Unwrapping Her Perfect Match: A London Legends Christmas Novella (3 page)

He leaned closer and gave her a
conspiratorial grin. “Want to tell me what we’re doing?”

“If I did, you’d probably jump over everyone
here in your rush to get away.”

He stroked the pad of his thumb across her
cheek, the coolness of his touch so surprising against her
overheated skin that she shivered. “I’m not running away, Gwen.
Even if we end up at a male strip club.”

She coughed. “Um, excuse me?”

“I saw Tess today. She kept looking at me and
laughing her arse off. So I’m making guesses here about what we’re
doing.”

“Not that. Ever.”

“Just saying—I can scream ‘Take it off!’ with
the best of them.”

Weirdly, she could picture that. He seemed
like the kind of bloke who could make anything fun and was
dedicated to making sure others around him had fun too. “We’re
going to a craft store.”

“A…crap store?”

“
Craft
. You know, where you buy
materials for various crafts.”

“Oh. Right. Like carpentry?”

She laughed. “Sort of. It’s a few minutes’
walk. Shall we?”

“Sure. But first, these are for you.” He held
up the roses. They were a stunning shade of dark pink that she’d
never seen on a rose before, and she could smell them even from
several inches away. Something shifted inside her, something that
felt uncomfortably like longing.

“They’re beautiful.” God, she sounded
breathless even to herself. “You really didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to. They reminded me of you.”

She dipped her head to sniff them,
conveniently hiding her face as she asked, “How so?”

He wouldn’t let her hide. Nudging a finger
beneath her chin, he tipped her head back until she looked him in
the eye. “I’d never seen anything like them before. I couldn’t take
my eyes off them.”

He killed her.
Please, please be
real.

“Ready?” He held out his elbow.

I’m not sure.
But she hooked her arm
through his anyway and led him into the snowy evening.

Most of the flakes melted as soon as they hit
the pavement, making the streets and sidewalks shimmer with the
reflections of Christmas lights in puddles. Shoppers in brightly
colored scarves and knit caps thronged from one store to the next.
A man stood on a corner and roasted peanuts in a sugary mixture,
giving the wintry air a sweet scent.

And John’s body created tingles all along
Gwen’s side. The season worked its magic, lifting the doubt and
shyness that usually plagued her when she went out with men.

Too soon they arrived at the small shop, and
John opened the door for her. Cotton fabrics and yarn lined the
walls, and knitting needles, crochet hooks and trendy pattern books
were displayed on tables.

“Oh look,” John said, holding up a
cross-stitching kit that said
Rugby’s a sport played by men with
oddly shaped balls
. “One for me.”

“You should get it.”

“If I do, will you teach me how to knit
it?”

“That’s cross stitching.”

He shrugged. “Same thing, right?”

“Sure. About like how rugby and football are
the same thing.”

He dropped the kit back on the table.
“Blasphemy.”

She was still laughing when a young woman in
a 1950s housewife dress approached them. “Are you here for the
course?”

Gwen nodded, and the woman said, “Welcome!
Follow me.”

She led them into a cozy annex at the back of
the building, where a half dozen women drank mulled wine and
nibbled on mince pies. Several antique-looking teacups and saucers
sat in the middle of a long table. Through the speakers, a rough,
Irish voice sang about a dismal Christmas in New York, but here in
London Gwen’s Christmas looked ever more promising.

Everyone stopped chatting when they walked
into the room. All gazes shot to John…then down John…then back up
him. The women weren’t exactly subtle in checking him out, nor were
they subtle in their approval. He shifted closer to Gwen and
whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “You haven’t hired
me
out to be a stripper, have you?”

“The idea has merit, but no.”

He looked momentarily surprised. “I think you
just said you want to see me naked.”

“I think you just set me up.”

He nudged her shoulder playfully. “Maybe.
Now
will you tell me what we’re doing?”

Before she could say anything, the woman
who’d shown them into the room closed the door to the shop and
said, “Evening ladies and, uh”—she glanced at a list in her
hands—”I’m guessing you’re not Tess.”

“Not even in my wildest dreams. I’m John,
Tess’s replacement.”

