#12doc

You’d found him curled up in his driver’s room and after virtually carrying him through the most painful round of interviews you’d had to sit through since you’d started your job several years ago as a PR girl he’d slunk off back to the hotel.  Something about the way those blue eyes seemed to swim with heartbreak mellowed something inside of you and before you knew it you were knocking on the door of his hotel room at midnight and barging your way in.  Maybe you couldn’t remember the date but you remembered forcing him to watch Legally Blonde, because he had no idea what a ‘comfort movie’ even was.

After that, movie night became a bit of an unspoken tradition.  After a particularly tough day George would appear at your hotel room door with a bag of popcorn and eyes you couldn’t refuse and you’d let him pick out a film and snuggle down in your bed and forget the brutal world he came from for a few hours.

You moved to Mercedes for him, your job role morphing from his media manager to personal assistant.  You both grew up, grew into the world you’d entered so young.  Bad races no longer felt like the end of the world, but you were both so used to the routine that you never questioned it when he still turned up and he never missed an opportunity.

It was in Abu Dhabi, for the final race of the season where everything changed.  George was ending his best season yet, and still riding high off the rush of his first ever win just a week prior.  Everyone was out celebrating, and you were in your hotel room putting on the finishing touches of your makeup before you went out to join them when an unexpected knock at the door made you jump.  

“Aren’t you supposed to be out?”

“Hello to you, too,”  George looked only mildly put out at your greeting, but when you’ve just beaten your 7-time World Champion teammate to overall 4th place in the driver’s championship, you can’t look too sad about anything.  “Can I come in?”  You left the door open and retreated back to where you were sat in response.  You heard the door click shut behind you and the quiet shuffle of George removing his shoes told you he’d followed you in.

“You look great,”  You sent him a closed-eyes smile over your shoulder.

“Thanks,”  He was sitting on the egde of your bed, hands folded neatly in his lap as he watched you swipe a layer of shiny gloss across your lips and make a playful kissy face at yourself in the mirror before finally turning to face him.

“Did you wanna head down together?”  You asked, head cocked slightly to the side.  George didn’t usually attend parties with you, even team events you tended to just find each other there.  He shook his head at you.

“C’mon, last one of the season?”

“Georgie boy, you’re aware everyone else has been partying for several hours already?”

“Pick a short one then,”  He’d shuffled back so he was propped up against your pillows, leaving you to crawl over and mimic his body language until you collapsed next to him.  He handed over the remote control to the TV with flamboyant circumstance and let you flick through the aimless pages of Netflix until something cheesy and terrible caught your eye.

“It’s November,”  You reasoned at his raised eyebrow in response to the movie splashed across the screen.  George simply rolled his eyes and nodded, gesturing for you to press play as he settled down besides you.

An hour into a cheesy brainrot Christmas film you’d already forgotten the name of and you were starting to feel the error of your choice.  After being steadily single for the last two years the gaudy couple finally getting together on screen were not as soothing as the bend-and-snap scene always felt.

“What?” 

“What?”  George was looking down at you, somewhere between confusion and amusement written across his pristine features.

“You’re sighing,” 

“Am not,”

“You are,”

“These people make me sick,”

“They’re characters,”  He reasoned, a grin starting to tug at the corner of his lips.

“So?  They’re making me think about another year with every Aunt, Uncle and random Cousin asking me where my new boyfriend is.  My family are obsessed,”  George made a noise at the back of his throat that you hoped was at least somewhat deep in thought.

“Mine are the same,”

“Ugh,”  He nudged you playfully.

“Ugh indeed,”

*****

It wasn’t until two weeks later you were reminded of the mid-movie conversation by George. 

I have an idea.

Four words had never frightened and intrigued you so much.  You met him at a cafe the next week.  He was wearing a cream jumper and sipping on a coffee like he owned the place.

“Go on then,”  You started, only once a gingerbread latte was situated in front of you, accompanied by an obnoxiously sweet pastry.  “What’s your grand idea?”

