Page 42 of I’ll Be Home for Christmas

“Yes. Your career needs your full attention right now. Long-distance relationships are hard enough, without a new job taking up space. I get it.”

“Right,” he said, pushing away a dish of hummus. “I was kind of hoping you might fight me on it a bit.”

She laughed. “I think we both know that the timing on this is all wrong. When we met, I didn’t know that I was going to end up working at the family business, I was looking for any excuse to get the hell back out of town again as soon as possible.

And now I’m staying put. A long-distance relationship wouldn’t be right for either of us right now.

I think we’d disappoint each other; and that would be a shame, after the nice time we’ve shared. ”

“Well, then, I guess that’s settled,” he agreed. “Pity, though. If we’d met at another time, we could have been great.”

“Anything’s possible in the land of shoulda, woulda, coulda.” She smiled.

Kelly—Mrs. Doukas’s granddaughter—poured them more wine and took their plates, which were swiftly replaced with several more.

Warren raised his glass. “To the best ‘almost something’ that never was,” he said, smiling.

“I’ll drink to that.” She clinked her glass against his.

He leaned across the table conspiratorially and said, in a low voice, “I’ve enjoyed kissing you.” His eyes smoldered enticingly. “Very much. Maybe after dinner we should go back to mine, say goodbye properly.”

Oh dear. She couldn’t possibly sleep with him.

She was all for last hurrahs, but not when another man was making her heart skip.

It wouldn’t be fair to any of them. Instead, she chose to ignore his last inference.

They clinked glasses again and surveyed the new dishes before them.

She hadn’t thought she could eat another thing.

But now that Warren was off the menu, those stuffed vine leaves and the dishes of lamb kleftiko and vegetable moussaka were calling her name.

When the puddings came out—sticky towers of oozy baklava, squares of honey cake, and an avalanche of kourabiedes smothered in icing sugar—so did the Doukas family band, playing their beautifully decorated bouzoukis as they sang, led by Mr. Doukas.

Soon the whole restaurant was up and dancing, and Fred was grateful to blend into the melee after being on show for the last two and a half hours.

They went halves and paid in full, despite the Doukases’ protests.

Fred thought, if she could, Mrs. Doukas would adopt Warren as an honorary grandson.

After the dancing and the very alcoholic coffee, the cold outside was welcome.

The market had closed for the evening, but the streets were still abuzz with visitors and the Christmas lights were giving the blanket of stars in the clear night sky a run for their money.

“When do you leave?” Fred asked as they wandered along the street toward the Crooked Elm.

“Tomorrow. I’ll get my notes written up from tonight, and then pack. That’ll give me a couple of days back in London to get the article ready and sent off before the deadline.”

“I’m sure you’ll smash it.”

“Thanks. If sheer will can force an outcome, then it ought to be in the bag.”

“Will you let me know?”

“I will. If I get it, you’ll probably be able to hear me crowing from London.” He grinned and raised a knowing eyebrow, and she couldn’t help but smile. “And then you’ll be able to follow my food odyssey, weekly, on page forty.”

She laughed. “Page forty. Got it.”

They’d reached the pub. The tall patio heaters dotted between the picnic benches ensured that the revelries were in full swing outside in the beer garden, as well as inside.

Warren fixed her with one of his smoldering Hollywood looks. “I have coffee in my room, if you’d like to come up,” he said. Was it her imagination, or was there the gentlest pressure from his hand in the small of her back?

She smiled and turned to face him. “I don’t think so. You said yourself; this can’t go anywhere. If I were to come up now, it would only complicate things.”

Warren nodded and said, “It was worth a try.” He took her hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Fredricka.” And looking rather sheepish—he’d clearly expected her to be accompanying him to his room—he added, “Can I call you a cab?”

She smiled. “No, thank you. I’ll make my own way back.” She went to pull her hand away from his, but he tightened his grip.

“It’s Ryan, isn’t it?” he said. He was still holding her gaze but his smile had lost its toothpaste sparkle, and something about the change in his emotional temperature caused warning zaps of alarm to ricochet inside her chest.

“Does it matter? We both agreed that it couldn’t work between us.

You said it before I did.” She was trying to match his outward calm, but her voice sounded shriller than she would have liked.

He still had her hand. The discomforting energy rolling off him was one she recognized.

Her skin didn’t fit right over her bones, nothing about the situation tallied, she felt uneasy and out of place.

Warren’s smile remained, but all trace of humor had vanished from it.

She wished she hadn’t eaten so much; her stomach began to churn.

His continuing silence compelled her to fill it.

“Nothing’s happened,” she said, realizing that she’d instantly made herself sound guilty.

“But I think it maybe could.” Why was she still talking?

“And it wouldn’t have felt right to let things go any further with us.

B-but I never lied to you.” She couldn’t think straight. A buzzing had started up in her ears.

He nodded and dropped her hand. Then he barked out a laugh and looked up at the sky. “I thought as much.”

His voice was calm, but a familiar panic began to rise up through her body, and she grasped for anything she could say to defuse the situation.

She swallowed. “You called it off, Warren. Ryan has no bearing on anything.”

He continued his silence, staring at something just above her head. She was starting to feel dizzy; a band was tightening around her chest.

“Please, Warren, I’d like us to part as friends.”

Warren was shaking his head slowly, the universal sign of disappointment. “Sure. Whatever. You’re right. Forget it, I was being oversensitive. Jesus, look at the state of you, you’re freaking out!”

Her heart pounded; she couldn’t make it slow down.

“Come on now”—his voice was smooth and placating—“I don’t want us to part on bad terms. We’ve had a nice time, let’s not spoil it. I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. I’m sorry. You’re sorry. It’s forgotten. Yeah?” He used his index finger beneath her chin to gently tilt her face up to his.

Fred used every ounce of her strength to force her face into a bright smile and make herself say, “Of course!”

Warren bent to kiss her cheek, and she just kept on smiling.

“Good,” he said, and then he let out a wistful sigh. “If only our timing was better. I could’ve fallen hard for you, Fredricka Hallow-Hart.” He kissed her other cheek. “Bye.”

“Bye,” she parroted.

He turned and walked into the pub, without a backward glance, and she tried to convince her knees that they wanted to hold her up. When the door swished shut behind him, she forced herself to move.

“Freddie?” someone called over from one of the benches. “Are you all right, love?”

Fred waved stiffly to them, her rictus smile still in place, and then she turned and ran.