“Pleasure to meet you, John. If everyone
could have a seat, we’ll get started.”

Gwen and John hung up their coats, hats and
scarves before settling themselves at the long table with everyone
else. John’s leg brushed against hers, and she was only half
surprised when his hand came to rest on her knee. She didn’t push
it away. It felt like it belonged there.

“Welcome to the class. I hope you’re all
ready to have fun and create some beautiful, unique Christmas gifts
for your family and friends. Over the next two hours, we’ll be
making floral-scented candles in these teacups.”

The hand on Gwen’s knee tightened. She
pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.

“Now, it’s not difficult, but it is sometimes
quite delicate work, especially when you’re dipping your wick.”

John’s muffled cough nearly made Gwen burst
out with inappropriate laughter.

“If you’re ready, grab a couple of teacups
and saucers. There are two for each—”

Crash!

Gwen swiveled in her chair to find John half
out of his seat, reaching across the table with his free hand, the
fragile handle of a teacup clasped between his fingers and the rest
of the teacup broken on the table.

“Whoops. Guess my wick was too thick for that
one.”

Gwen pressed her hand over her mouth and
shuddered with laughter. John carefully pulled a different teacup
across the table and set it in front of her. “That one looks
sturdier. Much more my style.”

This man
. Damn.

Throughout the evening, John kept making her
laugh at him and long for him. They worked together to melt their
wax, adding a few drops of rose-fragranced oil—Gwen’s new favorite
scent—and dangling their wicks into the teacups.

“You’d better pour the wax,” John said. “I
don’t trust myself.”

His easy admission that he wasn’t good at
something made Gwen’s chest ache as she poured the wax into the
cups. Who would’ve imagined this big, tough rugby player fiddling
around with a dainty teacup and actually looking like he enjoyed
it? He was so easy to be around, she found herself chatting and
flirting as if it came naturally. All too soon they had three
teacups filled with slowly hardening wax.

“We’ll have to leave them overnight to set,”
the teacher said. “So you can come back to pick them up
tomorrow.”

She and John shared a quick look. She busied
herself writing their names on tags and setting them next to the
teacups. “I’m off in the morning, so I can pick them up.”

“All right,” he said, shoving his hands in
his pockets and looking a little unsure of himself for the first
time all evening. His hesitation was adorable. Her hands clenched,
so tempted to stroke him all over, ease his anxiety. He’d totally
won her over.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“Starving.” Her hunger grew as she watched
him shift his weight from foot to foot.

“Great. Me too. What sounds good?”

She gave in to temptation, sliding her palms
around his waist and drawing him closer. “You.”

Twenty minutes later, Gwen followed John
through the door of his midterrace house. He lived not far from the
stadium in Stratford, an area in East London that had been recently
regenerated for the Olympics. When he flipped on a light, her fears
of finding herself knee-deep in cockroaches in a filthy bachelor
pad dissolved. Certainly there was nothing frilly about the place,
but it was clean and tidy with furniture that looked like it had
been chosen for comfort rather than style. Furniture chosen with
tall people in mind. Tension eased from her shoulders. Whenever she
was a guest in houses decorated by women, everything was too
low—mirrors, artwork, sofas. She always felt like Gargamel invading
a Smurf house.

Here, though, she had the strange feeling of
rightness, of fitting. Even his couch seemed higher than normal,
and when she peered down at the legs, she saw someone had added
slightly mismatched wood to the bottoms of them.

John had insisted on getting them a cab, even
though it was much more expensive than the Tube. She wouldn’t have
minded the longer journey. Perhaps the slap of frigid air on the
walk from the station would’ve knocked the misgivings out of her.
During the ride, he’d kept her talking about herself, easing her
worries that this would be an anonymous one-night stand. It might
only be one night, but his easygoing questioning had pulled enough
out of her that she didn’t feel anonymous.

He cleared his throat, gesturing toward the
sofa. “Why don’t you sit down? I’ve got some wine somewhere.”