“Me and you,”  You raised an eyebrow at him, not following why he looked so pleased with himself over something that had been long, long established.  “Okay, listen, I’ve thought about it a lot and it makes sense.  What if I come with you to your Christmas and you come with me to mine?  We’ve worked together for so long, it’s not hard to imagine us stretching to dating is it?  I trust you, I like hanging out with you, what’s the harm in letting the annoying aunts and uncles believing there’s a bit more to it?”

For starters, you could name several harmful things that could hatch from George’s plan.  But he was looking at you with ocean eyes and batting those lashes you couldn’t pay to get close to and you already knew you were going to cave and give in, because, you could be honest, who wouldn’t want to walk into Christmas day with 6’1 of drop dead gorgeous Formula One driver draped over you?

And that’s how you found yourself over a month later, George’s fingers intertwined with yours and resting on your thigh, a gesture that had become alarmingly familiar over the last few weeks.  You were currently attending your fifth and final family event as a ‘couple’.  It was a New Years Day party, something only a family like the Russels would hold.  You were perfectly content to sit in your hangover and feel deep, deep shame for whatever things you’d gotten up to the night before under the influence of tequila shots, but no.  George’s family were up at 9am, you’d already been out on an intensive dog walk that involved nothing short of scaling the side of a hill.  George had taken your jacket (you were sweating too much to be able to wear it, even if it was two degrees) and then had virtually carried you up the final few meters to save face at the top.  You’d giggled and twisted in his arms and called him ‘babe’ and all the things you were supposed to do.

You’d had a large dinner and to wash it down the family were sat around the fire sipping whiskey and slowly getting louder and looser.  The weight of George’s hand on your lap was grounding you, bringing you back to reality as you were passed another drink, a gin for the ladies.  He squeezed gently as you thanked his great-aunt Gretel for the tipple and that sudden, shameful feeling snuck back into the pit of your stomach. 

You’d noticed it creeping up more and more frequently over the month.  It was almost predictable, because it always happened when George did something so natural you forgot for a moment you weren’t dating and your mind leapt to the possibility of it being real and tangible.  You’d never felt anything like that for him before, and you still weren’t sure you did.  But you couldn’t deny the way your stomach would swoop when he touched the small of your back as you walked ahead of him, when his eyes found yours through a crowded room just to check you were okay, when you caught him chatting to your mum as if they were old friends. 

The fire was dying, you were exhasuted, two weeks of rich food and strong drinks finally catching up with you.  Most people had gone to bed, and it was just George and a handful of people left, they were speculating over the testing for the next season.  It was all talk you’d heard a million times before and you were happy to let the words wash over you, the fire and a labrador’s head on your feet leaving you feeling fuzzy and content in a home that wasn’t yours.  You allowed your head to drop onto George’s shoulder, the material of his jumper soft against your cheek.

You felt him turn to glance at you, before letting out a low chuckle and wrapping his free arm around your waist, allowing you to relax further into his body as he continued to talk.  

The physical contact was a new thing too.  You wondered if it would have always felt so good to have him so close?  Had you missed out on years of cuddling against him during movie night, always separated by the invisible barrier of friendship?  He was a good sleeper, too.  That had been an awkward obstacle at first, there’s a certain expectation that when you bring your partner home that you’ll be sharing a bed, especially during the visiting season.  The first night George had tried to sleep in the armchair in your room, but when you’d woken up at one o’clock to see him still awake you’d invited him in.  It had started off normal enough, backs facing each other and just ignoring the warm weight of another person right besides you.  You’d woken up with George’s face buried in your neck, his arms wrapped around you and holding you tight against his chest.  You didn’t talk about it, but the pair of you just got into bed together, and you let him spoon you from the start.

“Hey,”  He nudged you gently, just enough to stir you from the cozy half-sleep you’d been in. 

“Hi,”

“Come on, we’re the last ones up, let’s go to bed,”  You nodded sleepily, standing up and stretching lazily, letting the sleeves of his jumper flop back over your hands.  They never stayed rolled up for long on your anyway.  The dog at your feet rose and stretched in time with you, you gave her a scratch on her head before she quietly padded over and flopped into the bed by the fire, which George had quietly put out. 

