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‘Help yourself before it gets cold.’ She indicated the food.
What he’d thought would be plain vegetables had clearly been cooked with a spice mix. A gorgeous one. And the polenta fries were to die for. ‘If you ever get bored with being a lawyer,’ he said, ‘I think you’d make a good chef.’
‘Cook,’ she corrected. ‘Maybe.’
‘Didn’t you ever think about being a musician? I mean, given what your dad did?’
She shook her head. ‘I can play the piano a bit, but I don’t have that extra spark that Dad had. And life as a musician isn’t an easy one. In the early days, he and Mum lived pretty much hand to mouth. He was so lucky that the right break came at the right time.’ She paused. ‘What about you? Do you come from a long line of inventors?’
Quinn didn’t have a clue who his father was. And the family he’d been dumped on...well. He’d just been a burden to them. The unwanted nephew. One who definitely hadn’t planned to spend his career working in their corner shop, which in turn had made him even more unwanted. ‘No.’
He’d sounded shorter than he’d meant to, because it killed the conversation dead. She just ate her tuna steak and looked faintly awkward.
In the end, he sighed. ‘Why is it I constantly feel the need to apologise around you?’
‘Because you’re being a grumpy idiot?’ she suggested.
‘You don’t pull your punches, do you?’ he asked wryly. ‘I hope I never end up in court in front of you.’
‘I’m a solicitor, not a barrister,’ she said. ‘Gramps’s chambers would’ve taken me on as a pupil but...’ she pulled a face ‘...I didn’t really want to do all the performance stuff. Wearing the robes and the wig, doing all the flashy rhetoric and showing off in front of a jury. I prefer the backroom stuff—working with the law, with words and people.’
‘So it’s in the family? Being a lawyer?’
‘On my mum’s side, yes. I think Gramps was a bit disappointed that she never became a lawyer, but she met Dad at a gig when she was a student, fell in love with him, and then I came along.’ She smiled. ‘Though I think Gramps was quite pleased when he realised I was more likely to follow in his footsteps than in Dad’s.’
Quinn had had nobody’s footsteps to follow in. He’d made his own way. ‘I guess that made it easier for you.’
‘More like it meant I had something to live up to,’ she corrected.
He’d never thought of it that way before—that privilege could also be a burden. Tabitha’s friends and family had all been privileged, and they’d taken their easy life for granted; they’d also looked down on those who’d had to work for what they had, like him. Clearly Clarissa saw things very differently.
‘I had to be the best, because I couldn’t let Gramps down,’ she continued. ‘If I fell flat on my face, it wouldn’t just be me that looked an idiot. No way would I do that to him. I wanted him to be proud of me, not embarrassed by my incompetence.’
Quinn hadn’t known Carissa for very long, but incompetence was a word he’d never associate with her. And he’d just bet that her grandparents adored her as much as her parents obviously had, because her voice was full of affection rather than fear or faint dislike. ‘Do your grandparents know what you’re doing about the ward?’
‘The ward itself, yes, of course—Gramps was really good at helping me cut through the red tape and pushing the building work through endless committees. Plus, obviously he’s one of the trustees. But I haven’t told them anything about the virtual Santa. I wanted to make sure it could work first.’
‘If you hadn’t met me, what would you have done about it?’ he asked, suddenly curious.
‘Found a programmer. Talked to his clients. Offered him a large bonus to get the job done in my timescale.’ She shrugged. ‘Standard stuff. But it’s irrelevant now, because I’ve met you.’
‘How do you know I could...?’ he began, and then stopped. ‘You talked to some of my clients, didn’t you?’
‘I couldn’t possibly answer that,’ she said, making her face impassive and clearing away their empty plates.
He sighed.
‘OK. I won’t say who I spoke to, but they said that if you run a project then it’ll work the way it’s supposed to work. No compromises and no mistakes.’
He prided himself on that. ‘Yes.’
‘And that you call a spade a spade rather than a digging implement,’ she added with a grin.
‘What would you call a spade?’ he asked.
‘That rather depends on the context.’
He smiled. ‘A very lawyerly response.’
‘It’s who I am,’ she said.
‘No. You’re more than your job,’ he said. ‘You could’ve just got the rest of your dad’s band to come and play some of his most famous songs at the opening. That would’ve been enough to wow everyone. But you went the extra mile. You’re arranging a very special Santa for the kids. It’s personal—and I don’t mean just for them, I mean for you.’
