12 Days 'til Christmas ✓

chapter nineteen

"Nope. I appreciate good food too much."

"Student life is what propelled me into a newfound appreciation of good food," he says as he reaches across the coffee table for the iconic tartan box of Scottie dog shapes. "Though I'll always be a total slut for shortbread."

"Can you be a shortbread slut who doesn't take eight years to roll the dice?"

"All right, snarky bum." He tries to kick me but considering we're both sitting on the floor around the coffee table, at a right angle to each other, his foot barely has an impact. "Come on, lucky eight."

He's after Marylebone Station, the sole property that neither of us have landed on. I have Fenchurch Station and he has the other two, and we're at something of a stalemate until either of us buys it. He rolls a four, and his shoulders slump when he lands on Pall Mall.

"Yes! That'll be seven hundred and fifty, thank you very much."

"I think the reason this is supposed to be a big family game is that it's supposed to cause huge arguments because they distract from rent collection." He grumbles as he counts out the cash, like it'll make a different to him, and shunts it across the table.

"Manners, please, little tenant. You'll lose your deposit, acting like that."

"Are we still talking about the game?" He cocks an eyebrow at me. "Was I supposed to pay you a deposit?"

I shake my head, laughing quietly to myself, though nothing is ever really to myself when he's so close, barely a few feet between us. "Your company is deposit enough," I say. Casper's face lights up, his eyes twinkling like he's about to say something inappropriate.

"Kalamik 'aa-sal 'aa-la galbi," he says.

For all I know, that is inappropriate.

"Okay, I think I'm getting better at this," I say, though it's only been a few hours since I learnt he speaks Arabic. "That means ... I'll let you win at Monopoly and then we'll be even."

"Wow, quick learner." He passes me the dice. "Wait, we're not even already? So I do owe you. I thought so. I'll take you out for supper when the snow melts."

Never mind the snow, it's my heart that's melting right now. That sounds suspiciously like a date, I think, my hopeful mind latching onto every little thing he says. But that's just how Casper talks. That's how he is – he's a charmer; he has good chat. This is how we've bantered for years, I have to remind myself. It doesn't mean a thing.

"Sounds like a plan," I say. "Now tell me what you said. Kala ... something."

"Kalamik 'aa-sal 'aa-la galbi," he repeats, his words like a warm embrace, his voice softer when he speaks Arabic, as though he's sharing a secret. "Your words are honey on my heart."

I'm not a swooner, usually favouring logic and pragmatism over romance and mush, but dear lord I think I'm swooning right now. I've gone all gooey-eyed and jelly legged and I just want to forget the game and pull him into a hug and finally know what his lips feel like, what his kiss tastes like.

I've been quiet too long. I can feel my face tracking through the colours on a Dulux paint chart, steadily darkening from peach to pink to beetroot red.

"That's cute," I manage to stammer at last. "Kind of beautiful, actually."

"I think so," Casper says. "It's a beautiful language. Everyone raves about Spanish and French and Italian, but I think Arabic is the true language of love."

Is that a hint?

"Oh yeah?" I say, if only to get him to keep talking. I'm holding the dice, the game in my hands, but I don't want him to roll.