It's Not You, It's Them. Portia MacIntoshЧитать онлайн книгу.
me up against the wall. I lock my legs around his waist. Suddenly I can appreciate the plus points of crotchless, peephole underwear – I can keep it on and still have sex, and it does just enough to hide my small body hang-ups.
***
Lying on the bed, exhausted, elated and covered in a gross mixture of strawberry jam, peanut butter and sweat, I exhale deeply.
‘That was amazing,’ I tell him. ‘You’re amazing.’
‘You weren’t so bad yourself,’ he tells me. ‘And you shaved your legs for the occasion.’
‘I did… wait, you notice stuff like that?’ I ask.
‘Of course,’ he laughs. ‘You really think I didn’t feel how prickly your legs were every time I ran my hands up and down them for the past two weeks?’
‘I really did think that,’ I tell him.
‘I know you did,’ he laughs, rolling onto his side, resting his head on his hand as he faces me. ‘I read your article.’
I sit up straight.
‘Oh, you’ve already seen it?’ I ask, pointlessly. ‘Erm… what did you think?’
‘That I’m more observant than you give me credit for,’ he replies.
‘So you’re not mad?’
‘Am I ever?’ he laughs. ‘So is that what all this was in aid of?’
‘Kind of,’ I reply. That’s what the extra effort was for, but it’s not exactly out of character for me to jump on him the second he walks through the door after work of an evening. I think I’m freaking out today more than usual, though, because I can’t get the thought of meeting his parents out of my head. I’m scared to put a foot wrong – although somehow I don’t think my seducing their son by smothering my body with spreads usually reserved for toast would buy me much favour with them, do you?
‘You’re too good for me,’ I tell him. ‘Right, I suppose I’d better make you some dinner.’
As I make the grand gesture of pulling myself to my feet, Mark grabs my wrist and pulls me close, squeezing me tightly.
‘Before you go, I spoke to my mum today – she’s invited the family to visit for Christmas. I figured we could go see your mum and dad, then head up to the Dales, spend the night there – give everyone the good news about us getting engaged!’
‘That would be awesome,’ I tell him, smiling widely like I do every time I remember we’re engaged.
‘We’d be travelling back on Christmas Eve, but we’re all prepared for Christmas anyway, right?
‘We are indeed.’
I glance at my engagement ring, only to realise it’s covered in jam.
‘OK,’ I laugh, ‘I really need a shower. Then I’ll make dinner.’
Wriggling free of Mark’s grasp, I slip my expensive, spread-covered underwear off, throwing my bra and kicking my knickers to one side.
‘I could do with a shower, too. I feel dirty,’ he calls after me. ‘Whack it up to full, I’ll be right behind you.’
‘You’re not going to need… all that this weekend,’ Mark tells me as he carefully places balled-up pairs of socks into his overnight bag.
I glance up from clipping my stocking to my suspenders.
‘Erm, I do need “all this” because I have to wear stockings on my super-white legs, because someone won’t let me use fake tan any more.’
‘To take a leaf out of your book, here’s a list of three reasons I won’t let my girlfriend use fake tan any more… Number one: it smells so bad – like you ate a spice rack and then threw it up on your legs. Number two: our white sheets and towels are no longer white. Number three: you…’
‘All right, all right.’ I wave a pair of Mark’s white boxers in the air to show surrender. ‘I get it, you think I’m gross.’
‘If you’ll allow me to finish,’ Mark starts, sitting down on the bed behind me. ‘Number three: you’re perfect as you are.’
‘Even with my ghostly white, white legs?’ I ask, a huge grin spreading across my face.
‘Yes,’ he replies, taking my chin between his thumb and finger as he kisses me gently.
My grin dissolves into a sigh.
‘Come on, what’s up?’ Mark asks me as he gets back to packing.
I sit down on the bed and cross my legs, running a hand through my hair as I try to find the right words.
‘I… I’m nervous about meeting your family,’ I admit.
‘What? Why?’ he asks, surprised. ‘They’re going to love you.’
I know he’s right. It is his family, after all, so he knows them better than anyone. I guess I’ve just watched too many movies.
‘That said…’ he starts, ‘are you sure you’re packing the right kind of clothing? They keep saying it’s going to snow. Shouldn’t you pack some flat boots of some kind?’
‘I haven’t weather-proofed my new Uggs yet, so I can’t wear those’.
‘So you’re just going to wear heels?’
I shrug casually. He knows I am. But I only need to get to the car and back, it’s no big deal.
As I stuff the last few things into my overnight bag, I struggle with the zip.
‘Help me out here, buddy,’ I demand, pouting my lip a little. ‘I’ll hold it tightly, you pull it.’
‘That’s what she said,’ my cheeky fiancé jokes. ‘OK, here we go.’
Mark’s bulging biceps come in handy all the time. If I need a jar opening, he pops the lid off like it’s nothing. When it comes to bedroom antics, he can throw me around the room with ease. And it’s pretty much guaranteed that no one will dare harass us in the street because he looks like he could crush someone’s brain with one effortless headlock. I know that he’s a sweetheart, who probably wouldn’t really know what to do in a fight, but the hours he spends in the gym deceive everyone and he looks as tough as he is strong. Yep, usually Mark’s strength is useful, but not today. Today my hubby-to-be pulls the zip with such strength it rips clean off my bag.
‘Oh, shit, I’m sorry. It just came off in my hand.’
‘That’s what she said,’ I reply, echoing his cheeky joke. He was only trying to help; I can’t be mad at him. I do have a problem now, though. ‘Erm, OK, so I’ll…’
‘No, you stay there – I’ll go grab you another one. You finish getting ready,’ Mark insists, grabbing his keys before kissing me on the forehead and dashing out of the door.
‘Thank you,’ I call after him.
Living in the city centre has its perks, like being able to go out and buy whatever you need, whenever you need it. I’ve lived in London my entire life so it’s all I know, but Mark still finds it amazing when he can get a pizza delivered to his flat at three o’clock in the morning.
I can’t wait to see where he grew up. As much as Mark prefers city centre life, he talks fondly about growing up in Rippledale – a village in the Yorkshire Dales I’ve never even heard of. Apparently it’s tiny, remote and in the middle of a valley, so the mobile phone signal is sparse.
I’ve never actually been to Yorkshire before so, in my head, I’m only going on what I’ve seen in Emmerdale – not