Unwrapping Her Perfect Match: A London Legends Christmas Novella (10 page)

Determined to draw her out, Gwen nodded
toward her book.
“Qu’est-ce que tu lis?”

“Harry Potter.”

Damn. Gwen hadn’t read it or seen the films.
She’d been hoping for
Le Petit Prince
or something else that
had been assigned when she’d been a student. She could probably ask
questions about Harry Potter, but she had no clue how to say wizard
in French. “
Et? ça te plaît? ”

“
Oui.”

Okay, now she knew that Harry Potter was a
good book. Brilliant.

“
J’ai faim.”

“You’re hungry? Oh, of course you are. It’s
nearly noon your time.
Viens, on va préparer le petit-dèj’
alors.”

A survey of John’s fridge revealed what
seemed a random collection of foods. A massive turkey took up most
of one shelf, and another held Brussels sprouts and fresh
cranberries—three bags of each. On the counter next to the fridge
lay two bags of potatoes and several parsnips. All the main
ingredients for a traditional Christmas dinner.

Gwen’s heart squeezed. He’d clearly done a
big shop before going to his rugby match yesterday. She could
picture him wandering through aisles, picking up the things he
wanted to share with his French daughter.

In France, Agnes probably had a breakfast of
croissants and hot chocolate, nothing cooked. Gwen took out a
carton of eggs, some butter, a loaf of sliced bread, and a carton
of orange juice. Then she grabbed a package of plump sausages
stamped with the name of an organic butcher from Borough Market.
“How about an English breakfast?”

Just as Gwen was placing the cooked breakfast
on the table and wondering whether to wake John, he walked into the
room from the hall. Her gaze slid all over him. He’d pulled on a
gray T-shirt and a pair of dark green sweats with the word LEGENDS
running up one leg in white, and he was lazily scratching an
exposed stretch of abs and yawning. “Mornump,” he said, the last
half of the greeting lost in a second yawn. “Mmm, I’m
shattered.”

He collapsed into a chair next to Agnes, who
sat at the table reading, and kissed the top of her head. “Morning,
angel.”

She gave him a shy smile and said,
“
Bonjour
,” before returning her focus to Harry Potter.

Gwen finished bringing the food to the table
and sat. Figuring it was a good time to start teaching Agnes some
English, she tapped the book and mimed shutting it with both of her
hands. “Close the book. It’s breakfast time. Sausages, scrambled
eggs, toast, orange juice. Coffee for me. John? Coffee?”

A hint of a wicked grin touched his lips, as
if to say,
You may be a buttoned-up teacher-like lady now, but I
got the truth last night
. “No coffee for me. I’ll make myself a
cup of tea, though.”

Gwen stood. “Stay there. I’ll do it. You chat
with Agnes.”

She caught his brief look of panic before she
left the room. When she returned a few minutes later, the only
sound was of Agnes’s knife scraping the plate as she cut her
sausage.

“So,” Gwen started. “It’s Christmas Eve. What
do you normally do on Christmas Eve?
Que faites-vous normalement
la veille de Noël?
”

Agnes shrugged, so John answered. “We usually
walk to the center of the village where Agnes and her mum live.
There’s a Christmas market in the main square there, and we buy
treats for each other’s stockings. Secret treats. We split up for
an hour and then meet for lunch at a cafe. Then we have a big
evening meal and go to midnight mass.”

Gwen’s heart swelled. Just the teensiest bit
of swelling might’ve been caused by jealousy. “That sounds
lovely.”

He smiled. “It is. Before mass, there’s
always a living manger display outside the church. In fact, Agnes
played baby Jesus when she was a month old. Caro was the Virgin
Mary.” Despite the fact his daughter couldn’t understand, he still
mumbled from one corner of his mouth, “If there’s a heaven, I
guaranteed my spot by keeping a straight face when I saw that.”

Gwen playfully nudged his arm. “Well, I don’t
think I could play a convincing Virgin Mary, so what would you like
to do today instead?”

“I thought we could go ice skating at the
Tower of London. Agnes hasn’t been there before.”

Cringing, Gwen delivered bad news. “John, you
can’t go skating. It’s too risky. In fact, you probably shouldn’t
leave the house much today at all.”

