Never Kiss a Man in a Christmas Jumper Page 7

  Every Christmas, Ellen contributed her own fresh take on the festive season. It had started when she was little, with angels made out of cardboard and tin foil; graduated to Santas constructed from toilet roll tubes, and as the years progressed – and Ellen’s sense of humour progressed with them – delved into the more Tim Burton-esque reaches of the Christmas landscape. There was the vampire angel from her Twilight phase; and a collection of papier mâché zombie elves from the Walking Dead era. Last year there’d been a hand-drawn card of the Godwin College crest decorated with glitter, to mark the fact that she’d been accepted at university.

  So, thought Maggie, turning to inspect it – what potential monstrosity awaited them this time? She peered at the tree, and saw it straight away. Perched precariously in the branches of bushy pine was an old Action Man figure, in army fatigues, wielding a miniature plastic rifle. One of its legs was coated in what looked like toilet paper, and he was wearing a tiny pipe cleaner crown.

  “Ha!” exclaimed Maggie, grinning up at Marco. “You’re honoured – you’ll be forever remembered at O’Donnell family Christmases from now on!”

  Marco was smiling too, although she could see a clammy sweat had broken out on his forehead. She fought the urge to sweep back his dark hair and check his temperature; she was getting a pretty good idea by now of how important it was for Marco to at least try and appear independent. He wouldn’t appreciate a mothering intervention when he was doing his very best to stay upright.

  “Hey, I feel privileged,” he said, leaning almost imperceptibly back a few inches further onto the side of the bed. “I need to get a photo of that for posterity. I might use it for my business cards – I think she’s caught the real me.”

  Maggie smiled in response, then stood up, collected plates of leftovers, and hurriedly deposited them in the kitchen. He needed to lie down, to rest, to stop pushing himself – but she had the feeling he wouldn’t give in while she was in the room.

  Sure enough, by the time she returned, he’d clambered back onto the bed, and was sprawled across the top of the covers. He had his arms crossed behind his head, and all kinds of impressive stuff was going on in the bicep region. It shouldn’t have been possible for a man to look both exhausted and macho, but somehow he pulled it off.

  “Anyway, love,” said Paddy, registering the way she looked at Marco and tucking it away to think about later, “I wanted to talk to you about Christmas. I know we usually all spend it together, but Jim’s been offered a last minute cabin on a cruise to the Canaries. Half price cancellation. Sunshine, company, and as much booze as you can shake a stick at. He’s got nobody else to go with him, and I must admit I’m tempted.”

  Maggie had come to a standstill in the doorway, her eyes on Marco but her ears taking in what her father was saying. Processing the words. Eventually coming to the correct conclusion: another rat was deserting her fast sinking Christmas ship.

  “Right. Yes. It sounds lovely, Dad,” she said, trying to hide the sinking sense of disappointment she could feel creeping over her.

  “You don’t mind do you, love? I mean, Ellen will be here, won’t she?”

  Maggie simply nodded, walking over to the Christmas tree and busying herself with collecting stray stands of lametta from the floor around it. She clenched her eyes tight together, willing the tears that were brewing there to stay away, until she felt composed enough to turn around, with a smile as bright and as false as the lametta.

  “Of course I don’t mind, Dad,” she replied. “You and Jim have fun. I’ll ping off an email to the British Embassy putting them on high alert later.”

  Paddy snorted with laughter, and got up to go. He brushed his trousers down, and gave Maggie a quick kiss before leaving. He had a ‘hot date with a pint of Guinness and a darts board’, apparently. Maggie watched her dad plodding carefully through the snow down the path, taking a right hand turn towards their local, shivering in the moonlight as she closed the door behind him. She walked slowly back into the living room, and silently headed to the curtains. She paused before she drew them together, looking out at the houses across the street. Like hers, they were lit up with gaudy Christmas lights; dazzling trees peeking out from the bay windows, wreaths glistening in the frost on front doors. The garden directly opposite was festooned with neon baubles and a giant inflatable Santa that glowed in the dark, along with reindeers made out of shining orange bulbs.

