One Chance (The Rhythm of Life : Chapter 8 | The Christmas Party or John flirts with Margaret and she flirts back)
Saturday: December 23, 2006
John Thornton ducked behind the Christmas tree that stood in the large front foyer and leaned against the cool glass of the full length window. Somehow the cold helped shut out the constant noise of inane chatter, the clink of ice cubes in glass tumblers, and the soft tones of Christmas hymns. John allowed him to relax—just enough to catch his breath.
His mother only ever hosted the one party and he felt it was a small price to pay. It was John's Christmas gift to her after all, and she never asked for anything else. So once a year he put on his best suit, combed his hair, and pretended he didn't feel like a damn fool trussed up like a penguin. It still didn't mean he had to like it.
John chuckled to himself and glanced up into the night sky. It was snowing again, the dusky yellow purple clouds swirling with bright dancing flurries. He'd spent two hours shoveling the walk and drive earlier today, and normally he'd grumble about all his hard work being undone. But the snow provided the perfect excuse for him to send the gaggle of guests packing and reclaim his home—and his sanity.
Before he could move to find his mother, John's sharp ears caught the faint creak of a footstep on the stairs. He straightened. Margaret Hale, her hands full of the thick satin green of her skirt, softly tiptoed up the curving staircase to the second floor landing, her hair glinting in the low light. John watched her shoot a tentative glance over her bare shoulder at the people below, a curious half smile on her face.
John flicked a glance at the small groups of his guests slung about the decorated rooms, enjoying their after dinner cocktails. He should tell his mother the weather was starting to turn and send them home. John rubbed his chin, his glance stealing back up the stairs where Margaret had disappeared. He also should have better sense than to set his sights on a spitfire of a woman like her.
But John was always doing things he shouldn't.
He pushed himself away from the window and followed after Margaret, quick and silent as a cat. At the top he held his breath and listened for the distinct whispering rustle only a fancy-ass dress makes.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and moved quietly down the hall towards the guest room his mother used for storage. He'd all but told her he was interested in pursuing Margaret and she'd grudgingly accepted the fact—all the while pointing out the glaring differences in their ages. As if John wasn't aware that Margaret was only just a legal adult.
But he still couldn't find a good reason to give a shit, except that people would talk. And John stopped caring what everyone thought about him years ago. Everyone except Margaret. He'd started to consider about her opinion more and more until it got under his skin, always a ghost of a thought in his mind. John found himself wondering what she would say about everything. He still couldn't quite figure out when that had changed.
John sidestepped the floor board in front of his mother's room that always let out a moan like a dying whale, then stopped in open doorway of the guest room, and peered inside. Margaret stood with her back to him, studying the pictures hanging on the walls. Her small hands were tucked behind her, the fingers lightly tangled together.
John flexed his right hand, the skin pricking. He'd exchanged a cordial handshake with Margaret earlier in the evening, but it wasn't exactly something to write home about. He knew he needed more—something to tell him he wasn't losing his damn mind in thinking—hoping—that Margaret Hale could want him as much as he wanted her.
He cleared his throat, his lips twitching as she spun, embarrassment making her flush scarlet.
"How long have you been standing there?" She demanded.
"Are you hiding?" John stepped into the small room, parrying her question with his own.
"Not exactly," Margaret dropped her eyes, still blushing. "I'm not terribly fond of parties."
"We've finally found something we can agree on, Miss Hale," John forced himself to look around at the pictures and stacks of books before turning back to Margaret. "I hate parties."
"Of course you do." She giggled, "Is there anything you actually like, Mr Thornton?"
John smiled a little and stepped closer. "Christmas."
"Everyone likes Christmas." Margaret shifted a little to the right and he stepped with her, never dropping his gaze.
"Coffee."
"Caffeine addictions don't count." Margaret stepped to the left.
Again, John stepped with her, enjoying the little dance they were engaged in. "Solitude."
"Mr Thornton, I think you've uncovered a second thing we have in common."
"Is that why you're up here?"
"Guilty," She pressed her eyes closed, holding back a laugh, "I hope you'll forgive my snooping. I just needed a moment to myself."
"Don't apologize," John said. "I was hiding behind the Christmas tree."
"Were you really?"
He nodded and Margaret snorted. He chuckled as she unsuccessfully tried to swallow her laughter.
"Sorry," she cleared her throat and started to move past him. "I ought to get back."
John put out a hand, gently grasping her arm before she could slip away. He may as well have touched a hot stove top, his skin burning at the contact. Margaret glanced at his hand on her arm and then met his eyes.
"What are you doing?"
But even though her question was accusatory she didn't pull her arm away. John didn't let go. He'd bet the whole damn farm knew exactly what he was doing.
"Mr Thornton, I asked you a question."
"I heard you." He leaned in, as if sharing a great secret. "My name is John."
"But you're also a tall handsome man wearing a suit," Margaret stepped forward and John moved with her, stepping backwards, "I think you must be Mr Thornton tonight."
"Am I handsome enough to insist you use my name?" John raised his eyebrows, a smile breaking over his face.
"Maybe."
"Try it."
Margaret stepped forwards again, and again he moved with her, still keeping hold her arm. She eyed him, barely keeping her own amusement at bay. "What are you doing—John?"
"Flirting."
"Aren't you a bit old for such a frivolous activity?"
"I thought I'd give it a try." He moved closer, erasing the last bit of distance between them, "How am I doing?"
