3. Angel

Chapter three

Angel

“ M ace, you’re going a little overboard, don’t you think? We really don’t need all these decorations.” I glance at the colossal warehouse trolley she pushes in front of her. If she adds a couple more boxes to that stack, she won’t be able to see over it. It is overloaded with nearly every Christmas decoration in here. My dad handed us his Costco card and told us to fully stock and decorate the pub. Mace, annoyingly, took his words literally and went running.

Much to my displeasure, I am now involved in helping her with the decoration purchases. I couldn’t leave her alone to do it; despite my prayers that she would tell me to wait outside or go get a coffee while she shopped. She believes this will spark some inspiration in me for my project assignment.

She’s wrong.

At the moment, all I’m inspired to do is hope that something large and heavy falls from a top shelf and flattens me like a pancake.

“Omg! We have to get this,” I cry.

“Oh, what is it?” Macey walks to where I’ve stopped. I see a flicker of excitement in her eyes, which I can only assume is due to me finally mentioning a purchase, but then she hisses, “No chance, you freak,” before storming back to her abandoned cart.

“It would be unconventional, but I think it would make the pub stand out.”

As she turns, her hand finds its place on her hip, and her brow lifts. “Putting a Christmas hat on Ghostface won't attract people to the pub. They’ll think it’s some emo shack with people popping pills.”

I chuckle quietly to myself. I find pleasure in getting a rise out of her. She shakes her head and guides the trolley down the aisle until she comes to a halt in front of a ten-foot inflatable Father Christmas.

“Oh. My. God!” she shrieks.

I increase my speed to catch up with her. “Absolutely fucking not. No. No. And NO!” I make it clear that we are not going home with this.

She waves her hand at me and takes out her phone. “Shh.” After capturing an image of the item in question, she furiously taps on the screen. I stealthily move closer to her and glance over her shoulder.

“What are you…” I gasp. “You’re asking my dad. You sneaky little bitch.”

I receive no response as she persistently taps away on her phone. While she waits for a reply, she stares up at Father Christmas with a mesmerised expression on her face, as if she has already decided exactly where it will go. Her phone pings and she glances at the screen.

“Kane thinks it's great but says it won't work outside the pub because we won't have anywhere to tie it.” With a pouting expression and a wrinkled nose, she strolls down the aisle, resembling a child about to have a tantrum.

Praise the heavens that Dad had some sense.

I shoot Father Christmas one last disgusted look before trailing after her.

I observe the customers around us and notice how joyful they all seem. Why don't people act like this all year long? Why do presents and decorations have the power to make everyone happy?

Christmas has always irritated me for this exact reason. It seems artificial and excessively exaggerated. People often pretend to be happy even if they're not and they waste an absurd amount of money. I wouldn't necessarily use the word ‘hate’ to describe my feelings towards Christmas, but it’s all too much. And this year, I have to spend it with Mace, so I think it will be worse than ever.

My eyes keep scanning the shop floor, taking in the abundance of red and the combination of green, gold and silver, which is irritatingly beautiful.

I let out a grunt of pain as I collide with a solid object. As I raise my eyes, I come face to face with a broad back that is double my size. I stare at the taut white shirt, on the verge of tearing from being stretched across the clearly defined rippling muscles. My gaze continues, eventually fixating on his dishevelled yet stylishly arranged brown hair. I’m hit with the need to feel it with my fingers.

Without warning, a meticulously maintained stubble catches my eye, before dark hazel eyes capture me. It feels like time slows down when he looks at me. He squints, and little lines appear around his eyes, making my stomach tighten. His smile is bright and his teeth sparkle. I can't look away. This all looks too familiar.

Am I currently dreaming? Could this be a figment of my imagination?

A frown appears on his beautiful face, causing the laughter lines around his eyes to become less prominent. I realise I’ll do anything to get that smile back.

He moves closer, standing tall above me. Wow, he's massive. He must be at least 6 ft 5.

“Angel?” The screech of my name resonates in my ear. I briefly close my stinging eyes that were open and unblinking for too long and refocus.

