Wrapped Up in You - Talia Hibbert Page 0,5

together—but then he walked toward her and made himself real.

“Abbie,” he called, warm enough to make her forget the bitter cold biting at her fingers. His face was a technical work of art, but when he smiled, it turned into something sweeter. Something softer and realer. He had smiled on the cover of People, and Abbie had seen it and felt nothing but disorientation—but when he smiled at her now, when he smiled in the semi-dark without a camera to coax him, she felt the corners of her mouth lift in response. She felt a tug in her chest and took a step, an actual step, toward him, as if he’d pulled. She felt fifteen-year-old butterflies wake up in her stomach, which was fucking ancient for butterflies. No wonder they felt so enormous and sticky-slow these days. Like they were huge enough for their wings to brush her hips, her ribs, her throat. Like they were fluttering through honey, somehow.

God. She gave herself a moment. Then she sucked down a lungful of inky, frosty air and got over it. Just like always.

“Will,” she replied, and her voice was almost flat because if she didn’t exercise pristine control it would be the opposite. She let her gaze run impassively over him—at least, she hoped it was impassive, because otherwise he might notice that she found his knitted Christmas jumper and threadbare jeans hideously sexy. She reached his feet and bit her lip on a smile. “Erm… you’re not wearing any shoes.”

“Yeah, I just now noticed,” he said, which wasn’t sarcasm. He was serious. His smile had been replaced by a wince as he danced across tiny, icy stones, light on his feet despite his size. “Ouch.”

“Go inside, William.”

“No, ma’am.” He had gotten it into his head that she found an American accent charming. What she really found charming was how badly he did it, but she’d never let on. He came to a stop in front of her, and even in his mismatched socks, he was eye-to-eye with Abbie in her high-heeled ankle-boots. This was problematic only because Will had very searching eyes. They were dark and sharp, and they tended to hold her gaze with unnerving intensity. If he hadn’t made a career of being professionally gorgeous, Will could have become a priest.

“Abbie,” he repeated, softly this time, his breath a ghost between them. “You’re here.” This was the part where he’d usually drag her into a bear hug, just like her brothers, but he didn’t. Probably because everyone had been treating her as fragile since the divorce. Maybe Will was worried she’d shatter in his arms.

She wouldn’t.

“Yes,” she agreed. “I’m here. Or I’m a figment of your imagination. Or I’m the ghost of Christmas past.”

He released another breath, this one laced with laughter. Instead of pointing out that she hadn’t been here last year, that she’d stayed away while licking her wounds, he played along. “Do ghosts have luggage? If you do, I’ll take it for you.”

“Don’t start treating me like a lady, Will, or I’ll be soft by the time my brothers get here.” She turned toward her car boot—and stopped when Will’s hand caught her elbow. It wasn’t the touch that shocked her—how could it? She could barely feel it through her winter jacket, and Will had always been a casual toucher, and anyway, they’d known each other forever. They used to play cat’s cradle together. Grandma used to force them all to hold hands when crossing the road. Once, Abbie had twisted her ankle, and he’d been the only boy in the group big enough to give her a piggyback home.

So there was nothing shocking about the pressure of Will’s hand on her arm. The only shock was how it still made her breath catch, still made her remember the Christmas they’d…

Well.

Weren’t ancient feelings supposed to die eventually? Hers only ever seemed to hibernate. Every time she swore she’d kicked them, Will woke them right back up.

“You are a lady, Abbie,” he said quietly, and then he ran his hand down her arm, all the way to her closed fist. Inhaling sharply, she looked up at his face. His blond lashes were lowered, hiding his gaze. The set of his mouth, soft against the scruff of his beard, told her absolutely nothing. His warm fingers eased open her cold, clumsy ones, and he took her car keys. Then he finally met her eyes, his own like beguiling mirrors in the dark. “You’re cold. Go on inside.”

*