‘That hospital saved my life when I was a baby. I owe them,’ she said. ‘The virus meant that I was more prone to chest infections when I was really small, and I can remember spending my fourth birthday in hospital with pneumonia, being too ill for a birthday party and balloons and cake. The staff were really kind, but I knew what I was missing. And being in hospital at Christmas is especially hard on kids. They miss out on Santa and all the parties. It’s hard on their families, too. I just want to put a bit of sparkle into their day and make a difficult Christmas that little bit better for them.’
‘Christmas isn’t always good outside hospital,’ he said, and then he could have kicked himself for letting the words slip out.
Carissa, just as he’d half expected, homed straight in to the crux of the matter. Even though she’d just brought the box of macarons over to the table and looked thrilled when she opened it, she didn’t let the pudding distract her. ‘Is that why you don’t like Christmas?’
No way was he going to discuss that subject with her. ‘I don’t like the greed and commercialism surrounding Christmas,’ he said. Which was true. Just not the whole truth.
‘So you don’t believe that the spirit of Christmas exists any more?’ she asked, putting the macarons on a plate.
‘Do you?’ he asked, throwing the question back at her because he didn’t want to admit that the spirit of Christmas had never really existed for him.
‘Yes, I do. My parents always made a big deal about Christmas, and I love this time of year. OK, the year they died was different—it’s pretty hard to enjoy Christmas when you’re fifteen years old and planning a funeral for the two people you love most in the world.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘But, other than that year, I’ve always tried to keep it the way they kept it, full of love and happiness. Just how it should be.’
The complete opposite of the Christmases he remembered. Full of misery and wishing the day was over. Knowing that he wasn’t really wanted and was in the way—he’d always had presents, yes, but they’d been on a much smaller scale than those of his cousins because he didn’t really belong. He’d been a charity case. Sometimes, as a child, he’d thought he would’ve been better off in a children’s home.
* * *
A man who hated Christmas.
It was so far removed from Carissa’s own view that it intrigued her. Why didn’t Quinn like Christmas? Had he had a tough childhood, maybe? Grown up in a family where Christmas had been a source of tension and worry?
It would explain why he didn’t like the commercialism. When money was tight, tempers tended to fray as well. She’d seen the results of that first-hand when she’d helped at the refuge. And yet the women there still tried to make Christmas good for their kids and put their own feelings aside.
She knew she really ought to let this go. Quinn had already shown himself to be a private man. This was none of her business. And she knew, too, that her best friend would call her on it. Erica would say that Carissa had gone straight into Ms Fixit mode as a way of avoiding the fact that she was attracted to Quinn, and it scared her stupid. Fixing things—like making Christmas good again for Quinn—meant that Carissa didn’t have to face up to her past.
It was probably true.
Definitely true, she thought wryly. And another way of making Quinn safe to be around.
Yet at the same time it was an irresistible challenge: to show Quinn that there was more to Christmas than just blatant commercialism and greed. And maybe if she could heal whatever hurt was in his heart, it would teach her how to heal the ache in her own heart, too.
‘What if I can prove to you that the Christmas spirit is real—that there really is magic out there?’ she asked.
‘The magic of Christmas?’ he scoffed. He didn’t believe in it.
But what she was suggesting...it meant spending time together. Getting to know each other. Part of him knew that this was just an excuse for him to spend time with her—something he ought to resist, because he was definitely attracted to her, and with his track record he knew it would end in tears. But then again, if he got to know her better, it would help their business arrangement—he might even be able to improve the Santa project. He looked her straight in the eye. ‘What if you can’t?’
She lifted her chin. ‘Then I’ll pay you double for the virtual Santa system.’
‘A wager?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘OK. Let’s make it double or quits. If you can prove it, then I’ll build your system free and help you sort out things on the day.’
‘Double or quits,’ she agreed, and held out her hand.
It was the second time they’d shaken hands on a deal. And this time the tingle in his skin was stronger. Scarily so.
But it was just adrenalin, he told himself. The excitement of the challenge. Nothing to do with her at all...
CHAPTER THREE
This evening. 7 p.m. Meet me at my place.
QUINN READ THE text and frowned. They’d already agreed on a time next week for the training session on his collaborative software. Why did Carissa want to meet him tonight?
Why? he texted back.
Magic of Christmas, proof #1, was the response.
Which told him virtually nothing.
What did Carissa think would prove the magic of Christmas to him?
As far as he was concerned, it simply didn’t exist. Christmas was the time when families were forced to spend time together, not really wanting to be there but feeling that they had to do it because it was Christmas and it was expected of them. Resentment, tension and bitterness. Add too much sugary food and a liberal dash of alcohol, and it was no wonder that the emergency departments of most hospitals were full of people who’d ended up coming to blows over the holiday season.
