Page 26 of Under the Mistletoe with You

The sauce thickens as he adds a good glug of salted starchy pasta water, and soon it’s all plated up together.He picks a few leaves off the parsley plant on his windowsill to finish it, and even though it doesn’t really need Parmesan, he grates some just to be polite.The deep pasta bowls shine with delish hearty dinner.Nothing can be bad when you have pasta.

* * *

Christopher finds Nash in the living room, curled up in the corner of the couch on the edge of sleep.His breathingis soft and slow, and Christopher almost feels bad waking him.He must be really tired and probably jet-lagged – isn’t LA eight hours behind Wales?Something like that.

‘Nash?’he calls quietly.But there’s no response.Maybe he really is asleep?‘Hey, Nash.Wake up.’

‘Mmhmm?’Nash replies sleepily.It’s a funny thing seeing a man you’re so used to seeing on TV all sparkly and perfectly chiselled look like a toddler who’s had too much fun and is desperately fighting off bedtime.

‘Dinner’s ready.’

Nash yawns widely, the kind of full body yawn that leaves you blinking.He seems to suddenly remember where he is, and leaps up to standing.

‘Hi,’ Christopher says.

Christopher is pretty sure that Nash tries to subtly wipe a slick of drool from his chin.

At the table, they both dig in hungrily, twirling spaghetti and sauce into neat little curls.

Once his bowl is nearly wiped clean, Nash sighs contentedly.

‘There’s more in the pan.’

‘Oh, thanks,’ he says, getting up.‘More for you?’

‘No, I’m fine.’

‘Are you sure?This might be the last hot meal we have with this temperamental electricity.’

‘I thought you said we shouldn’t say it in case we jinx it?’

‘I saidyoushouldn’t say it because last timeyoujinxed it.I am, so far, apparently not angering the gods.’

‘It was just a coincidence,’ Christopher huffs, wiping a little spot of sauce from his bowl with his pinkie finger.

Nash returns with another full portion, and Christopher wonders if he even ate today, other than the biscuit with his espresso.

‘I can’t remember the last time someone cooked for me,’ Nash finally says, breaking Christopher’s train of thought.

‘Not a dinner party kind of person?’

‘It’s not so much that,’ he says, yawning before taking another bite.‘LA is just so big that you always find somewhere to meet in the middle, and then when I’m working I’m usually not in town anyway, so then it’s all Kraft services and ordering in to the hotel room.’

He pauses, his cutlery frozen in motion as he thinks.

‘What I’m saying is, thank you.It was kind of you to cook for me.’

That’s another thing to give him credit for, along with salting the pasta water.At least the man always says thank you, even if it’s just some kind of American reflex.Perhaps earlier he was just desperate and tired.

Either way, Christopher can’t find the words to reply, because his eyes are locked on the tiny smudge of sauce in the corner of Nash’s lips.If this was one of his dreams about one of Nash’s characters, he could reach forward and wipe it away gently.

But this is real life, and he needs to get a hold of himself.

‘Oh, erm, you’ve—’ he mumbles, tapping the same place on his lips.

‘I’m always a messy eater,’ Nash says.With one finger, he delicately wipes the smudge away in a move that makes Christopher’s stomach ache.

Nash takes the empty plates to the sink and yawns widely.‘I’m really sorry but I need to sleep, like, now.I guess it’s probably too early, but that pasta has knocked me out.’