Falling For Mr. December

She’d wanted a relationship, not a straightjacket. And being protected in such a smothering way had made her feel stifled and miserable, even more than when the men she’d dated had backed off at the very first mention of the word ‘cancer’.

‘So when do you take this kind of shot?’ Nick asked.

‘When I get a day off, I walk round London and find interesting things. And sometimes I go to the coast—I love seascapes. Especially if a lighthouse or a pier’s involved.’

‘And you put your pictures on the internet?’

‘I have a blog for my favourite shots,’ she admitted.

‘So did you always know you wanted to be a photographer?’ he asked.

‘Like most kids, I didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do when I grew up,’ Sammy said. ‘Then, one summer, my uncle—who was a press photographer before he retired—taught me how to use a proper SLR camera.’ Nick didn’t need to know that it was because she’d been cooped up in one place, the summer when she’d had treatment for osteosarcoma; she’d been bored and miserable, unable to go out with her friends because she had been forced to wait for the surgical wounds to heal and to do her physiotherapy. Uncle Julian had shown her how she could get a different perspective on her surroundings and encouraged her to experiment with shots from her chair. ‘I loved every second of it. And I ended up doing my degree in photography and following in his footsteps.’

‘A press photographer? So you started out working for a magazine?’

‘For the first couple of years after I graduated, I did; and then the publication I worked for was restructured and quite a few of the staff were made redundant, including me. That’s when I decided to take the leap and go freelance,’ she explained. ‘Though that also means I don’t tend to turn work down. You never know when you’re going to have a dry spell, and I like to have at least three months’ money sitting in the bank so I can always pay my rent.’

‘And you do weddings as well?’ He pointed to one of the other photographs.

‘Only for people close to me. That one’s Ashleigh, one of my best friends, on Capri last year.’

‘It’s a beautiful setting.’

‘Really romantic,’ she agreed. ‘The bridesmaid is my other best friend, Claire. She and I went to the Blue Grotto, the next day. It was for a commission, I admit, but I would’ve gone anyway because the place is so gorgeous. You had to lie down in the boat to get through the entrance, but it was worth the effort. The light was really something else.’ She flicked into another file and showed him some of the photographs. ‘Look.’

‘I like that—it’s another of the sort of scenes I’d like to have on my wall,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘Like that misty seascape in your living room. That’s the kind of thing I like to shoot at dawn or dusk. If you do it with a long exposure, the waves swirl about and look like mist.’

‘That’s clever,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘No. That’s technique. Anyone can do it when they know how.’

When their food arrived, Sammy put her laptop away while Nick brought out plates and cutlery.

‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘Thanks for the offer, but I’m driving so I’d rather not. A glass of water’s fine, thanks.’

He poured them both a glass of water from a jug in the fridge—filtered water, she thought. Nick Kennedy clearly dotted all his I’s and crossed every T.

‘Help yourself,’ he said, gesturing to the various dishes in the centre of the table.

‘Thank you.’ She noticed that he eyed her plate when she’d finished heaping it. ‘What?’

‘It’s refreshing, eating with someone who actually enjoys food.’

‘That sounds as if you’ve been eating dinner with the wrong kind of person,’ she said dryly. ‘Most people I know enjoy food.’

‘Hmm.’

She finished stuffing one of the pancakes with shredded duck and cucumber, added some hoi sin sauce and took a taste. ‘And this is seriously good. I haven’t had crispy duck this excellent before. Nice choice, Mr Kennedy.’ She paused. ‘As we’re going halves on this, how much do I owe you?’

‘My house, my hospitality, my bill,’ he said. ‘No arguments.’

‘Thank you.’ Though there was more than one way to win an argument. Maybe she could print one of her seascapes for him, the one he’d really liked, to say thank you for the meal. ‘So you like modern art rather than, say, reproductions?’ she asked.

‘Some. I’m not so keen on abstract art, which probably makes me a bit of a philistine,’ he admitted.

‘No, you like what you like, and that doesn’t make you a philistine—it makes you honest,’ she said. ‘And your taste is quite diverse. I’m assuming they’re original artworks, given that one of them is acrylics?’

He nodded. ‘I like to support local artists where I can. There’s a gallery not far from my chambers. The gallery owner gives me a call if something comes in that she thinks I’ll like.’

‘That’s fabulous. It means both the artist and the art-lover win. Well, obviously, and the gallery owner, because she gets her commission.’

‘Something like that.’ He paused. ‘Can I ask you something personal?’

Her heart skipped a beat. From his body language and the way he’d relaxed with her, she had a feeling that the attraction was mutual. Was he going to ask her out?

And, if he did, would she have the courage to act on that attraction and say yes?

‘Sure,’ she said, affecting coolness.

‘Your hair,’ he said. ‘What you said about me being in the military—is that why your hair’s so short, too? You spent time in the Forces?’

The question was so unexpected that she answered it honestly before she realised what she was saying. ‘No. I have a crop like this every two years.’

He blinked. ‘Why two years?’

She could try and flannel him and say that it was a fashion statement, but he was observant. She was pretty sure he would’ve picked up the cues. ‘Because it takes that long for my hair to grow twelve inches.’

He looked puzzled. ‘Why do you need to grow your hair twelve inches?’

‘Because seven to twelve inches is what they need for wigs,’ she said softly.

The penny dropped immediately. ‘You donate your hair?’

She nodded. ‘There’s a charity that makes wigs for kids who’ve lost their hair after chemotherapy. My sister Jenny and I have our hair cut together every two years. We normally get people to sponsor us as well, and the money goes to the ward so they can buy things for the kids. You know, things to keep them occupied and cheer them up, because being stuck in hospital isn’t much fun—especially when you’re a kid.’ The hair cut before last had been on the actual day of Sammy’s test results. She and Jenny had celebrated the news with a hair cut and a bottle of champagne.