“Sounds lovely.” She self-consciously
smoothed her skirt over her thighs and settled on the edge of the
cushion. Her palms curved over her knees, which were clenched tight
as a virgin’s.
Calm down. He’s scrummy as fudge, and he seems
just as sweet. And Tess did say he’s a gentleman.
Tess had
plenty of experience with arseholes, and she didn’t give
compliments lightly.

The pop of a cork brought her mind back to
the room. A minute later, John handed her a glass of bubbly the
color of spun gold. “Sparkling wine okay?”

“Perfect. Cheers.” She clinked her glass
against his and took a long, slow sip as he sat next to her. The
weight of his gaze stayed on her for several long moments as the
wine fizzled over her tongue, cooling her parched throat.

His voice soft, he asked, “Are you all
right?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She didn’t lift her lips from the
glass. Let the wine work its magic amnesic powers, scrubbing from
her memory the fact that she didn’t do this, didn’t sleep with men
she hardly knew. Men who could be hiding any kind of secret, using
her as a joke for their own and other people’s amusement.

When the glass was only half-full, she paused
for a breath. John slid his glass, untouched, onto the coffee table
before gently prying hers from her white-knuckled fingers. “Hey,”
he said. “We can just sit here and have a few drinks and a chat.
Watch a film. Doesn’t matter. I’m not interested in doing anything
you have to talk yourself into.”

She exhaled a shaky breath and fell back onto
an old habit of apologizing for things that weren’t her fault. “I’m
sorry. I just—I never do this. One-night stands, I mean.”

Idiot.
Her eyelids clamped shut at the
clumsiness of her inadvertent honesty. The gentle touch of his
fingers on her cheek convinced her to peek at him through her
lashes. The desire on his face had her opening them all the
way.

“Gwen.”

“Yes?”

One corner of his lips tugged up into a
sinful smile. “Who said anything about one night?”

Gwen stayed silent for several long seconds,
making John fear he’d plowed through some fragile boundary he’d
been skirting all night. No surprise there. He was a second row,
not exactly known for his finesse and nimbleness.

But then her shoulders relaxed, and she gave
him a shy smile that tore him up inside. “I just assumed you’d only
be interested in a short-term fling.”

“I won’t deny I’ve enjoyed a fling or two in
my life. But let’s take it easy and see where this goes.” He wanted
it to go straight to his bedroom, but one night wouldn’t be nearly
long enough to cover all the things he wanted to do with her. And
he was more than happy to take his time getting there. “Got any
ideas for our date?”

Her brows drew together. “Date?”

“You know, that thing you just paid a hell of
a lot of Tess’s money for. At least, I assume it’ll be a
date…unless you really need your ceiling painted. In which case
I’ll do my best to hide my disappointment.”

“That’s all right. I’m more than capable of
doing that myself. I thought we just had our date.”

“Nope. I talked my way into your date with
your sister. Doesn’t count.”

“Oh. In that case, maybe I could cook you
dinner one night.”

He tilted his head. “Uh…I’m not sure you
understand how this auction thing works.
I’m
supposed to do
something for
you
.”

She grinned. “I know. But I love to cook. It
helps me unwind. I’ve even taken a few courses, but I’ve no one
worth making the effort for. My sister and dad eat rubbish, and my
mum’s always on a diet. I love inviting my friends round and
spoiling them, but I think they’ve tried all my recipes by now.
Besides, you look like a man who enjoys his food.”

“I think I’ve just walked into a weird
alternate universe where all my dreams come true. Of course you can
cook for me. But I want to do something for you too.”

She shifted closer, giving him a hesitant
look. “I’m open to suggestions.”

Bloody hell. He had a lot of them. He picked
up her hand, turning it over so he could stroke his fingertip over
the soft, sensitive skin of her wrist and palm. Her eyelashes
lowered, as if she were lost in sensation. “What if I took you out
after you cooked for me? We could go dancing, see a film…”

“That sounds lovely.” She shifted closer
still, and he realized in a blinding rush of insight that she
wanted him to make the first move. He was more than happy to
oblige.

He leaned forward, his mouth landing softly
on hers. Her hand cupped his cheek as if she needed the contact to
balance her. To steady her. The touch had the opposite effect on
John. It would’ve knocked him on his arse if he weren’t there
already.