This is not a dream. I’m still, in fact, in Costco, but that beautiful smile is now back and those gorgeous eyes are still there, and holy shit…

“Snap out of it. What's the matter with you?” Macey's eyes are wide when I finally turn my attention back to her. “I’m sorry, Mr Hayes. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

Wait, did she really say Mr Hayes?

My stomach sinks.

She did. She did because Mr Hayes is currently standing in front of me.

The man who stirred butterflies in my stomach during school lessons. The man who ignited a fire in me every time he spoke—the man who created my passion for writing. I've been standing here, completely fixated, as my old English teacher stands right in front of me.

Fantastic.

Fabulous.

Fuck!

“Uh, I'm, uh…” I lower my head, my gaze fixed on the ground, praying for it to open up and consume me entirely. I never learned how to talk to him without blushing, and now that I'm near him, my cheeks feel like they're on fire. Being around him is apparently still too much for my body to handle because there's a familiar stirring in my stomach.

“Angel?” His voice, rough and deep, sends signals to my core between my thighs, leaving behind a deep ache that I thought had long vanished.

I wince as there’s a sharp jab to my side. Mace is likely just as embarrassed as me about my behaviour. In school, she thought it was hilarious, but now we're both eighteen, this shouldn’t be happening.

Raising my head, I inhale deeply. His eyes, like shards of auburn crystal, pierce through me, leaving me breathless. He has always been handsome, but now he's unbelievably captivating. The grey that now shines through his brown hair and the days-old stubble really, and I mean really , does it for him. He looks older, but in a good way. I have never found an older man with what is the start of grey hair attractive, but he just took the crown for that because, wow, just wow. I’m doing it again. Shit.

“Hi.” Hi? That is all I have after all of that. For fuck’s sake. “Sorry, Mr Hayes,” I quickly rush out, desperately searching for an excuse for my probably obvious reaction to seeing him. “Late night, last night. I can't seem to stay focused.” I grimace and briefly glance at him before turning my attention to Mace, who looks at me with a dumbfounded expression.

With a less-than-subtle gesture, she shakes her head, indicating that I need to handle and resolve this. I glance back at Mr Hayes, who wears a smirk, suggesting he is aware of why I’m so flustered. He must not be bothered by the fact that I was just checking him out. I guess he is no longer our teacher.

“Angel.” He acknowledges me with a nod, his smirk transforming back into that wide grin I love so much. The ache between my thighs intensifies once again. Fuck, I need to get laid to get rid of this feeling, but who am I kidding? I’ve never got laid. Thinking about him is the only time I experience this feeling. Thoughts of him cross my mind while I am in bed and my fingers creep beneath my sleep shorts, or when I’m showering and decide to use the shower head between my legs. I can only reach orgasm when I visualise him.

As I try to shake off my frustration, Mr Hayes raises an eyebrow.

“Are you zoning out again?” A smirk plays on his lips while his eyes twinkle. He's definitely messing with me.

“I guess I’m a lot more tired than I thought.” I give him a restrained smile, hoping Mace will catch on and find a way to get us out of this situation. Despite my efforts, she continues to ignore me and focuses her attention solely on Mr Hayes.

“Merry Christmas, Mr Hayes,” Mace says way too cheerfully, her grin so wide her eyes squint into tiny slits.

He extends his hand. “Please, Macey, we’re not in school anymore. Call me Carter,” he informs her. “Merry Christmas to you both.” I meet his gaze and try to hide my nervousness, swallowing to combat the dryness in my throat, hoping he doesn’t notice my blushing face. I must blend in with all the red decorations in this shop.

“You got any plans this Christmas, Carter?” Mace asks, his name so casual on her tongue. Calling him that would feel too casual for me. I can hardly even make eye contact with the man, let alone be familiar enough to call him by his first name.

“None at the moment. I'm here to restock on cases of wine and beers and some Christmas stuff for my mum.” He gestures towards his trolley, which is much smaller than the one Mace is pushing. He diverts his attention to Mace's trolley.

“It seems like you ladies are putting a lot of effort in this Christmas. What plans do you have?” With his gaze shifting between Mace and me. I keep quiet, trusting my bestie to do what she does best and direct the conversation.

