Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
“Whoa!” My feet slip from beneath me, and I grab Dec’s arm with my spare hand, now clinging to him with both hands.
“What did I just say?”
“Not soon enough,” I mutter, steadying myself. “Christ, it’s cold.” I look up at the sky, no longer blue, but bright white, the clouds packed with snow just waiting to burst out and coat everything beneath in a few more inches.
“Hold on to me,” he orders, like he missed me hanging off his body. “It’s—” His head snaps to the side when a giant snowball cracks him in the temple, exploding and covering us both with slush.
“Oh my,” I breathe, hearing the familiar sounds of cackling kids fading into the distance as they scarper.
His eyes closed, his jaw ticking, his nostrils flaring, Dec gives his head a sharp shake to dislodge the snow in his hair, while I press my lips together, trying my damn hardest not to laugh in his face. “Little buggers,” I murmur, reaching for his shoulders and brushing off the snow.
“Yeah, little buggers.” His words are tight, sardonic, meaning he has a select few other words he’d prefer. I give him a straight-lipped smile when his eyes open, and he rolls his beautiful greys, scanning the vicinity. “Fuckers.”
I lose my battle to hold my laughter back and bury my face in the crook of his neck, if only to hide the sight if I can’t the sound. He leaves me there for a time, his arm wrapped around my waist, pressing me into his side. “Come on,” he murmurs, nudging me out with his chin. “We’re sitting ducks here.” Moving his hold to my hand, he walks us onto the street and looks both ways. “The coast is clear.” Another chuckle erupts, and Dec smiles across at me as we walk, pleased with himself. “I’d take snowballs like they were being fired out of a machine gun if it means I get to hear that sound all day,” he muses, almost to himself.
I hug his arm, resting my head on his bicep, so thankful for this man, especially in this moment. He’s skived work for me. Is trying to keep me busy, make me laugh. “Where are we heading?” I ask, our pace slow and easy, not because of the hazardous conditions, but because slow and easy is how we do things.
“We’re just walking,” he says, gentle and relaxed. “No agenda. Wander, talk, if you feel like it, grab a drink, dip into a few shops if you like.”
I smile into his arm. “Okay.”
* * *
We walk for an hour straight, hardly a word between us spoken, until we end up on the corner of Hyde Park. Dec spots a small shepherd’s hut that’s been converted into a mobile coffee cabin. “Hot chocolate?” he asks, pointing to an A-frame sign propped up outside. “It’s apparently award-winning.”
“Award-winning hot chocolate,” I muse, smelling the coffee beans as we approach. “Sure.”
“Marshmallows?”
“That’s a really fucking dumb thing to ask.”
“I’m going to take that as a resounding yes and never ask you that question ever again.” He raises his brows to the server, who’s casting a smile between us. “Two hot chocolates, one with marshmallows, one without.”
“What?” I ask him on a gasp. “No marshmallows?”
He wrinkles his nose. “Camryn, I’ve eaten enough cake this morning to put Bruce Bogtrotter to shame. I don’t know if my cholesterol levels can take much more.”
I throw my head back on a laugh. “Oh my God, Matilda is our favourite film. I can’t believe a man of your standing knows who Bruce Bogtrotter is.”
Dec stares at me, and all amusement drifts from my face when I realise what I’ve just said. “Yours and Noah’s?” he asks softly.
Oddly, I don’t fold in on myself. I don’t crumble at the realisation that I’ve talked in present tense about my dead son. “Yeah, mine and Noah’s.” The lump in my throat though? That’s there. And it’s okay for it to be there.
“Tell me,” he says, handing me a cup piled high with marshmallows and cocking his arm for me to link. “I want to hear about him, if you want to talk about him.”
If I want to talk about him. Always. And I feel strong enough to now. “Noah had a teacher called Miss Honey,” I say, letting Dec walk us on, watching as the steam breaks through the gaps in the puffs of sugar and dissipates in the frigid air. “He threw a tantrum on his first day when Miss Honey introduced herself as Miss Honey. Stood up from the carpet and declared her a liar.”
“Oh God,” Dec says around a light, soft laugh.
“Yeah, the first day of pre-school didn’t go to plan.” I smile to myself, revisiting the moment we had to sit Noah down and explain why his Miss Honey didn’t look like the Miss Honey. His little four-year-old mind just couldn’t get around it. “I bought him the book for his birthday,” I go on, dipping and nibbling a bit of marshmallow. “That just made things worse.”