Disclaimer- House as Santa. How much better would Christmas get? Just in case, he's not mine. I have to return the Santa suit to the rental shop

Chapter 28 -Slippery when wet

Cameron's apartment 8.55pm

Surveying the pile of bags scattered around the living room floor, Cameron decided that shopping was God's wonderful antidote to depression. Yes, the Mastercard had taken a hammering, but so what. Not her normal approach to the subject of finances, but circumstance had dictated that the only way she could possibly alleviate the sheer awfulness of her day was to hit the stores like a woman on a mission. Three tops (two pink, one lilac), three pairs of shoes (one slingbacks, one sensible and one pair of boots), assorted fragranced products (oils for the burner, bath bombs, vanilla candles etc.) a set of three glittery photo albums and four lipsticks. Oh, and a stuffed rabbit for Sarah's unborn baby. Life was definitely on the up. For now. Too tired to unpack anything other than the bath bombs, she reclined on the sofa, telling herself she would get up in a minute. Run a nice bath. Soak, unwind, let the cares melt away.

She finally prised herself from the couch, started running the bath, casually tossing in a couple of cinnamon bath bombs as she did so, and then made her way into the kitchen. Switching on the oven and putting a ready meal for one on the shelf, she allowed herself to wonder what House would be doing right now. Watching TV was a safe bet. Or listening to his music, scotch in hand. Snark on a weekend mini-break. Dinner taken care of, she returned to the bathroom, taking pleasure in the spicy aroma rising from the fizzing water. As she turned off the taps, and slid into the heavenly froth, she laid back, closed her eyes, and wished her life was simpler. Straightforward, like when she had first joined the department. Or when she was fourteen and her primary concern in life was which colour eyeshadow to put on for the high school disco.

Having dozed off, enveloped in warmth and bubbles, she was rudely awakened by the pipping of the oven timer, and a light tapping noise coming from her front door. Hurriedly clambering out of the tub, dripping wet hair trailing on her towelling robe, she faltered, unsure of which sound required her attention first. Opting for the kitchen, the insistent beeping at odds with her newly relaxed mood, she cancelled the timer before padding across the cream carpet towards the door, leaving a trail of soggy footprints in her wake.

As she opened the door, she was surprised to see Clarkson before her. Soaked to the skin. A puddle forming at his feet on the hall tiles. 'Come in,' she said, caught off guard, and too busy ensuring her robe was not compromising her modesty to utter anything more interesting.

He obliged, and gratefully relieved himself of his jacket, which Cameron took from him, keeping it at arms length before hanging it up in the warm boiler cupboard.

'Hope you don't mind me calling so late. I was over the other side of town, just met up with some fellow ex-pats and thought I'd look in on you, make sure you were ok. You've been a little reserved towards me ever since our date, and I wanted to make sure everything was all right.'

Still assessing just how ridiculously wet through he was, she smiled faintly. 'Having an open topped car has its downside, clearly.'

'Well, it wasn't raining when I left the bar, but about a block from here, the heavens opened and I got caught short.'

'Hold on.' She scurried away, leaving him there in his sodden state, before returning a minute later with a pink fluffy robe. 'Here, not your colour but will serve the purpose. Bathroom's the first on the left.'

'Oh no, I don't want to put you out, just a towel will be fine,' he said, surprised at her forwardness.

'Don't be silly, it's no bother. If you throw your wet clothes out, I'll air them, they'll be dry in twenty minutes. I'll go make you a hot drink.'

Wandering off, leaving him alone, he decided that her idea made perfect sense, and robe in hand, made his way into the bathroom. Cameron flicked the switch on the kettle, salvaged a slightly charred lasagne from the oven, burning her finger on the door in the process, and wondered what she had done in a past life to deserve such an onslaught of emotional crises. Why now? What had made him start analysing her? Yes, she'd been reserved towards him, but that wasn't his fault. He hadn't done anything wrong. Other than not being the object of her affection. Timing was lousy, he would have been her ideal if only she'd met him a couple of years ago. The sort of admirer she had spent countless nights wishing would sweep her off her pumps.

But so much had changed. Even though House (up until last night) had shown no clue that he had anything other than a professional interest in her, and perhaps, in fact, almost certainly, would never allow himself to be that exposed again, she couldn't shake him. He had raised the bar. Made her re-evaluate what she wanted and needed from a potential partner. She needed to feel the spark. And with House it was like Bonfire Night every time she stood within twenty yards of him. Tony just didn't cut it. He was too English. She used to think watching countless Richard Curtis films whilst curled up on the sofa, that it would be cute to have a Hugh Grant type holding open doors, grabbing her hand in public and taking her to the theatre. But having been lured into the convoluted web that was House's allure, she knew she needed to feel passion. A sense of danger. Alive. And for all his charm and thoughtfulness, that was never going to be Tony's strongest suit.

Making her way into the lounge with his tea, having abandoned the overcooked lasagne and settling for a milky coffee instead, she stopped to collect his wet clothes, placed his mug on the table, and made her way back to the boiler cupboard. She carefully draped the expensive garments over the airer, before returning to the lounge, to find him standing reticently by the couch.

Sitting down on the sofa, she patted the seat alongside her, inviting him to join her. She leant forward to pick up both their drinks and passed him his tea, hoping that for as long as he was occupied doing something, he wouldn't press her about her feelings. And he didn't. They talked about her day at the mall and his evening at the bar. Anglo-American relations successfully restored, they relaxed sufficiently to forget that his clothes would probably be drier than House's wit by now, and enjoyed the second half of Chicago which was showing on TV. He brought a smile to her face when he revealed that he thought Catherine Zeta Jones had a dark side which really freaked him out, she told him of her former longing to be swept off her feet by Richard Gere in a naval uniform. The cosy scenario was rudely interrupted by a loud rapping noise. Clarkson jerked his head round, unfamiliar with his surroundings. Cameron however, knew the sound all too well.

Deliberating briefly as to the wisdom of her opening the door as opposed to pretending to be out, even though her constant thorn in the side would have seen the lights were on, Cameron opted for the lesser of two evils and made her way to the door, her checking the callers identity through the spy-hole more out of habit than necessity. Who else had such priceless timing and would thump the door in such an obtuse manner.