  She’d always loved Christmas. She was a terrible cook – there was a reason everyone who visited her brought food with them - but always made an effort on Christmas Day. They’d had dried out turkey; burned sprouts, and potatoes roasted to within an inch of their spuddy lives. But at least they’d always had them together – her, Ellen, and Dad. A small but perfectly formed family unit.

  Now, for the first time ever, she’d be alone. Alone with the giant Christmas tree and a bottle of Baileys and, if she was sensible about it, a Marks and Sparks microwave dinner for one. She felt drained, empty, sad. The very opposite of all the festivity around her.

  “Why didn’t you tell him?” said Marco, his voice quiet and serious. Christ, thought Maggie, jumping – she’d completely forgotten he was there. She’d walked straight past him on the bed, over to the window, lost in her own pathetically melancholy thoughts. She wouldn’t last a day at nursing school: ‘Oh, I’m sorry Mr Smith, I didn’t notice you screaming in agony, I’d broken a nail.’

  “Tell him what?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest defensively, gathering in warmth.

  “About Ellen. About her going to Paris. About the fact that you’ll be on your own for Christmas.”

  “Oh…that. Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? I’m a big girl. It’s fine…absolutely fine.”

  She decided she needed a drink. A big one. With bells on it. It had been a lovely day, seeing Isabel and Michael and sharing in their happiness. Knowing her dress was perfect; knowing that all the Christmas dresses were perfect. Having Marco to keep her amused in the shop. Eating cranberry muffins for lunch. A text from Ellen saying she was heading to the Ann Summers store to get her Christmas present (hopefully a joke). Her dad turning up with two big bags full of food from her favourite takeaway. She’d felt warm and busy and lucky to have such a full life – she’d even managed to avoid thinking too hard about the Paris issue.

  And now, she just felt deflated – and annoyed with herself for being so selfish. The two people she loved most in the world had the chance to enjoy pretty spectacular Christmases – she should be happy for them, not miserable for herself.

  “I’m getting a drink,” she said, walking towards the door. “Do you want one?”

  As she walked past the bed, Marco’s hand shot out, grabbing hold of her arm. She tried instinctively to pull away, but his grip held fast – his leg might be broken but there was nothing wrong with his upper body strength.

  “You’re hurting me,” she said quietly, fixing him with what she hoped was a stern stare.

  “I’m sorry about that, but I want to talk to you. If you leave this room, I’ll try and chase you – and if I fall over and break my other leg, it’ll all be your fault.”

  Maggie looked down at the big hand wrapped around her arm. Looked at the handsome man who owned it, his face serious as she’d ever seen it.

  “Okay,” she said. “I wouldn’t want that to happen. Leah would never forgive me. What do you want to talk about?”

  When Marco realised she was staying, he loosened his grip, let his hand trail down her arm until it found her fingers. Wrapped his in hers just in case she decided to make a run for it. Her hand was soft and pliant in his; her skin still cool to the touch. She looked defeated, and gloomy, and just a little bit scared. He’d seen sides of Maggie he didn’t expect since he’d been here – her warmth, humour, and occasionally sparks of fire. But now she’d retreated into herself, and looked like she’d rather be anywhere else in the world than standing there, next to him.

  “Get in,” he said, scooting over to
one side of the bed, and giving her hand a tug. “There’s plenty of room.”

  She tried to break free, but he held on to her hand, pulling her closer until she was slammed right up against the edge of the bed.

  “What?! No! Don’t be daft!” she said, her voice shrill, eyes rolling slightly like a panicked horse.

  “Get in! I think you need a hug, and I happen to have a black belt in hugging. Don’t worry – your virtue’s safe with me, I don’t really think I’m up to anything more.”

  Even as he said it, he hoped it was true. That his body wouldn’t betray him; that they wouldn’t have an ‘is that a plaster cast or are you just pleased to see me?’ moment.

  “Come on. You know you want to,” he said, letting go of her hand and patting the space next to him.