"Not too bad," Margaret replied, straightening her shoulders, but she held her ground. "I'm sure there are many young women here tonight who would be quite flattered by your attentions. Anne Latimer especially."
"Would she?"
"I think she would. From what I heard, you're especially attentive at New Years Eve."
"Good thing it's Christmas then."
"There's always mistletoe," Margaret pressed herself closer. "I'm sure Anne wouldn't mind being caught by you—"
"What about you?"
"I make it a practice never to be caught anywhere."
"Like now?" John smiled slyly, letting his hand slide slowly down her arm to her waist.
Margaret glanced down and then raised her eyes, a slow languid look that twisted his stomach into a knot, "You're quite good at flirting when you try, John Thornton.
"I'm a little rusty."
"This is rusty?"
"I don't practice much."
"Neither do I," she breathed, fingering the front of his jacket. "But here we are."
"Now who's flirting with who, Miss Hale?" His voice was barely above whisper.
"Your fault, not mine," She smiled at him, a teasing glint in her eyes, and John's heart hammered against his ribs. "You're a very bad influence."
"Do you want me to stop?"
"No," she admitted slowly, sounding surprised by her own admission. "Not really."
"Why not?"
"I'm curious and—" she ran her hand over his jacket, "I'm quite enjoying myself."
"That's a third thing we have in common."
"Imagine that."
"I bet we can find more if we tried."
Margaret shook herself a little and shifted towards the door, "We need to return to the party."
"Do we?"
The question hung between them, a tantalizing possibility. John raised his hand and brushed her cheek with the tips of his fingers, gently sliding his hand over the soft skin until he could tilt her face up. He didn't want to let go of this moment. Not yet. Not ever.
"John—"
"Maggie," he bent down bringing his face closer to hers. "I know I'm an asshole, but—give me one chance. Please."
"All we ever do is fight—."
"We don't have to."
"But we will anyway."
"We're not fighting now." John grumbled, brushing his thumb against her hair.
Margaret took a small shuddering breath. "Are you—are you going to kiss me then?"
"I'm thinking about it."
The muscles in his arms and back ached as he held himself still, waiting.
"Alright," Margaret shivered but she inched closer, leaning her face into his hand, "One chance, yeah?"
It was a soft kiss, a little hesitant, a little clumsy, but it burned its way into John as if Margaret's lips were a white hot branding iron marking him as hers for the rest of his damn life. Margaret's cheeks were warm under his hands and her lips indescribably soft. He cradled her face like he held the most precious thing he'd ever found. The one kiss was soon followed by a second, a third—hell, John lost count as each moment of contact blended together into a hungry exchange between them.
John couldn't think of one damn reason to ever stop kissing Margaret. So he didn't—and neither did she. Somehow he managed to shrug out of his jacket without letting go of her, tossing it aside.
"I thought you said only one," Margaret breathed, still kissing him.
"One chance," he grumbled. "Not one kiss."
They stumbled backwards and John's head hit the corner of a picture frame. It tumbled from the wall but he barely noticed. Margaret jumped, and pulled back, her breath coming in gasps.
"Bloody hell, John—" She scooted away from him, her hands flying to her hair. More than a few of her hairpins had been lost in the exchange. She hurriedly picked them off the floor, putting herself to right, muttering under her breath, "Yeah, alright, so that just happened."
John bent and retrieved the fallen picture. The glass was cracked. He made a mental note to replace it before his mother discovered it. Then he picked up his jacket, dusted it off, and put it on, straightening the cuffs. The white rose his mother had pinned to his lapel was crushed. He grinned, feeling a little drunk even though he hadn't had a drop of alcohol all night.
"Aren't you going to say something?" Margaret asked, her voice soft and hesitant. "Or are you the kiss and run sort?"
"No," John tugged her close and rested his forehead against hers. "If you don't go, I might just kiss you again."
"And then what?"
"And then we'd be in real trouble," he murmured, brushing her lips with his. "Because my bedroom is just down the hall, and my self control is shot to hell by this dress you're wearing."
"Or," She shivered, inching back a little, "Or you could ask me out, take me on a proper date, yeah?"
"I don't really do proper, Maggie."
"Try it, John," Margaret raised her chin, attempting to look serious, "and I promise to wear this dress for you again sometime."
"Do you?" He raised his eyebrows.
She nodded.
Besides the handful of dates he'd gone on with Lucy Jo Perkins in high school, John wasn't really the dating type. But he was going to make the best of his one chance, before Margaret changed her mind. John sighed, buttoned the top button of his jacket, neatened his tie, shoved his hands in his pockets, and cleared his throat.
"What are you doing tomorrow?"
"Decorating the tree with my father."
"Do you like Handel's Messiah?"
"I like the bits I've heard."
"Good." John held out his arm, his skin pricking underneath his jacket when she took it. "I'll come over for lunch."
"That's not a date, John—"
"Trust me," he gave her a slow crooked smile, "I'll make it good."
He could wait for tomorrow. And he could certainly wait to see Margaret in this dress again, preferably without interruption. John wasn't sure how long that would take, but it would be worth it.
"Do you—do you plan on kissing me—again?" Margaret stammered, blushing. "Tomorrow I mean."
"Hell yes."
"Good."
AN: I think that's a wrap, lads. Unless someone out there is dying to suggest another little snog between our favourite idiots. Let me know in the comments. Cheers.