Page 33 of His Until Christmas

“Code?”

“Yes. How they tell new money from old.”

“Can the foundation afford bespoke tailoring?”

“Nope. It doesn’t have to. This is one of Arthur’s.” No way would Reece’s shoulders fit into anything in Rex’s wardrobe. “Vintage Armani. Timeless. Anyone who knows their couture from their off-the-peg will know it’s the real deal the moment they see it. Go try it.”

He heads upstairs to try on party glad rags I’m pretty sure he hates when he returns a short time later. I don’t know why. He looks…

Amazing.

I rummage in the desk drawer for a pair of Heligan-crested cufflinks. Reece must have had a quick shave. Must have borrowed Rex’s aftershave as well. It’s familiar, and smells fucking fabulous on him. Maybe a little too fabulous. I inhale so deeply we could be back where this whole mess started.

We’re chest-to-chest and only a tilt of our heads away from the kind of contact we agreed couldn’t happen again.

I step back.

He stops me. Although not by holding me tight. I could leave him right here if I wanted—only Reece holds out a strip of black silk and says, “Help me tie this?”

I do, and I keep on helping all the way to a glittering and grand venue complete with a red carpet.

Cameras flash outside this maritime museum in Greenwich as our cab waits in line, and I give Reece a last-minute pep talk.

“You’re standing in for an earlanda duke. If anyone snubs you, mention Rex’s name and ask how they know him. Say you’llmention them to him. Even better, mention Arthur. Word will soon spread that you have the ear of a peer of the realm and are important.”

He chuffs, so I rephrase as the cab creeps closer to those camera flashes. I also swivel in my seat to check his tie isn’t crooked, which means I can’t avoid seeing how his eye contact isn’t only stormy. It’s worried. “Youareimportant,” I insist. “They just don’t know it yet.”

He asks a simple question. “Rex really finds this easy?”

“Networking at parties? Yes.”

I’m not so quick to answer his next query.

“And he enjoys it?”

Lately?

No, Rex hasn’t, and right now, as our cab reaches the head of the line, I’m convinced Reece won’t either. If I had to pick a word to describe him, tortured fits as perfectly as his borrowed Armani.

Of course it does. Because someone he thought was a friend but who betrayed his trust said he wasn’t red-carpet worthy.

Now I watch Reece straighten in a reminder of the hero at the helm of a lifeboat I saw in a photo this morning. He’s prepared to face a challenge that might sink him all over again, and who the fuck knows why that gets me moving.

I meant to leave him here. What I actually do is scoot out of the cab before him to brief this cohort of photographers from society and financial publications. “Don’t miss Reece Trelawney.” I spell his last name. “That’s right, Trelawney. A tremendously old Cornish family with connections. He’s doing great things for Safe Harbour, the foundation set up by Lord Heligan and his Grace, the Duke of Kara-Enys.” I turn to point Reece out to them, my gaze almost skimming straight past a square-jawed stranger who looks every bit like he belongs here.

Reece could be a film star.

Not one of this phalanx of photographers would guess he’s actually a fish out of water.

I see it oh-so clearly.

He thinks he’s going to fuck this up.

That insight draws me to him before the cameras can start flashing, and maybe it isn’t entirely professional to slip a hand behind him, but no one will pay attention to a mousy PA beside his more glamorous employer. They won’t be able to tell I rub his back and gently steer him, or hear me say, “I’ve never walked a red carpet even once my whole time here. Be nice if I got to send Gran a photo. Mind if I walk it with you?”

Reece exhales as if he’s held his breath forever, then murmurs, “Of course.”

We walk, cameras flash, and it’s everything I imagined until our moment in their glare is over.

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