Misbehaving Under the Mistletoe

As she dragged him into the legendary department store he realised that he’d never cared about anyone enough to want to get them something special for Christmas. And no one had ever really cared that much about him.

And it hadn’t bothered him.

Right up until he’d got suckered into going Christmas shopping with Cassie Fitzgerald.

‘See, I told you I was a champion shopper,’ Cassie said as she pushed onto the bench seat and settled the bags of presents she’d purchased under the dinner table, the sense of accomplishment making her feel more than a little smug.

She folded her arms and waited for Jace to take the seat opposite. She had a lot to be satisfied about. Not only had she got all her shopping done in under an hour, she’d also managed to awaken Jace to the true joys of retail therapy. Despite all his earlier protestations, she thought he’d actually quite enjoyed the experience. She’d asked his opinion so many times that after a while he’d been forced to get involved. And by the time they’d got to Selfridges, instead of the usual monosyllabic answers, they’d had a very useful discussion about the merits of different brands of men’s sportswear. She’d wanted to get Nessa’s fiancé Terrence something really good to train in, but didn’t know a thing about tracksuit brands—what was in at the moment and what wasn’t—and Jace had been surprisingly informative. She doubted he would appreciate her pointing that out now though. Because, while it had been touch-and-go for the last ten minutes of her allotted hour, when she’d wasted precious seconds agonising over whether to get Nessa the amethyst pendant or the faux sapphire, Jace had lost the bet. And he didn’t seem to be a very good loser.

Jace slid the tray holding the steaming pastrami on rye sandwiches they’d purchased at the counter, and sent her a disgruntled look. ‘Don’t rub it in, Fitzgerald. If I’d known you were going to cheat, I would never have made the bet.’

‘How did I cheat?’ she exclaimed, having to fake her outrage, as she was enjoying her victory too much.

‘That list.’ He sat down and lifted the plates off the tray. ‘I didn’t know you’d been in training for weeks. If I had …’ His voice trailed off.

She grinned. ‘Gee, Ryan. Sore loser much?’ she teased, unable to resist rubbing it in, just a tad.

His lips tilted up as he slathered mustard on his pastrami. ‘Gee, Fitzgerald,’ he countered. ‘Smug winner much?’ He took a bite into the sandwich with relish. ‘Damn, that’s good,’ he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. ‘It tastes like the real thing.’

‘It is the real thing,’ Cassie replied as she sliced into her own sandwich to make the hearty slabs of rye bread a bit more manageable. ‘This is Selfridges Food Hall.’

‘I know that,’ he replied, his voice gruff, but his eyes bright with humour as he took a swig from his bottle of mineral water. ‘I’ve just wasted five minutes of my life debating the merits of Marmite chocolate, remember.’

She gave a light little laugh. ‘Stop pretending you weren’t severely tempted to buy a bar.’

He sent her a smouldering look that promised retribution at a later date as he took another bite.

‘And you should be looking on the bright side,’ she added, watching him devour his sandwich. ‘Now I’ve done all my shopping, we can devote some time to doing yours,’ she announced, hoping that he hadn’t done his already. All the guys she had ever known did the majority of their Christmas shopping at the last second. ‘You have a champion shopper at your disposal to help. And I know Selfridges and Oxford Street like the back of my hand. All you have to do is tell me who the person is, what they like and don’t like and I’ll be able to locate the perfect present within a mile radius, I guarantee it,’ she said, her enthusiasm increasing. Seeing whom he bought gifts for would provide a fascinating insight into his private life without her having to probe. ‘Really, I should charge for my services,’ she finished.

She picked up her sandwich and took a bite as he swallowed the last of his down. He took another swig of his water, swiped the spot of mustard from the corner of his lips, then dumped his napkin on the empty plate, a considering look in her eyes.

‘No need,’ he said. ‘I don’t have any shopping.’

She gulped the bite of her sandwich down, trying not to be too disappointed by the news. ‘That’s a first. I’ve never met a man who has all his Christmas shopping done before Christmas Eve.’

‘I haven’t done it already.’ He tapped his thumb on the side of his plate. ‘I just don’t do any.’

‘What do you mean you don’t do any?’ she said, disappointment replaced by shock as her eyes widened. ‘What about your family? Your friends? Don’t you get them presents?’

He didn’t seem fazed by the question, even though the very thought of not buying anything for people you loved was unthinkable to her.

He shrugged, the movement stiff. ‘I don’t have any family. And my friends know I don’t like to receive anything, so they don’t expect anything in return.’

‘But how do you celebrate Christmas, then?’ she asked, shock giving way to astonishment and an odd sense of sadness. She didn’t have any family any more either, not since her mother had died. Her father was still alive, but she’d given up on him years ago. Even so she’d filled the gap with a wide circle of friends—and Christmas had always been the perfect time to catch up and enjoy each other’s company. She loved the ritual of the season, the sense of love and companionship she shared with the important people in her life. How could you really participate in that without the giving and receiving of gifts? They didn’t have to be expensive. She’d splurged this year because she’d had a couple of successful commissions and had begun to make a name for herself as an illustrator. But she could still remember previous years when all she’d been able to afford were home-made stuff or bargain gifts, and she’d still enjoyed doing her Christmas list just as much.

‘Simple,’ he said, his voice devoid of emotion. ‘I don’t celebrate Christmas.’

‘You don’t …’ She paused, nonplussed by the blank look on his face.

Of course she knew there were people who hated Christmas, usually for specific reasons. It could be a stressful time, especially when your family life wasn’t great. And whatever Ms Tremall had meant all those years ago by a ‘bad home’ she suspected Jace’s family life might have been the opposite of great. But he didn’t sound as if he hated Christmas, just as if he were indifferent to it. Which somehow seemed even sadder.

‘But you must have celebrated it with your wife?’ she asked, her skin flushing a little at the boldness of the question.

She hadn’t meant to probe. She knew however curious she was about his past, she didn’t really have the right to ask him personal questions, but instead of clamming up as he had before, he simply leant back in his chair and studied her for a moment.

‘We weren’t married that long,’ he commented. ‘You know, if there’s something you want to ask me about my marriage, why don’t you just ask?’

Her skin heated. Had she been that obvious? Clearly, she had been if the implacable look in his eyes was anything to go by.

But despite feeling exposed, despite knowing she’d been caught asking something that was none of her business, and despite being certain that Jace’s offer to ask him about his marriage was disingenuous, the rapid ticks of Cassie’s heartbeat rose in her throat and she recalled the look in his ex-wife’s face five days ago. And admitted to herself that the naked pain in Helen’s gaze had niggled at the back of her mind ever since that day.

‘All right, I have got something to ask,’ she said softly, forcing the question out before she could stop herself. ‘Did you love Helen when you married her?’

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