to change your mind.”

Trying to hold back a smile, she answered, “You don’t realise how stubborn I can be.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, leaning in just enough she could feel the promise in it. “So am I.”

20

EMMA

My parents’ kitchen was warm and loud, filled with the chatter of too many people talking at once and the competing smells of cinnamon and roasted parsnips. As soon as I took off my coat, Mum gave me a big hug and said, loud enough for every aunt within earshot to hear, “Our Emma is home from Canada!”

After that, there were kisses on the cheeks, an uncle giving me a glass of wine before I could protest, and a small cousin tugging at my sleeve and asking if it really snowed all the time in Toronto.

“It does snow,” I said, crouching down so she could hear me over the noise, “but not quite as much as you might expect. I haven’t been buried yet.”

Dinner was just as brilliant as it always was when Mum had her way with a table: crispy roast potatoes, a colourful spread of different kinds of vegetables, and a nut roast that was so delicious even my meat-loving uncle went back for seconds. Someone joked that Mum was wasted on the family and she swatted it away, her cheeks pink from the heat of the oven but also from happiness.

By the time the sticky pudding arrived, I was completely immersed in the usual Christmas tradition of silly stories and discussions about which uncle was the worst driver in the family.

“So,” Aunt Stella said after a while, tilting her glass at me. “Tell us about life in Toronto, because all I ever hear about Canada is moose and maple syrup.”

I nodded, while putting my fork down. “Well, there is maple syrup. More kinds than you might think. But Toronto isn’t wilderness, it’s a proper city. It’s busy but in a way that makes you feel alive, not like you’re being suffocated. Every neighbourhood has its own style. Kensington Market, for instance, is very colourful. You can have a spicery next to a vintage record shop playing Bowie. And the waterfront looks different every time I see it. Sometimes it’s steel grey, sometimes sparkling. I’ve started walking there when I need to clear my head.”

“Sounds marvellous,” said Uncle Peter, who had never left Surrey but liked to pretend he’d been everywhere.

“Do they really eat poutine?” one cousin asked.

“They do. And it’s every bit as messy and disgusting as it looks.”

That made everyone laugh, and the conversation quickly turned to food – what makes good gravy, whether cheese curds sound appetising – before it inevitably swerved into politics.

Dad leaned in. He had mostly been quiet while helping himself to thirds of pudding. “Did you know Toronto has one of the biggest book festivals in Canada? Did you visit it?”

“I did,” I said, pleased. “It was in September and it was massive. There were writers from all over Canada queued side by side for coffee. I went to a panel about speculative fiction and nearly filled a whole notebook just listening.”

That led us of course to books: my father’s wide-ranging interest in anything that had a cover, my aunt’s love for crime thrillers, my cousin’s insistence that he only read when he absolutely had to for school (which got him scolded from all sides of the table). I let it wash over me, warm and familiar.

Then Mum, who’d been watching me with a patient look, asked me the same question she always did. “Have you met anyone, darling?”

“I–” I sighed, finding it difficult to admit that there was indeed someone I was thinking about more often. “There is someone. A hockey player, of all things. He’s… he’s told me he’s interested.”

Mum’s eyebrows went up, delighted. “And is it mutual?”

I blushed. “It could be. He’s– Well, he’s kind. And funny. But, Mum, I don’t know how long I’ll be in Toronto.”