Normally she would’ve told him to stay in bed
or on the couch for the day, but he only had two days with his
daughter and she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

His eyes narrowed, but then he let out a
frustrated breath. “You’re right. I know you’re right. There’s just
fuck-all to do around here, and I don’t want Agnes to waste her
Christmas holiday in London.”

Turning her attention to the girl, whose head
had been shifting back and forth as she watched them talk, Gwen
asked, “What would you like to do?
Qu’est-ce que tu voudrais
faire aujourd’hui?
”

“
La Tour de Londres.”

John smiled. “She said the Tower of London,
didn’t she?”

Gwen nodded.

“I’ve an idea. I feel well rested at the
moment, but I know I’ll need a nap later. How about we get ready
and take a ferry from Canary Wharf to the Tower? Canary Wharf’s
just a short Tube ride from here, and that way Agnes can see some
of London from the Thames. When we get to the Tower, I promise I
won’t skate. Maybe you can take to the ice with Agnes while I sit
and rest.”

The plan went against Gwen’s cautious nature,
but she couldn’t stop him and she knew that convincing him to stay
at home would lead to a massive missed opportunity for him and his
daughter. “All right. But I need to stop by home at some point to
pick up more clothes.”

“No problem. Where’s home?”

“Whitechapel.”

“Not too far from the Tower, then. We could
come with you.”

Somehow the thought of John seeing her tiny
shared flat in a crumbling Victorian council estate filled her with
mixed emotions. As proud as she was of her little home, and all of
the pretty decorations she’d made herself or picked up at markets
around East London, she wasn’t ready to introduce him to her
flatmate, a stunning young woman who worked in the City and rarely
came home alone. Nor was she sure she wanted the memory of John in
her home, if things didn’t work out. Bad enough to associate
memories of him with places she never had to go again, like the
stadium or his house. How much worse to have a mental picture of
him on her couch every time she walked into the living room? “We
can figure it out later. Let’s finish up here and get to the ferry
before you fall back asleep.”

Within twenty minutes, they were boarding a
clipper at Canary Wharf and had taken positions near the railing.
Gwen burrowed her face deeply into her red scarf as the sailors
shoved away from the dock and the boat joined the tide near the
middle of the great brown river. The wind whipped her hair around
her face, and she pulled her woolen hat down as far as it would go.
But she bit back her request that they sit inside as she took in
the wonder on Agnes’s face.

“These used to be warehouses,” John told the
girl, pointing at the centuries-old buildings lining the
riverbanks. “Shit. How do you say warehouses in French?”

“
Entrepôts
,” Gwen said.

He tried to repeat the
word—
ontrapo
—and Agnes grinned, prompting Gwen toward a
lightbulb moment. “I’ve an idea. What if we teach each other words
throughout the day and, at the end of the day, whoever can remember
the most words in the other language will get a prize.”

She translated for Agnes, who promptly
responded, “
Quelle récompense?
”

“I don’t know what prize. Ideas?”

The girl looked thoughtful, then snapped her
fingers. “
Du chocolat!
”

“Sounds good to me,” John said. “My first
word of the day—
entrepôts
.”

“Where-houses,” Agnes said. “
Mmm, c’est
moi qui vais gagner!
”

“‘I’m going to win,’” Gwen translated for
John. “Your daughter’s competitive.”

“She gets it from her mother.”

For the rest of the twenty-minute journey,
the two pointed out random objects and taught each other the words.
Gwen pulled her scarf even higher to warm her frozen cheeks. As she
watched them challenge each other to harder and harder words—John
tried to teach Agnes
suspension bridge
as they passed under
Tower Bridge—she realized she’d given them a way of moving forward
without her. Just as she started feeling left out, John snaked an
arm around her back, clasped her waist and pulled her against his
side. Her scarf hid her smile, but he must’ve seen it in her eyes
because he leaned down—still a novelty!—and kissed her
forehead.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For making me go up against a ten-year-old
in a memory game when I’m concussed. I’ve a feeling I’ll be doling
out a lot of chocolate tonight. One thing you should know about
me—I’m a bad loser.”

“But you’ll enjoy losing tonight.”