Through his experience with Tabitha, Quinn had learned the hard way to check the dress code before going anywhere so he didn’t feel out of place. Would Carissa’s idea of Christmas magic involve some kind of ball, maybe?
Do I wear black tie? he texted.
No. Wear something warm because there’s meant to be a frost tonight.
So he still knew next to nothing. Great.
It wasn’t even as if Carissa was a proper client—one he needed to be nice to for the sake of making a project run smoothly. He knew full well he wasn’t going to charge her for his time in setting up the virtual Santa or training her team of volunteers. Not when she was doing something so kind. Charity...but not the cold, grudging kind of charity he’d experienced growing up.
She’d actually thought about this and was trying to do something practical to help. Something that would put a bit of happiness into a difficult day. And it wasn’t as if he was going to be spending hours developing something new for her, because he’d already worked on bits of similar systems in the past. It wouldn’t take much time at all. Charging her for the work he was doing would feel wrong.
Wear something warm.Frost. Obviously they were going to be doing something outside, he thought. But he had absolutely no idea what.
It turned out to be something Quinn really loathed.
‘We’re seeing the Christmas lights being switched on?’ he guessed, as they got off the tube at Oxford Street and joined the crowd of people thronging up the stairs. ‘Oh, now you’re kidding me.’
‘Bah, humbug.’ She nudged him. ‘This is great. London by night, all lit up and magical. It’s Christmassy. Enjoy it.’
‘More like crowds of people pushing each other on the pavements, cars blasting their horns at people to make them get out of the way, and a D-list celeb waiting for people to applaud as they do the terribly difficult job of pressing a switch,’ he countered. ‘And then all the shops waiting for people to cram into them and queue up for stuff they don’t really want but feel forced to buy because it’s Christmas and people are expecting presents. Ker-ching.’
She ignored his comments. ‘Look at the trees. All those lights shaped like snowflakes. It’s like a real winter wonderland. It’s beautiful, Quinn.’
She’d really bought into all the hype, hadn’t she? He rolled his eyes. ‘Think of all that electricity being wasted. Scarce resources you can’t replace.’
She scoffed. ‘Don’t try to pull the environmentalist card. There’s nothing green about someone who lives on takeaway food that comes in cartons you can’t even recycle.’
‘I guess,’ he said.
‘I admit you have a point about the crowds. That bit’s not much fun. But the lights themselves—surely you can’t hate them?’ she asked.
‘What’s the big deal about lights?’ he asked.
‘They change the atmosphere.’
He didn’t see it. At all. Lights were just lights, weren’t they? A source of illumination. Nothing special. Nothing magical.
Everyone around him oohed and ahhed as the Christmas lights stretching above the streets were switched on—including Carissa—but it did nothing to change Quinn’s mind about the misery of Christmas. A bit of sparkle and glitter was just surface dressing. And it didn’t make up for all the tension and short tempers.
As if she’d guessed how fed up he was, she said, ‘Let’s get away from the crowds.’
They went from Oxford Street down through Regent Street. There were cascades of fairy lights on the outsides of the shops—some gold, some lilac, some silver, some brilliant white—and Carissa clearly loved every bit of the displays. Quinn just wasn’t convinced. All he saw was wasted energy and a way of attracting people to spend as much of their disposable income as possible.
Carnaby Street had kooky inflatable decorations, and its famous arches were covered in fairy lights. Piccadilly Circus was as brightly lit as it always was, and the trees in Leicester Square were filled with starbursts that had Carissa cooing in pleasure. And everywhere was heaving with people.
Why on earth was he here? Quinn asked himself. He could be at home, playing a decent arcade game on his console in comfort, drinking coffee and eating pizza straight from the box. Or doing what he really loved, developing a new gadget from concept to prototype. Playing with ideas. Instead, he was trudging through the crowded streets of London with a woman he barely knew, all because she’d set him a wager. A wager that really wasn’t a wager, because he had no intention of claiming his winnings in any case. So why didn’t he just call this whole thing off?
But then they reached Covent Garden and he saw the delight in Carissa’s face.
And he knew exactly why he was here.
Even though wild horses wouldn’t make him admit it out loud.
There were fairy lights everywhere, a massive Christmas tree, and a topiary reindeer that was covered in tiny lights. Carissa’s expression was as dreamy and glowing as a small child’s seeing the magical lights for the very first time.
Quinn was here because of the magic.
Because of her.
