There’s a moment where I’m studying him so intently he frowns with confusion, and I’m gripping my mug so tightly it’s burning my fingers.
“I really am sorry for this,” I say. “I’ve not had that car long, but it’s a heap of crap. Don’t tell Cassie; she thinks it’s perfectly safe.”
“Is it not?” Dylan demands, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, it hit the ice, to be fair, so it wasn’t that it was unsafe…” I chew on my fingernail. “I guess it’s just old.”
“Did you have a newer one before that?” Dylan asks, lifting a packet of biscuits from the cupboard.
Hobnobs, no less. What a man.
“Range Rover.” I sigh, sipping my tea. “Too posh for me, if I’m honest.”
Dylan nods, and he remains silent, as though he’s waiting for me to continue.
“David kept the Range Rover, and I bought Bertha.”
Dylan snorts, and my heart lifts at seeing him smile, even at my expense.
“Bertha?” He echoes, his shoulders shaking beneath his stifled laughter.
“What? She’s an old lady,” I say defensively. “Was.”
“Sorry.” Dylan bites his lip, and it’s infuriatingly sexy. “But at least you’re safe.”
“I have absolutely no belongings,” I point out, staring at the sky out of the window. “It’s getting worse, not better.”
“It’s really no problem. You can wear my stuff,” Dylan says.
“I know, and I appreciate that, but you know what us women are like… everything but the kitchen sink was in that car.”
“Well, you’ll get it all back. I doubt anyone would be able to see it from the road.”
“What if I’m here for Christmas?” I whisper as Dylan chews on his lip.
“Then I’ll dig out some chicken and veg, and maybe a party hat—”
“You haven’t even got a tree. I came here to have a better Christmas than I would’ve had alone.” I laugh hollowly as Dylan gazes at me.
“Why is a tree so important?” He huffs.
“It’s atmospheric for a start,” I point out. “Lovely twinkling lights and pretty decorations. I don’t know; it just makes me happy.”
“More like it’s the presents beneath it,” Dylan scoffs, holding out the biscuit pack to me.
“No,” I protest, teasing two biscuits from their tightly wrapped haven. “I love being cosy. I love the excitement of Christmas and the celebration of it all.”
“Hmm.”
Dylan doesn’t look sold on the idea.
“But I love the build-up too,” I continue, no longer caring if he’s interested. “Curled up on the sofa, watching Christmas movies whilst you drink mulled wine or hot chocolate…” I sigh, remembering Christmas before my life changed for the worse.
“Wine sounds good,” Dylan admits, and I roll my eyes.
“You don’t like it because it holds bad memories. I get that. But the only way to get over that is to create new ones,” I say as Dylan stiffens.
“Maybe one day.”
