Louise Bentley is a feisty, wild, 'let's-go-to-Capri-for-the-weekend-yeah?' kind of girl. She spends her days working at a party-planning company. Oh, and she never wants kids. Ever.
Ben Langford is a studious, quiet, 'I'm-busy-reading' sort of man...
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This, Ben thought, was absolute carnage.
He scanned the room. Louise, Ella, and Ophelia were drinking champagne, wearing matching purple paper crowns. On Louise's lap, Vienna ripped into a present, squealing as she unearthed a pair of glittery shoes. Hugh was examining two red trains — one for him, and one for his imaginary friend, Wally.
"Put it on the tracks, Hugh," Andrew said. "You see how well it moves?" He took a blue train, pushing it around the tracks.
Andrew was lying on the floor beneath the Christmas tree, surrounded by chocolate wrappers. Ben grinned. He'd never thought he'd see the day that Lord Andrew Hazelton-Scott would be prone on their living room floor, zooming trains around a wooden track.
Christmas truly was a magical time.
Ben pulled out his phone. Snapped a picture.
Andrew shook a mince pie at him. "Don't tag me in that."
"Of course not," Ben said, sending the photo to every WhatsApp group he could think of. "I wouldn't dream of it."
"Langford—"
"Darling," Ophelia said, turning to Andrew, "we got those trains for Hugh."
Her boyfriend took a bite of mince pie. "I'm just demonstrating."
Ophelia sighed. "You're stealing his toy, Andrew."
"We're sharing."
"I'm no detective, Scott," Max called, "but it really does look like theft, from where I'm sitting."
Max was sprawled on the couch, munching on a plate of gingerbread biscuits. Ella was curled up on his lap. She was chatting to her brother Rory and his fiancée Margaux over FaceTime, saying something about Rory's terrible reindeer socks.
Ben yawned. How was it only nine o'clock in the evening? The kids had woken them up before dawn to open stockings, and he was surviving solely on caffeine and a lot of Baileys. Louise rose, pressing a mug into his hands.
"Here," she murmured. "I added extra this time."
"Coffee," Ben said, "or alcohol?"
She winked. "Both."
Ben gave her a grateful look.
Andrew rolled on to his back, holding up a piece of mangled track. "Can I get a screwdriver? And a large glass of whisky?"
Ben rose. Screwdriver. Where the hell was the screwdriver? He poured a glass of whisky, opening kitchen drawers at random. He couldn't remember the last time he'd used it. To set up the tables for Vienna's birthday? No. It had to be more recent.
A thought occurred to him.
Ah.
He'd used it just this week. To unscrew Hugh's bed, and move it back into Vienna's room, for the sake of appearances. Then Ben had set up a cot to make it look like he was sleeping in there.