His head really needed examining, he thought wryly. He didn’t need to get involved with anyone. He didn’t want to get involved with anyone. And yet here he was, doing something he wouldn’t have chosen to do and wasn’t enjoying—solely because she’d asked him to be here.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said softly. ‘Look at this, Quinn. Fairy lights everywhere, the street performers and the market stalls and the street musicians. I love this place. But I love it even more at this time of year. It’s really magical. Like a real Christmas grotto, life-sized.’
For a second, Quinn almost—almost—felt the magic.
But then, as they wandered through the place together, he heard a string quartet playing. Not traditional Christmas carols—oh, no. Instead, they were playing Christmas pop songs. And one Christmas pop song in particular. He nudged Carissa. ‘Do you hear that?’
‘“Santa, Bring My Baby Home to Me,”’ she sang softly.
She’d definitely lied to him about not having any musical ability. Her voice was gorgeous. And now he knew what the song was really about, he could hear the emotion in the words and it actually put a lump in his throat.
‘Whenever I hear that song, it always makes me feel close to Mum and Dad,’ she said, sounding misty-eyed.
He bit back the caustic comment he’d intended to make—OK, so it would’ve got his common sense back into place, but at the same time it would’ve burst her bubble, and he couldn’t do that to her. He only just managed to stop himself from pulling her into his arms and giving her a hug. For pity’s sake. That wasn’t what this was supposed to be about. This was a wager, not a date. He needed to remember that.
Several of the stalls inside the covered areas were selling Christmas-tree decorations. Carissa browsed through them and bought a snowflake made from tiny white and silver tiles. ‘I buy a new decoration for the tree every year,’ she said. ‘I guess it’s a family tradition.’
Another reason why Quinn didn’t want to get involved with her. Family traditions really weren’t his thing. Apart from the awful Christmases spent growing up, there had been the Christmas he’d spent with Tabitha and her family. A Christmas where they’d had all sorts of ‘family traditions’ and he’d felt even more out of place than he had with his aunt and uncle. He’d tried his best to fit in, but most of the time it had felt as if they’d been speaking a different language.
He’d thought that he’d managed to bluff his way through it, but once he’d overheard Tabitha’s older sister talking to her.
‘Don’t you think you ought to put the poor thing out of his misery, Tabs?’
How he’d hated that tone of pity. Condescension. How could she call him a ‘poor thing’?
‘Your bit of rough,’ Penelope continued. ‘You brought him home to make the parents squirm a bit and worry that you might actually be serious about him—well, he’s sweet, and he follows you round with those big puppy-dog eyes, but he’s not one of us, and you know you’d never stick it out.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Pen.’
He’d walked away at that point, not wanting to hear any more. OK, he might not be enough for Tabitha’s family, but he had been sure Tabitha had loved him. She’d just stuck up for him, hadn’t she?
How wrong he’d been. He should’ve stayed a bit longer and heard the rest of the conversation. And then he could’ve ended it before he’d totally lost his heart.
‘Quinn?’ Carissa said.
He shook himself. The last thing he wanted was for her to guess at his thoughts. ‘Sorry. I glazed over for a minute.’
‘I noticed,’ she said drily.
‘Sorry.’ Just to be on the safe side, he changed the subject. ‘There’s a stall over there selling Christmas paninis. Let’s go and get something.’
‘My shout,’ she said, ‘seeing as I dragged you out here.’
‘I think I can just about afford to buy you a panini,’ he said. And again he was cross with himself. Why was he being on the defensive with her? This was just a hot sandwich. Definitely not a big deal.
Maybe Carissa had picked up his awkward mood, because she just smiled at him. ‘In that case, thank you very much. Cranberry, Brie and bacon for me, please.’
He bought himself a more traditional turkey and stuffing sandwich, and used it as an excuse not to talk. They wandered round the bustle of Covent Garden for a bit longer, then headed back to Leicester Square and caught the tube back to Hyde Park.
‘So. Proof number one. Verdict?’ she asked on their way back to Grove End Mews.
‘I’m not convinced,’ he said, ignoring that unsettling moment in the middle of Covent Garden. ‘It’s not the magic of Christmas—it’s more like the misery of Christmas. Money, money, money.’
‘Don’t think I’m giving up,’ she warned. ‘I’m going to teach you to believe in the magic of Christmas if it’s the last thing I do.’
‘Princess Carissa, used to getting her own way?’ He knew it was nasty even as the words came out of his mouth, and winced. He was never like this with anyone else. He was known for not saying a lot and just getting on with his job. Why was he so mean and rude to Carissa Wylde? ‘Sorry,’ he muttered.
‘No, you’re not. You’re in denial. Secretly,’ she said, ‘I think you really like Christmas, but you just can’t admit it because you don’t want anyone to know that you might have a soft centre.’
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