  Maggie couldn’t help but smile at his tone. Against the odds, he could still make her laugh, even when she felt – temporarily, she was sure – that her world was falling apart. And maybe he was right…maybe she did need a hug. They’d been in pretty short supply for a long time now – Ellen was too old and too cool; her dad was always busy, and the brides she coached through their wedding angst were inevitably trembling and terrified when she hugged them. Sometimes a little bit teary and snotty as well. Maybe it would be nice, just for a minute, to let go – to feel like someone bigger and stronger than her could take over for five blissful minutes.

  Anyway, she thought, gazing at Marco, and the spot he was gesturing to right next to him – what was the worst thing that could happen? Deciding not to answer that, she kicked off her ballet pumps and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  He immediately pulled her down towards him, scooping her up into his arms so her face was resting on his chest. Her head was snuggled beneath his chin, and she curled up into his body, glad the broken leg was on the other side. She could hear his heart thudding strongly away, and tentatively threw one arm around his waist. He smelled of soap and shampoo and some kind of delicious man fragrance that she presumed was all his. And he felt…good. God, he felt so good. Those brawny arms wrapped around her; that solid chest beneath her cheek; the firm line of his jaw resting on top of her hair.

  Her hand came into contact with bare flesh where his T-shirt had ridden up, and she bit her lip to stop herself letting it drift upwards, allowing her fingers to search out more of that silky skin and powerful muscle. She tasted blood in her mouth, and realised she’d bitten a little too hard.

  She settled for a moment, and they both stayed silent. God only knew what he was thinking – that she needed a long session with a hairbrush, probably.

  “So,” he eventually said, giving her a gentle squeeze, “what gives? Why didn’t you tell your dad about Ellen – he’ll find out eventually, and then they’ll both feel bad.”

  “I know,” she replied, glad she didn’t have to look him in the eyes while they had this conversation. “That’s exactly why I didn’t tell him. I don’t want either of them to feel bad – I want them both to have a great Christmas. I have a master plan…something that involves a made-up trip, or a last minute invitation to spend December 25th with Gerard Butler. Something I can tell them both to avoid them feeling sad for me. I don’t want anybody pitying me – which I’m sure you can understand, Mr Macho Pants.”

  He snorted with laughter, and Maggie felt his fingers in her hair, playing and stroking and gently tugging in a way that made her even more conscious of the fact that he wasn’t just a patient. That he wasn’t just an amusing house guest. That he was the first man she’d fancied – to use the technical term – for many, many years.

  “I get that, I do. My pants are indeed macho – it’s an Italian thing, genetically programmed, I can’t help it. But there’s a difference between being pitied and being loved – and Ellen and Paddy? They love you.”

  “I know. I really do. And maybe I’m being a knob – I’ve just been caught out by it all. We’ve had Christmas together every year since Ellen was born. Her dad emigrated to New Zealand with his family when she was one – she’s been out there to see him, there are no hard feelings, he’s got another couple of kids now. But Christmas has always been…well, ours. It’s special, you know?”

  “I know. I understand. It’s an emotional time of year. Rob used to hibernate in Scotland for weeks beforehand, hiding away from all of us – it was the anniversary of Meredith’s death, and he couldn’t stand the pity either. It was never the same for me and my mom, back in Chicago, knowing he was over here suffering. And we’d have done anything to help him – just like Ellen and Paddy would do anything for you. If you only asked.”

  Maggie considered what he’d said, while at the same time luxuriating in the feel of those long, strong fingers sweeping through her hair, casually caressing the nape of her neck, the side of her face. Black belt in hugs and then some.

  Without noticing it, one of her legs had crept over him, draped across his stomach, so she was resting against the firm outline of his body. It should have felt weird. Instead, it felt delicious – and strangely natural. This was the closest she’d been to a man for as long as she could remember, but somehow it still felt safe. Comfortable. And arousing. She found herself wondering how all this would feel if they were naked. If Marco didn’t have that T-shirt on – if his chest was bare, his skin against her skin, her hand allowed to roam and explore and tease…he shifted slightly, inching away from her fractionally, and she wondered if she’d hurt him.

