Christmas Eve Marriage. Jessica Hart

      ‘We had a long talk, Harry and I, and I told him how I felt. Harry said that he felt guilty about being constantly torn between the two of us, and that sometimes he felt smothered, so I suggested that he take some time to think about what he really wanted.’

      One of the worst things had been seeing the unmistakable relief that had leapt to Harry’s eyes, as if he had been trapped, longing for her to open the door for him.

      ‘Harry agreed that he needed some space, so that’s what he’s doing, deciding which of us he wants.’

      ‘And in the meantime you’re left hanging on, hoping that you might still have a boyfriend, but not sure if you do or not?’ Rhys’s voice was unusually hard, and Thea glanced at him. What was it to him, anyway?

      ‘The last time I heard from him, he still couldn’t make up his mind,’ she admitted. ‘At least that means I can still hope. I didn’t get my holiday in Provence, but then Nell had her accident and asked if I would come out with Clara in her place, so…here I am!’

      Rhys was frowning down into his glass again, a muscle beating in his jaw as if he was angry about something, but when he looked up after a few moments, he smiled. ‘I’m sorry if it wasn’t the holiday you wanted, Thea,’ he said, ‘but I for one am very glad you’re here.’

      ‘I think it’s Clara you should be grateful for,’ she said, conscious of a dangerous little glow flickering into life inside her.

      He shook his head. ‘You too,’ he said firmly, and the glow spread a little further.

      Thea looked around her, at the rickety tables dappled with sunlight through the plane leaves, at the pots of bright flowers and the massively gnarled tree trunk dwarfing them all. The air was warm and full of the tantalising smell of grilling lamb while beyond the shade the light glared and a car tooted in a failed attempt to disrupt the peaceful atmosphere.

      ‘I’m glad I’m here too,’ she said. ‘It’s been good to get away.’

      ‘I’m glad you told me about Harry, as well,’ Rhys went on. ‘I think it makes things easier in a way.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Well…it means that there’s no danger of either of us taking the pretence too seriously, doesn’t it?’ he said, not quite awkwardly, but as if he wasn’t entirely sure how she would react.

      ‘Oh. No. Quite.’

      And that would explain why that glow was still seeping along her veins and she still had that weird fluttery feeling under her skin at the thought of touching him, wouldn’t it, Thea?

      ‘No danger at all,’ she said firmly.

      Rhys smiled and held out his hand. ‘Let’s shake on it then.’

      Oh, dear, touching him just wasn’t a good idea at the moment. Why hadn’t he suggested drinking to it instead? Chinking glasses would have been fine. Even shaking hands seemed fraught with complications given the confused state her hormones were in right then.

      But she couldn’t see any way to refuse without looking a complete idiot. Thea eyed his hand as if measuring a jump over an abyss, which was almost what it felt like. All she had to do was lift her own hand, touch palms, curl her fingers around his—briefly, remember—and let go. How difficult could that be?

      Thea took a deep breath, put her hand in his and yanked it back before he could do anything alarming like squeeze it or hold it for too long or anything at all to prolong the warmth that was tingling up her arm as it was.

      Rhys looked a little surprised but picked up his glass. ‘Here’s to pretence,’ he said, toasting her.

      Why couldn’t he have done that before?

      ‘I’m not sure we’ve really thought this through,’ she injected a note of caution as she resisted the urge to rub her arm where it jangled still from his touch. ‘We’re going to have to explain to Clara, and Sophie knows quite well that I’m not your girlfriend, even one you’ve been keeping secret up to now. What will she think?’

      ‘It’s impossible to tell with Sophie,’ he said wryly. ‘I can only try. If she doesn’t want to play along, we’ll have to leave it. One thing, she won’t tell Kate,’ he added. ‘She can’t bear her, and is always embarrassingly rude to her. It’s partly Kate’s fault,’ he said in defence of his daughter. ‘She will keep criticizing Sophie’s behaviour in front of her and comparing it to her boys’.’

      ‘I would have thought that would just make her worse.’

      ‘It does,’ said Rhys with feeling, and then his face lightened. ‘Ah, here’s our lunch.’