He glanced over at Agnes as she whispered
suspension bridge
over and over to herself. John laughed.
“Can’t imagine anyone I’d rather lose to.”

Gwen watched him watch his daughter. Piece by
piece, she was losing something too. By the time the holidays
ended, there might not be much of her heart left.

But what would happen when Agnes went home
and he no longer needed Gwen’s help?

The ice skating rink was located just outside
the Tower’s yellow stone fortifications. John sat on a bench that
was much too short for him, watching Gwen and Agnes laugh together
as they held each other’s mittened hands and stumbled around the
rink. Neither was graceful, but he wouldn’t mention that when they
came off the ice.

His concussion had come in handy. Not only
did his injury mean that Gwen would stay with him for two days—in
his bed—but it had saved him from humiliating himself on the ice.
He would’ve taken to the ice if Agnes wanted him to, but it
would’ve been like strapping skates onto a bear. Not pretty, and it
would’ve probably ended in bloodshed.

His mobile vibrated against his thigh a
second before the ringtone reached his ears. His agent. “Hey,
Steve.”

“Shelly! How’s the head?”

John cringed. Steve was a short American guy
with a voice disproportionate to his height. John pulled the phone
away from his ear long enough to turn down the volume. “Not bad.
I’ve got an appointment with the team doctor on Boxing Day to go
over the plan for getting me back on the pitch. Happy Christmas, by
the way.”

“What? Oh.” Steve laughed. “Fuck me, I forgot
it was Christmas Eve. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

John found his girls on the ice. Gwen’s legs
had scissored apart, and she was clinging to the side while Agnes
laughed at her. “I’m in the middle of something important, but I’ve
got a few minutes. Why?”

“I just got off the phone with Toulon. They
want you.”

John’s gut clenched. He gripped the phone
tighter. “Toulon? Seriously?”

“I shit you not. I know it’s bad form to make
any announcements until January, but you need to think about this.
I’ll send you over what they’re offering. Let’s meet on the
twenty-sixth after your appointment with the doc. Toulon will want
reassurances that the injury’s not too serious. Oh, and merry
Christmas. I know this is what you’ve been asking Santa for. Ho ho
ho.”

John hung up and watched Gwen pull herself
hand-over-hand along the rink’s wall toward the exit, her good
humor still intact even if her dignity wasn’t. She and Agnes both
had rosy cheeks and eyes that sparkled with delight.

A heavy feeling weighed John’s shoulders
down. He barely knew Gwen, but from the beginning he’d had a sense
of a special connection. It was more than their outward
similarities. Sure, they were both tall, big and fairly graceless.
And it was more than the fact that she was beautiful.

She made him smile. She made him ache. She
made him want to be better, to try harder—for her and for his
daughter.

But trying harder for his daughter meant
taking the opportunity to move to France and playing for the club
that Agnes’s uncle played for. It meant living close to his girl
and being a real part of her life. Learning her language and
sharing more than a few broken words during a few broken visits
each year. Being a real part of her life, every single day. Leaving
the UK and the club he’d played for his whole career—and the woman
he suspected he could fall in love with.

Fuck.

“We’re going to browse in the gift shop.
Would you like to come with us?”

John rubbed his suddenly sweaty palms against
his thighs. “No, that’s all right. I’ll wait for you here.”

A little line of concern formed between
Gwen’s brows, and John marveled that she could already see behind
his bullshit. “Should I stay here with you?”

“No, no. Just don’t fancy battling the crowds
right now. Go on. Have fun.”

Gwen lightly cleared her throat and tilted
her head toward Agnes without breaking eye contact with John. “Do
you, uh, have everything you need for tomorrow?”

Damn but she was lovely. “Yeah. I planned
ahead. But cheers.”

Except he didn’t have anything for
Gwen—nothing but the news that he might be moving abroad and
spending his foreseeable future in France.

“Erosion!” Agnes pumped a triumphant fist in
the air and grabbed a chocolate from the box on the table.

“Penalty! I didn’t realize it’s the same word
in French,” John cried, trying to wrestle the chocolate from her
fist. Agnes squealed and turned away to protect her prize, but she
was no match for her papa. Gentle though he clearly was, he took no
prisoners. He wrapped his arms around her in a bear hug, trying to
pry her hand open from behind.