Page 12 of His Until Christmas

I take Rex’s phone and dial Smallbone’s number.

“Mr. Smallbone? This is Lord Heligan’s personal assistant. So sorry to disturb you, sir. I know your time is precious.”

I glimpse Rex gagging and have to close my eyes before he makes me laugh midway through a call that I hope will make a difference.

“And I know your board of directors already agreed to make a donation to Lord Heligan’s foundation, so I thought you mightbe interested in hearing about how we intend to publicise their generosity. How? By holding a celebration party. Where? That’s yet to be determined. Perhaps on the island of Kara-Enys, in the duke’s castle.”

Rex frantically shakes his head. He’s right to. His grandfather would never agree to share his home with someone this oily.

I speak quickly before Rex can cut me off with that truth. “Regardless of location, it will be an extremely exclusive event.” It’s also bogus. There is no celebration planned, and the duke would rather eat glass than host Smallbone, but I’m all in on this lie now.

All in?

These party details come so easily, anyone listening might think I’d already spent months planning, But Gran was a housekeeper for a lord and lady when I was little. I watched her make magic every Christmas for them. I also crack one eye open to see Rex crossing his own at me for real, so I close my eyes again and keep earning myself more coal from Santa.

“Oh, you hadn’t heard about the celebration? Yes, that’s because…” I think so hard my tongue actually does meet the tip of my nose. “Because organising it is a last-minute leaving present to the foundation from me before I relocate. To where? New York, most likely.” That’s putting the cart before the horse—I won’t formally interview until that partner visits London the week after next, but it does get the conversation back on track. “This gathering will be limited to the foundation’s best donors. It should be a fantastic evening for the biggest contributors. A chance for the great and the good to mingle.”

Anyone who has worked in London’s financial square mile knows that Smallbone’s real currency is social climbing. He so loves to network that I’m surprised he doesn’t wear crampons to work.

“That’s why I hadn’t contacted you until now.” I do my best to sound sorry. “Because the donation from your bank hasn’t yet reached the foundation.”

I let him huff and puff some excuses before I go for broke.

“I quite understand. Your PAhaslet you down.” I open my eyes purely to roll them at Rex, then get back to my fictional party planning. “That’s why I’m calling, sir. Because I can only send out the foundation’s photographer to take publicity headshots once the cash is deposited.” I lower my voice. “I shouldn’t really tell you this, but another twenty thousand or so would put you right at the very tippy top of the list.”

Rex stills, barely breathing as children draw more emotions behind him. His own is easy to name. It’s the same desperate hope I’ve seen in photos of Cornish rescue missions, so I push through with another lie, and this one is a whopper.

“If we receive the donation today, of course your photo would be on all the invites and publicity materials.” I wet suddenly dry lips. “Maybe even beside the photo of his Grace, the Duke of Kara-Enys.”

Men like Smallbone are surprisingly easy to bait. He’s always been gutted that his family doesn’t have a title. Give him a chance to lord it over someone who does? He jumps at the chance as soon as I add, “A significant additional donation would put your photo right above his grandson, Lord Heligan.”

Bingo.

“Oh?” I aim for surprised. “You’ll personally finalise the donation right away?” I steal Rex’s word of the day. “Fabulous.” Then I pause. “Oh, but you’ll supply your own headshot for the publicity packet?”

That’s just as well. My offer of a photographer was also bogus, part of a web of lies I go ahead and tie in a neat bow for Rex’s future PA to deal with.

“That’s absolutely fine, and no hurry. Like I said, the potential date isn’t fixed yet. We’re hoping for before Christmas or sometime in the new year.”Or never.“Thanks so much, Mr. Smallbone, and a very merry Christmas to you.”

I’ll never forget Rex’s expression when I end the call.

It’s too complex to draw on a Post-it and too sweet to belong to a jaded banker. I’m so fucking glad he’s leaving that world behind him. I’m also on an instant high—I really do love solving problems for Rex. And for Reece, it turns out.

He still works with the children. Now Reece holds up a sad face drawn on a sticky square of paper. “I feel like this sometimes.” He models so much more than a sad expression.

Fuck, he looks heartbroken.

It’s so authentic that I can’t help doubting Rex’s not-boyfriend assertion.

Reece even sounds it, and I hate to hear this heartache from him. “What could I do if this feelingwasmine?”

Hands shoot up, but I’m already shouting out my solution for a heart that won’t quit aching. “You could hide it.”

That’s essentially what I’ve done for what feels like forever, and children giggle, but I’m not sure the feathering around Reece’s eyes expresses humour. “Or, Jack?”

He’s asking me to try harder.

Heat rises, that throat-clambering Judas.

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