“As to agree to marry me,” he reminded her simply, gesturing to the ring.
Her hands lifted to the necklace, a necklace that now meant more to her than she could ever express. “I don’t know if anyone will be thinking that,” she frowned. “And if they are, it’ll just be because of this necklace, this dress…” She gestured to the couture outfit Fleur had helped her choose.
“I hate that you do that,” he surprised her by saying, his tone gruff.
“What?”
“Whenever I say something nice, you contradict me. I don’t give fake compliments, Skye. If I say something, believe me, I mean it.”
She startled, the intensity of his admission doing strange things to her insides.
“I hate that anyone ever gave you reason to feel that you’re not good enough.”
“I’m different,” she shrugged.
“Everyone’s different,” he dismissed, leaning closer and brushing his lips over hers, as though he couldn’t help himself. “And thank Christ for that. Imagine how boring it would be if everyone was a cookie cutter version of the next person.” He laced their fingers together. “I like your differences.”
Her heart stammered, and as the helicopter came lower towards the earth, she tried to bring her heart down with it. She tried to remember that this was pretend, and temporary, and that soon she’d be leaving Matthieu, to return to her life in Australia, significantly richer, and oh so much poorer in the ways that really mattered.
Out of nowhere, a wave of tears moistened her eyes so she blinked furiously and looked away, hiding the emotions from him until the helicopter touched down with a gentle thud and she could trust herself to look at him again. His own gaze was focused on the home in the distance, and there was tension in his frame.
“You’re sure you want to go through with this?”
He turned to face her, his expression unreadable. “I was just thinking that it’s probably his last Christmas.” He lifted his broad shoulders. “For all our relationship can be difficult, I love him. The idea of saying ‘goodbye’…” he let the sentence trail off into nothingness and she squeezed his knee.
“I understand.” Acting on impulse alone, she wriggled closer, pressing their sides together, her heart tightening at the perfection of being so close to him.
“I know you do.” He kissed the top of her head and then moved, as the pilot came around to open the door. “Come on. It’s showtime.”
As a child,Skye had been obsessed with her mother’s copy of The Nutcracker picture book. It had a starry blue cover and such incredible illustrations, graphic and macabre but so immersive and magical. She’d flicked through it in all the nights leading up to Christmas, contrasting Clara’s life with her own, with the droning of mosquitos and the heat of the evening, the magic of the Christmas beetles and the homemade decorations—threading Jacaranda flowers onto sticks to form beautiful but temporary garlands, of making pomanders from oranges her mother had picked over winter and saved especially, of stringing pinecones together to make a rope for the tree.
But nothing—even in The Nutcracker—could have prepared her for the large-scale Christmas fest she was about to step into.
With Matthieu at her side, they crossed the threshold of the home right as Fleur moved over the tiled floor, a picture of elegance and grace in a pale dress and white jacket, dripping in gold –necklaces, earrings and thick rings on every finger. She looked stunning and chic but after their time together earlier that week, Skye wasn’t remotely intimidated. She smiled naturally as Fleur changed course, coming to meet them. For Matthieu, she had a brief kiss for either cheek, and for Skye, a deep, lingering hug.
“I’m glad to see you,” she said, pulling back to admire Skye. “This dress looks wonderful on you.”
Skye couldn’t help passing a telling glance towards Matthieu, as if to say, ‘see? I told you so.’
He volleyed it back. “My fiancé looks wonderful,” he corrected, so Skye flushed.
“That’s what I meant,” Fleur said with a shake of her head, so her long hair flew loose around her face. “I’m all over the place tonight.”
“Is everything okay?” Skye asked, hearing the tension in Fleur’s words.
“Oh, yes,” but she shook her head, her eyes lifting to Matthieu, and her lips trembling as she tried to get control of her emotions. “Olivier is coming.”
“Olivier—,” Skye’s eyes widened. “Your ex?”
She nodded unsteadily.
“Let me guess,” Matthieu ground out. “Grand-mere?”
Fleur’s laugh lacked humour. “Apparently.” She swallowed heavily. “She invited him weeks ago.”
Fleur turned to Skye, her face flushed. “So if I hang around you two all evening, I hope you won’t think I’m strange.” She linked her arm with Skye’s. “I just can’t face him yet.” The last sentence was whispered, for Skye’s benefit, primarily.
“Of course,” she responded in kind. “Consider yourself our very welcome third wheel.”