‘You’re the same old Dev, are you?’ I asked, leaning against the kitchen top as he deftly chopped the carrots, the turned-up cuffs of his white shirt straining against his strong forearms, and I had to remind myself I was only impressed with his culinary skills and not the way the muscles in his arms moved under his skin as the knife moved up and down. ‘Still listening to The White Stripes and reading Terry Pratchett?’
‘Why would anyone give up the classics?’ he replied, the corners of his mouth edging upwards. ‘Still the same, a bit more focused maybe. I’m a more concentrated dose of Dev.’
I pinched a chunk of carrot from the cutting board as he opened the oven door then tossed the rest of them in with the parsnips. Chomping it thoughtfully, I watched him shake the baking tray and check on the turkey. Dev had found his focus whereas I felt so diluted. Life had watered me down. He closed the oven door and turned to face me, one side of his mouth quirked up into a half smile.
‘I think about getting in touch with you all the time,’ he said slowly. ‘Can’t tell you the number of times I’ve looked you up on Instagram.’
‘Then why didn’t you?’ I asked, my heart fluttering in my chest at the thought of Dev Jones sat at home, typing out my name. ‘Scared I’d leave you on read?’
‘Yes, exactly that,’ he replied. There was something else about him that hadn’t changed, he was still honest to a fault. ‘People say social media makes it easier to stay in touch, but I think it makes it easier to drift apart. No one forgot about phone calls or letters but it’s too easy to miss a DM or forget a text, isn’t it? Emails get lost in the inbox all the time. Before you know it, it’s too late to reply.’
Such wisdom from a man who once almost lost an eye trying to see if he could straighten his lashes using my GHDs.
‘I can’t believe we lost touch the way we did,’ he added. ‘I really regret it, Gwen. We were such good mates.’
‘Me too,’ I said, leaning backwards against the sink and forcing myself to meet his gaze. ‘I definitely could have done a better job of replying to your emails.’
‘And I could have put more effort into sending more than one line a week.’
We exchanged awkward smiles, the air partially cleared.
‘Right, where are we at?’ Dev clapped his hands, sending out a jolt of energy and clearing out the Eeyore energy that had descended on the kitchen. ‘Carrots, parsnips and pigs in blankets, tick, tick and tick. What now?’
‘Roast potatoes, mashed potatoes, gravy, Yorkshire puds, sprouts or stuffing,’ I replied, pushing away a mountain of unresolved feeling and turning to the huge pile of veg still on the kitchen table. ‘Pick your poison.’
‘Roast and mashed potatoes?’ he replied with a whistle. ‘The decadence of it, Baker.’
‘It’s Christmas,’ I said, attempting to toss a potato from one hand to the other and promptly dropping it on the floor. ‘If you can’t double up on carbs on Christmas, when can you?’
‘Argued like the brilliant lawyer I’m sure you are,’ he said, scooping up my fallen spud and pressing it into my hand. ‘Let’s do this.’
An hour later, Dev unrolled his sleeves and fastened the buttons at his wrist, flexing his fingers as I looked around the clean kitchen. The oven was full, the fridge was empty and a golden-brown turkey sat under a silver foil tent beside the sink.
‘I really should get going,’ he said before pointing at the bird. ‘Don’t forget, she needs to rest for twenty minutes.’
‘Me and her both,’ I said, completely knackered. Who knew cooking was such hard work? I made a mental note to hug my microwave when I got home. ‘Thank you so much, I genuinely couldn’t have done this without you, it’s incredible.’
He ducked his head with faux modesty, a dismissive noise coming from somewhere in the back of his throat. ‘Don’t mention it, I love to cook and Mum never lets me,’ he replied. ‘How come you ended up on lunch duty anyway? Isn’t this your mum’s forte? I always loved her cooking.’
‘It is,’ I confirmed. ‘But she needed a Christmas off. Actually, I think she needs more than one day off. She does everything for the family and we just let her, no questions asked.’
‘But isn’t that what mums do?’ he replied. ‘Take care of the family?’
‘If you’re lucky enough to get a good one,’ I agreed. ‘But it certainly isn’t all they do and they shouldn’t be the only ones doing it.’
‘Good point, well made.’ He pulled on his coat, patting down his pockets for his phone and his keys. ‘What are you doing tomorrow? Why don’t we go to the pub, have a proper catch-up?’
The idea of tomorrow itself was enough to make me swoon.
‘If I make it through today, I’d love that,’ I said, wiping my hands on my ridiculous apron, dreaming of a cosy corner in a country pub, cuddled up with Dev Jones. He was right, I really hadn’t changed all that much.
He paused at the door, one hand on the handle, and looked up with a grin.
‘What is it?’ I asked, following his gaze.
Oh.
Mistletoe.