  “You okay down there?” he asked. “Have you fallen asleep?”

  “Um…no…sorry. Just thinking.”

  About you, naked, she added silently. She needed to get a grip, or she was going to make a complete tit of herself, she decided. Not only would she be pitied by her family for being a sad, lonesome Christmas has-been, but she’d have to live with the humiliation of having tried to sexually molest a poor innocent disabled man in her own home.

  She sat up abruptly, perched on the edge of the bed and turned her back on him. She swept her hair into some kind of loose order, and waited a few seconds, hoping her pulse rate would go back to normal and her face would stop looking like a tomato sometime soon.

  Maggie stood up, turned to face him. He was propped up, arms straining, looking at her with a perplexed expression.

  “Sorry. You’re right, about everything,” she said. “I just need to think about it. See how it all feels tomorrow. Maybe try and be positive about it – Ellen’s moving on, it’s inevitable. Maybe it’s time I started working on my own life, instead of focusing on hers. I need to break that habit.”

  “Okay,” he replied, nodding. “That sounds right. And maybe I can help. How about this for a master plan? Come with me.”

  “Come with you where?” she asked, frowning in confusion.

  “Come with me to Scotland. Leah would love to see you; I’d get a free escort – we could even take Nanny McPhee, make it an outing. You wouldn’t be alone, and Ellen and Paddy would be guilt-free for Christmas. I know it’s not Gerard Butler, but it could work. What do you say?”

  Maggie gazed at him, taking it all in. The brawny body that she now knew a bit too well; the dark waves of hair that really needed a trim; the fierce hazel eyes. The cheekbones, the jaw, the wide, curving mouth…God, the mouth. It felt sinful to even look at it.

  “Thank you, Marco,” she replied. “But I have to say no.”

  Chapter 14

  Nanny McPhee was bustling about her business when Maggie walked into the room the next morning.

  The ancient nurse had him stripped down to his boxers, and he suspected that at any minute, she was going to start scrubbing behind his ears and telling him he could grow potatoes back there. At least, he thought, as he endured her efforts, it was nature’s anti-dote to thinking about Maggie.

  Last night, on the bed with her, had been disconcerting in every way. Once she’d given in and climbed on there with him, wrapping her curvy body into his, he’d been lost. That red hair of hers was splayed all over the place, so close he c
ould smell her shampoo, and he’d been physically incapable of keeping his hands out of it. She fit so snugly into his arms, so perfectly, like they’d been designed as a matching pair. He’d lain like that with other women, obviously, but he’d never felt that same rush before. That crazy rush of the need to protect and comfort her combined with the need to do some far less gentlemanly things to her. Things that he probably couldn’t even manage, hostage as he was to the damned plaster cast.

  He’d concentrated desperately hard on the conversation, on saying what he thought needed to be said, trying to ignore the small movements she was making, the way her hand was resting on the bare skin of his belly. The fact that if she had just looked up – just tilted her head so he could look into those green eyes, see what signals she was sending – he could have kissed her. Started something that he probably couldn’t have finished – at least in any great style – but he sure as hell wanted to.

  When her leg had come across him, he thought he was going to have real problems. There he was, dispensing hugs and giving advice on complex family dynamics, all with a complete humdinger of a hard-on. It would have scared the living daylights out of her – and part of him had been relieved when she stood up to leave. The remnants of those urges, though, probably explained his next idiot move - asking her to come to Scotland with him.

  The fact that she’d said no was surely a good thing. It was stupid to have even asked. This whole experience was starting to veer into uncharted territory, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for the journey. With any other woman, he’d have been glad to go along for the mutually pleasurable ride. With this one? He wasn’t so sure. He kind of…liked her too much. Which made no sense at all.

  You, Marco Cavelli, he told himself, are turning into a girl. Get a grip of yourself. And don’t be so arrogant – she said no anyway.