From his perspective, it felt like a lot had changed. Not with him – well, not outwardly with him, or his circumstances; though perhaps something had shifted, just slightly, internally – but Poppy was very different. Maybe not internally in her case, but externally at least. Because a year ago she had still been an exuberant schoolgirl, brazen and bashful at once; now, it was almost impossible to see her as anything else but the perfect debutante, an elegant young lady, with all the airs and graces and blossoming confidence of a woman who had the whole world at her feet and yet demurely kept that knowledge to herself, like the thrill of a secret in her chest.
She was that flourishing young woman now, merry and vivacious, more sparkling and bubbly than all the champagne in the room. But, for some reason, Poppy Dashwood had still sought him out. She seemed, for want of a better word, to – like him. Unaffectedly. (“And why wouldn’t she? Why wouldn’t anyone?” might be his gut instinct there, a well-trod defence, but it was still nice not to need it, once in a while.)
“Start stepping on my toes and I’ll be forced to add vengeful to the list of your flaws,” Kristoffer replied, just as playfully, just as lacking in bite. After he’d observed her thoughtful expression and little sigh, he added, “As long as tonight doesn’t end the same way as last year, I suppose I won’t complain.” The slap, he meant. He knew they had agreed to forget the slap and the kiss that had earned it, both, but it would be senseless to think it had ever sincerely slipped his mind. Not many acquaintances started out such. That wasn’t the reason he remembered it so well, but it was his excuse.
“There is something different about this evening, though,” Kris added, trying to distract himself from thinking back to then by eyeing the other guests in the room. “Don’t you think a few people are being – weird?” There was some rather forward flirting going on just over in their earshot that was enough to make his expression twist up in light disgust – and there was a married man who looked like he was going to be slapped sooner or later, too. (Well. Rather him than Kris.)
She was that flourishing young woman now, merry and vivacious, more sparkling and bubbly than all the champagne in the room. But, for some reason, Poppy Dashwood had still sought him out. She seemed, for want of a better word, to – like him. Unaffectedly. (“And why wouldn’t she? Why wouldn’t anyone?” might be his gut instinct there, a well-trod defence, but it was still nice not to need it, once in a while.)
“Start stepping on my toes and I’ll be forced to add vengeful to the list of your flaws,” Kristoffer replied, just as playfully, just as lacking in bite. After he’d observed her thoughtful expression and little sigh, he added, “As long as tonight doesn’t end the same way as last year, I suppose I won’t complain.” The slap, he meant. He knew they had agreed to forget the slap and the kiss that had earned it, both, but it would be senseless to think it had ever sincerely slipped his mind. Not many acquaintances started out such. That wasn’t the reason he remembered it so well, but it was his excuse.
“There is something different about this evening, though,” Kris added, trying to distract himself from thinking back to then by eyeing the other guests in the room. “Don’t you think a few people are being – weird?” There was some rather forward flirting going on just over in their earshot that was enough to make his expression twist up in light disgust – and there was a married man who looked like he was going to be slapped sooner or later, too. (Well. Rather him than Kris.)
