Page 32 of His Until Christmas

Heat rises, hot and probably as mottled as that video showed me, and I can’t look up until he takes one of those sticky-note pads from me, writes something on it, then pushes it back across the desk at me.

Valentin took the video down.

I look up in a hurry. “He did?” The reason why strikes me just as quickly. “You made him.”

He shrugs. “I asked him how you might have felt to have a private moment taken out of context. I’m only sorry I didn’t see it right away.”

My throat shrivels at the thought of him watching me shuffle Post-its.

“Jack, you could have?—”

“Told you?” I shake my head. “No. There was stuff at the start of the video about the foundation. Some nice footage of—” I stop myself from sayingyou. I imagine he guesses. That grey cast of his has a hint of pink when I meet his gaze again. At least that means my neck isn’t alone in being rosy when he takes over talking.

“Seriously, I haven’t had to gather this much data since writing up my thesis. There’s so much more involved than I expected.” He touches one of the location-related notes spread out by my laptop. “Liability insurance. Accessibility provision. Entertainment and music licences. I didn’t even know we needed a licence to screen foundation footage at fundraising events. All of this comes naturally to you?”

“Being organised?” I stack sticky notes in colour order. “What’s that debate you psychology types have? Nature versus nurture?”

He nods, looking interested, which is better than grey, so I keep going.

“I’m probably a bit of both. Yes, I didn’t have a great time at school, so I fucked up my final exams and didn’t get the grades for uni, but Gran was always my best teacher.”

“When you were even littler than you are now?”

I hear his smile without needing to see it. I also channel Sebastian.

“Sizeist.”

My coloured stacks of paper are also a muddle of different sizes. I get busy solving that messy problem and tell him, “Seeing her run a big house was good training. She used to plan everything and only needed coloured pens and pencils and anotepad to do it, but if you want to see real organisation, you should see how she keeps busy since retiring.”

“How?”

“With spreadsheets.” I point at the laptop screen. “This is nothing. Hers make my eyes cross. You should see her biggest one.”

“I’d like that.”

“To see my eyes cross or to see her biggest spreadsheet?”

He laughs, and that’s better. He also says, “Both,” which is a weird time to realise a single word can sound as easy to sink into as a pillow. He adds, “What data does her biggest one collect?”

“Rom-com locations. I’ve already taken photos for her where key scenes were shot here. Mum says she has a new page for ones set in NYC. And a whole page dedicated to where she visited with Gramps when they honeymooned there.”

Reece’s face doesn’t exactly fall.

I don’t have a word for what I see across this desk. I do notice the darkness outside the study window. Night has arrived while we’ve been busy. “It’s time.”

“For you to relocate?” I’ve seen colour drain from his cheeks several times today. This is the first time I hear an audible version. “I…I thought you hadn’t interviewed yet or made your mind up.”

“I haven’t. I meant that it’s time for you to get ready for this evening’s banking ball.”

“Ball?” He blinks as if he’s forgotten. “What time do we have to be there?”

“We? Oh, there isn’t a plus-one on the invite. Rex doesn’t need me at parties.”

His face does fall now, so I hurry to add, “How about I come in the cab with you? Talk you through who’s best to tap up for donations.” I dart out of the study to grab a suit carrier. “You can change into this, if you didn’t bring a?—”

“Tuxedo?”

“For the love of mud, don’t let Smallbone hear you call it that.” I show off silk lapels. “This is a dinner jacket. Bespoke tailoring. All part of the upper-class code.”

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