You Can't Hurry Love

Chapter Thirty

She was staring at us gobsmacked and I watch as her hand moves slowly to sweep a lock of jet-black hair that had fallen in front of her face, the movement giving me enough time to take her in as she continues to gaze reproachfully upon her son.

She was pretty, very much so, but I assumed she would be with a son who looks like Lincoln. Her skin had the same gorgeous olive tone as his and her face, although looking slightly harassed right this moment, was makeup-free and bright, something I can only achieve after several painstaking minutes scrubbing at it with my exfoliating brush. No way does she look old enough to have a twenty-six-year-old son.

Her husband on the other hand was not what I was picturing at all. I don't know why but from how Lincoln had made him out to be; a cunning wife stealer who'd swept in and wickedly snatched her from her loving family, I was expecting a bit more of a devilish Lothario, with chiselled cheekbones and slippery gel on his dashing salt and pepper hair.

The man who was staring back at me however didn't have slippery gel in his salt and pepper hair. In fact, he didn't really have much hair at all. I don't know what I'd been imagining but this wasn't it. He looked . . . well normal, really. With a round friendly face and a comical Christmas jumper that stretched across his plump belly depicting Father Christmas stuck face down in a chimney pot. The overall effect made him seem, rather likeable. (Which is easy enough for me to say, of course. This man didn't come in and steal my mum from her husband.)

He was waiting behind his wife with a pallid look on his face, shooting us furtive glances as he reaches out a hand to steady her, something that doesn't appear to be missed by Lincoln.

'What are YOU doing here?'

I wince at the sharpness of Lincoln's tone and I can tell his mother is taken aback by it too as her eyes flicker for just a moment to her daughter who was standing nervously by her leg, peering up at Lincoln through bashful eyes.

The atmosphere becomes strained within seconds and although I'm trying my hardest not to look directly at him, I can see Lincoln's form growing rigid beside me, his arms reaching across his chest to rest there defiantly as he fixes his unnerving gaze upon his mum.

I feel for her instantly. Her eyes that mirrored her sons so perfectly were wide with the shock of this chance encounter, several creased lines had formed on her brow as she tries and fails to conceal her emotions and, in my haste to ease the palpable tension between them I smile, something which gets lost amidst the boisterous crowd filing out of the tent around us.

'We, er, we came to take Luka to see Father Christmas,' she replies tentatively, reaching a hand down to pull her daughter closer to her. Whether to keep her safe from the many bodies now filtering past us or to protect her from Lincoln's icy reception I don't know but my heart was physically aching at the sight of this young girl, acting as if her older brother was nothing short of a stranger to her. 'I've been trying to call you. I actually sent you a few messages asking if you wanted to join us, but I didn't hear anything back.'

'I must have missed them.'

Lincoln's voice, cold and detached, was enough to make his stepdad scoff disparagingly, his jaw clenching in annoyance and Lincoln eyes him reproachfully, daring him to say something.

I falter, wondering whether I should intervene when his mother speaks up again.

'Oh,' she says quietly, nodding her head sorrowfully. 'Well, I was going to ask you when I saw you the other day but you left so suddenly.'

'I'm sorry, that was my fault,' I speak up and his mother looks at me for the first time, blinking rapidly as if only just noticing that I was even there. 'Er, I needed Lincoln's help with . . . something. I had an emergency at home and Lincoln came to make sure that I was okay. I'm sorry-'