like Carissa would want more than he was prepared to give, and no way was he laying open his heart and risking it being trampled on. Been there, done that, and knew better now, thank you very much.
But she’d also frozen, and there was colour staining her cheeks. As if she was thinking about it, too—about a huge four-poster bed, and walking across the bedroom to him wearing a demurely cut white nightdress that was anything but demure because the material was sheer enough to let him see the curves of her body in all their glory...
Oh, help. He needed to get his mind off this track. Right now.
‘It’s far too cold for floaty nightdresses,’ she said, shivering theatrically. ‘Give me fleecy PJs covered in smiling red-nosed reindeer any day.’
He was glad that she’d defused the situation. Though his tongue still felt as if it were stuck to the roof of his mouth. He really hoped she didn’t expect him to have a conversation with her, because right now he simply wasn’t capable of it.
She stopped outside a beautiful eighteenth-century building, all cream stone and columns and balustrades and tall windows. ‘I give you proof of the magic of Christmas, mark two,’ she said. ‘The skating rink at Somerset House.’
The square courtyard outside the house had been turned into a huge ice rink. There was a massive Christmas tree at the front of the house, covered in lights and baubles. Music was playing—Christmas music, Quinn noted wryly, meaning that Carissa’s father’s song was bound to make at least one appearance later—and there were huge white snowflakes projected onto the surface of the ice, their surroundings lit up in different colours.
‘I forgot to ask,’ Carissa said. ‘Do you skate?’
‘I can ski,’ he said. ‘It can’t be too different.’
‘Probably not. It’s just a question of balance.’
‘Don’t tell me you did dancing on ice skates as a child,’ he said.
‘No. But my parents used to take me skating every Christmas when I was small,’ she said. ‘And, yes, I did have ballet lessons.’
Picturing her wearing a tutu was really not a good idea. Especially given that he was a novice skater; he really didn’t need an extra distraction to help him fall flat on his face.
‘“Lay on, Macduff,”’ he said.
She laughed. ‘Don’t be so melodramatic. It’s not a duel to the death. It’s Christmas ice-skating. It’s
fun
.’
She took his hand and drew him over to the entrance. And he was glad that they were both wearing gloves. He had a feeling that the touch of her skin against his would do serious damage to his peace of mind.
Being Carissa—organised to military precision—she’d already bought their tickets and their time slot was just coming up.
‘Let me know how much I owe you for my ticket,’ he said as he put his skates on.
‘Buy me a hot chocolate and a cinnamon pretzel, and we’ll call it quits,’ she said.
‘As you wish.’
She tipped her head on one side and regarded him narrowly. ‘Were you just quoting a movie at me, Quinn?’
‘Movie? What movie?’ He didn’t have a clue what she was on about.
‘Hmm. Never mind,’ she said, and skated in circles round him.
Quinn was much less sure of himself. He felt like a wobbly newborn deer, with his legs not quite under control on the ice. He wasn’t sure he could go in a straight line, let alone follow her in those circles. Particularly when she changed direction and skated backwards. ‘You’re showing off,’ he accused.
‘Showing off?
Moi
?’ She laughed, and executed a perfect pirouette, her arms up like a ballerina’s.
People around them actually clapped, and Quinn wanted the ice to open up and let him sink through it. He was just about to make a total fool of himself.
But then she took his hand. ‘Sorry. That was a bit mean. I didn’t intend to make you feel stupid. I just love ice-skating. It’s such fun.’
Again, he saw that childlike joy he’d glimpsed on her face when
But she’d also frozen, and there was colour staining her cheeks. As if she was thinking about it, too—about a huge four-poster bed, and walking across the bedroom to him wearing a demurely cut white nightdress that was anything but demure because the material was sheer enough to let him see the curves of her body in all their glory...
Oh, help. He needed to get his mind off this track. Right now.
‘It’s far too cold for floaty nightdresses,’ she said, shivering theatrically. ‘Give me fleecy PJs covered in smiling red-nosed reindeer any day.’
He was glad that she’d defused the situation. Though his tongue still felt as if it were stuck to the roof of his mouth. He really hoped she didn’t expect him to have a conversation with her, because right now he simply wasn’t capable of it.
She stopped outside a beautiful eighteenth-century building, all cream stone and columns and balustrades and tall windows. ‘I give you proof of the magic of Christmas, mark two,’ she said. ‘The skating rink at Somerset House.’
The square courtyard outside the house had been turned into a huge ice rink. There was a massive Christmas tree at the front of the house, covered in lights and baubles. Music was playing—Christmas music, Quinn noted wryly, meaning that Carissa’s father’s song was bound to make at least one appearance later—and there were huge white snowflakes projected onto the surface of the ice, their surroundings lit up in different colours.
‘I forgot to ask,’ Carissa said. ‘Do you skate?’
‘I can ski,’ he said. ‘It can’t be too different.’
‘Probably not. It’s just a question of balance.’
‘Don’t tell me you did dancing on ice skates as a child,’ he said.
‘No. But my parents used to take me skating every Christmas when I was small,’ she said. ‘And, yes, I did have ballet lessons.’
Picturing her wearing a tutu was really not a good idea. Especially given that he was a novice skater; he really didn’t need an extra distraction to help him fall flat on his face.
‘“Lay on, Macduff,”’ he said.
She laughed. ‘Don’t be so melodramatic. It’s not a duel to the death. It’s Christmas ice-skating. It’s
fun
.’
She took his hand and drew him over to the entrance. And he was glad that they were both wearing gloves. He had a feeling that the touch of her skin against his would do serious damage to his peace of mind.
Being Carissa—organised to military precision—she’d already bought their tickets and their time slot was just coming up.
‘Let me know how much I owe you for my ticket,’ he said as he put his skates on.
‘Buy me a hot chocolate and a cinnamon pretzel, and we’ll call it quits,’ she said.
‘As you wish.’
She tipped her head on one side and regarded him narrowly. ‘Were you just quoting a movie at me, Quinn?’
‘Movie? What movie?’ He didn’t have a clue what she was on about.
‘Hmm. Never mind,’ she said, and skated in circles round him.
Quinn was much less sure of himself. He felt like a wobbly newborn deer, with his legs not quite under control on the ice. He wasn’t sure he could go in a straight line, let alone follow her in those circles. Particularly when she changed direction and skated backwards. ‘You’re showing off,’ he accused.
‘Showing off?
Moi
?’ She laughed, and executed a perfect pirouette, her arms up like a ballerina’s.
People around them actually clapped, and Quinn wanted the ice to open up and let him sink through it. He was just about to make a total fool of himself.
But then she took his hand. ‘Sorry. That was a bit mean. I didn’t intend to make you feel stupid. I just love ice-skating. It’s such fun.’
Again, he saw that childlike joy he’d glimpsed on her face when
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