You followed him up the wooden staircase, trying not to giggle too much at the creeks. 

“It’s a good job they put the deaf ones by the stairs,”  he whispered, head titled in the direction of the spare room a set of his grandparents were currently staying in.  George had a big family, and you loved it.  Yours wasn’t big, but it was close.  It was nice to feel surrounded by people who loved him so dearly, and by extension, you.

You nearly walked into George, who’d stopped in the small patch of landing at the top of the stairs.  

“What are you doing?”

“Look,”  He pointed upwards.  Hanging off the lights was a wizened bunch of mistletoe.  “Mum always forgets to take one down,” 

George’s mum was obsessed with mistletoe.  You’d learnt that the hard way, and many (far too many for your liking) cheek kisses had been placed for the explicit entertainment of distant relatives.

“If you drool on my cheek again I’ll punch you in the stomach,”  you warned him, referencing the last kiss, that had been encouraged by milky-eyed Greta.  It was a good job she was losing her sight because George had thought himself funny enough to end the kiss by licking a stripe along your cheek. 

You hadn’t payed attention to the way his arms had snaked around your wasit.

“What are you doing?”  He was too close, it was triggering that swooping feeling again.  You could hardly make out his eyes in the dimly lit gloom of the darkened house.

“Would it be so bad if I kissed you?”

You couldn’t answer even if you’d wanted to.  George was fogging your mind and he was leaning closer and closer and the only thing you wanted was to taste him. 

“No,”  You whispered, so close your lips were already brushing as you gave him the word.  His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer as he kissed you properly.

It was sweet, chaste almost.  It felt revered and special and not at all how kissing your best friend should feel, you thought as your eyes fluttered shut and the swooping intensified into a surge and your whole mind and body ached for him.  He pulled away too soon, wet eyes and dopey smile giving him away.

He didn’t kiss you again until you were settled in bed, facing each other for the first time.  He let you shuffle as close as you could get, brushing a hand through his hair as he rubbed patterns along your hip.

“I’ve got an idea,”  he whispered against your lips.

“No more ideas, George,”

“You’ll like this one,”  he held your cheek so tenderly it made you want to cry.

“Tell me,”  you told him between ineffectuate pecks at his lips.

“What if it’s real, you and me?”

“I think it has been a bit real,”  it’s funny how the dark lets you admit things you’d never normally.

“What if it carries on, being real, after Christmas?  After the break?”  He was kissing your cheeks, your nose, anywhere he could reach on your face.

“I think I’d like that,”

You fell asleep against his mouth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Okay I never thought I'd be into George but this was so much fun to write and fake dating warms my s o u l

it's pretty late so i'm gonna leave you guys with this and pop in tomorrow to edit and check in

“We are not getting Sam a book of rituals,” you said, shaking your head. “He already has one, and I’m trying really hard to make sure this house doesn’t get haunted.”

“But, c’mon, he’ll love it!” Colby pouted. 

“He’d also like that jacket we know he’s been eyeing for the last month,” you said. 

“Fine. Put that in the cart,” Colby said. “Now what about Katrina?”

“I already got her an eyeshadow palette she said she’d like. So you’re on your own on that front.”

Colby looked at you, his eyes wide. “Wait, can’t we just give it to her together?”

“We can’t be that couple!” you laughed. “There has to be some individuality!”

“Fine. Then I’m getting Sam the ritual book and you get him the jacket,” Colby said. 

“Then it has to have the condition he can’t use it in the house. Say that it only works at AirBNB’s or something.”

“Deal. But, seriously, what should I get Katrina?”

You shook your head, smiling. “I’ve got a list of things she’s mentioned she would like. Take your pick.”

You pulled up the list you’d compiled and shifted so the screen of your laptop was facing him more. Colby stared at it for a few minutes, asking questions here and there, before finally saying, “Let’s go with the boots. They go with the jacket you’re getting Sam, and we both know Kat’s going to end up stealing the jacket.”

“Smart. And to think people call you the dumb one in the duo,” you teased. 

“Who says that!?” Colby asked. 

“Everyone.”

“Well that’s not very merry of them.”