Page 25 of His Until Christmas

“I’m fine.” I straighten its tassels until they’re perfect. Doing that doesn’t usually take me long. Today, I’m unable to make myself hurry while he watches. I only get my shit together when a siren screams past, then I hold the front door open. “Come on.”

He doesn’t.

His feet stay planted on marble floor tile, only now more light floods inside, I can read his expression.

He’s surprised, so I hurry back and give a tassel one last straighten and mutter, “Honestly, you’re acting like no one ever took care of you. You’re a partner in a prestigious foundation. That’s important.You’reimportant. Of course I want all of London to see how much you matter.”

Perhaps it’s good I didn’t ditch Calum’s thesaurus. This floods out as if I turn its pages.

“You’re fundamental to everything the foundation stands for.Vital.Who set up our new play projects on French beaches to keep kids busy while you signposted their parents to safer options than illegal sea crossings?”

“Me,” he murmurs.

“And who suggested Rex hire the most amazing artist to share that workload?”

“Me.”

“You,” I agree. I also take a stab at why else he arrived here looking this drawn and haggard. “You arenotout of your depth. You created a third of what we do. Rescues, play therapy, and signposting parents to safer options? You’re a natural leader. Don’t you dare forget it when you’re at parties surrounded by moneymakers.”

He blinks, silent for a long moment, before he glances over his shoulder at the study doorway. “But shouldn’t we?—”

“Hurry up and plan a party for people who could buy a fleet of lifeboats if they wanted? Who maybe shouldn’t need a party to persuade them a speedboat or two could save actual human beings?”

He neither nods nor shakes his head, so I keep going.

“Put it this way. Are you really telling me you’re in the right headspace to stroke Timothy Smallbone’s ego?”

Reece presses his lips together as if he can’t let himself lie. I know that’s what he’s doing—Rex often wears the same tight-lipped expression, which makes it a doddle to solve a second problem for him.

“Phase two of getting Rex’s head on straight involves reminding him of what really matters.” I go ahead and do that with my phone by sending a quick email before I step outsideinto icy crispness. “It always works for Rex. It might work for you too. How about you trust me?”

Reece must do.

Instead of getting down to business, I lead him through central London, and like a lamb, he follows.

7

Thirty minutesand five Tube stops later, we’re in Soho where the streets are already busy. I dodge Christmas shoppers and walk briskly towards our destination with Reece one step behind me. I only pause once we’re in Carnaby Street. “Hold on a tick, will you?”

Taking a snap of both me and what hangs high above this busy walkway isn’t easy, but Mum says Gran only really smiles if the photos I send home include yours truly, so, like it says in the PA handbook, I persist.

I also have a horrible feeling my tongue makes an appearance as I try to frame a shot to include at least part of my face.

I’m jostled not once by shoppers, but twice. A third time comes with Reece getting up close and personal, and I’m shielded.Sheltered.Carnaby Street might as well be empty instead of crowded when he says, “Here, let me.”

He takes my phone, crouches, and, a moment later, I get to send a rare shot of an iconic street sign spelling Welcomeandmy whole face.

“Thanks.” I shove my phone back into my pocket only to take it out again a few minutes later outside Liberty of London’sgrand mock-Tudor frontage. This time, I don’t even try to take my own selfie. “Sorry, sorry. Would you mind…?” I gesture up at this black-and-white timbered building. “Could you try to get the window display in as well as me?”

He does a much better job than I could have managed without him.

I cradle my phone when he returns it, and there I am on the screen, only a tiny bit mottled with pink at having an audience for what must seem oddly tourist-like behaviour from a full-time city dweller. “They’re for my gran, because…”

“London is life?” he offers.

“Yes!” I pounce on that descriptor. “Exactly. And she loves to see it.” Him nodding and those crow’s feet seeming to soften makes it so easy to get chatty about myself rather than about business. “She brought me here every Christmas.”

“To Liberty’s? Want to go in?”

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