“Oh, Angel's parents run a pub, and we’re stuck managing it while they’re away. Makes sense since we live upstairs. We’re on the hunt for decorations today. Since we're open on Christmas Day, we should make it as festive and enjoyable as we can. I want it to feel like home from home for everyone who has booked, but just with them being waited on instead of having to do it themselves.” Mace's wide grin stretches across her face as she rocks back and forth from her toes to her heels. Mace's excitement is palpable.

I don’t realise that I must be wearing my festive-hating feelings on my face until Mr Hayes turns to me and asks, “Are you not looking forward to working on Christmas?” My tongue feels swollen, but I can't embarrass myself any further by keeping quiet.

“It's not really about my work,” I try to explain, but Mace cuts me off before I can say anything else.

“She has a strong hatred for Christmas.” Squinting, I turn my gaze towards her. People's reaction are consistently dramatic upon discovering my disdain for the holiday. Was it necessary for her to tell Mr Hayes?

With a twitch of his mouth and raised eyebrows, he signals for me to continue.

“Christmas isn't really my thing, that's all.” I roll my eyes. “Seriously,” I wave my hand dismissively, “it's excessive and just another way for people to go broke.” Beside me, I can hear a loud yawn and witness Mace theatrically fanning her hand against her mouth. “ Yes , I know what you think, Mace.” I poke her in the side, causing her to squeal and quickly move away from me. Mr Hayes appears to be trying to suppress his smile as he watches our playful interaction.

“Is there anything you find appealing about Christmas?” he questions in an unbothered manner, free from judgment. Just asking out of curiosity, I suppose. Despite my shy smile, I can't resist sharing what's on my mind, even after eating a whole box today.

“Candy canes.” I grin.

He brushes his thumb across his bottom lip slowly, and my eyes can’t help but track every small movement he makes. I wonder what his lips feel like. I glance up and his eyes are fixed on me before he chuckles and gives a slow nod. “I wasn’t expecting candy canes, but I get it; they are delicious.”

With a smug grin, I direct my gaze at Mace. According to her, they taste awful and resemble toothpaste.

Mimicking her earlier words, I deadpan, “Mace has a strong hatred for candy canes.” Once more, Mr Hayes chuckles and then grabs onto the handles of his trolley.

“I enjoyed seeing you both, but I have to go.” He smiles and the moment of feeling normal around him washes away quickly, the wave of awkwardness drowning me again. I give him a shy finger wave and a closed-mouth smile.

“Bye, Mr Hayes.”

“Bye, Carter,” Mace shouts louder than she needs to be. “I hope you have a wonderful, jolly Christmas.” Spinning on her heels, she giggles while turning her attention to more decorations. I lower my chin and start to walk away, but then there is the gentle touch of fingers on my sleeve, grazing my arm. My head pops up and my eyes land on Mr Hayes. His fingers move to dance over the sliver of skin exposed on my wrist.

“I forgot to ask,” he says quietly, his eyes bouncing between mine. “What is the name of your parents' pub?”

My breathing falters. Oh God. Don’t tell me he is going to turn up one day. One side of me doesn’t want him to, but then there’s a part of me that would do just about anything to see him again.

“Uh … it’s called The Black Rose.”

“The Black Rose.” His whispered words remain suspended in the air as his breath gently caresses my cheeks. I’m not sure when, but he seems to have got closer to me. I remain in place. My gaze fixed on him. The scent of his aftershave is so captivating, I would willingly bathe in it. Is it considered creepy if I move closer and take a quick sniff of him? No, yes, that would be weird. Stop.

“Pretty name.” His gaze sweeps across my face, and his attention takes my breath away. I think I've completely forgotten the art of breathing. We stand in silence, our eyes locked in a heated stare that stretches on for what feels like a never-ending minute. I'm startled by a distant crash, causing me to break the connection. He steps away from me, and I dramatically release the breath I had been holding in my throat. Once again, he clutches his shopping cart, a small smile appearing as he murmurs, “See you around, Angel.” Without looking back, he walks away, leaving me stunned.

What the fuck just happened? Did I create all of that in my mind? Was that the start of my fantasies taking over my brain with how he looked at me?