Page 9 of His Until Christmas

Here’s what I don’t have to contend with whenever we message each other one word at a time—Reece’s concern is genuine and way too soft for this sparkly but sharp-edged city. It tempts me to admit the real bad news would be him working in close confines with someone who caught text-based feelings.

For him.

I settle for squeezing past Reece to peer through a hallway window. These panes of glass are scattered with paper snowflakes and crayoned Diwali candles that obscure my viewof one of London’s premier, and soon-to-be ex, private bankers. He sits cross-legged on a grubby carpet surrounded by little children who show off their own artworks, and fuck knows why I’m as gritty as that flooring. “I’m only worried about my lint roller. It has its limits. If he gets glitter in his ears again, he’s on his own this time.”

“This time?” Reece joins me at peering through the hallway window. “Tell me about the first time? Or at least tell me how you organised these sessions at such short notice.” He almost sighs this. “I need to learn the ropes if I’m going to run half the foundation with him.”

This is a man who has also sent me words likepositiveandstrengthandpowerful. It’s the first time I’ve heard him uncertain.

Here’s a second example.

“I’m only used to making rescues and the one-to-one therapy that follows,” he admits. “This organisational part is all new to me. I don’t want to get that wrong, or the fundraising element Rex is desperate to offload. I can’t mess that up when lives depend on me finding more money.”

He edges closer, his shoulder miles and miles above mine, our arms not quite touching. When I look up, I’m tempted to give him a good long cuddle like I’m a Heligan with zero impulse control around golden retrievers.

He really is worried.

Forget single-word exchanges. Reece asks a three-word question that might as well be an SOS signal from someone already sinking.

“Help me, Jack?”

And me?

I’m the muppet who really wants to.

3

Thankfully,I’m saved by the bell before making that offer. Or at least, I’m saved by my phone pinging again.

I usually protect Rex’s time. Guard it like Gramps once guarded Buckingham Palace. Today I pounce on a chance to swerve Reece’shelp merequest by interrupting my boss mid-talk—a decision that also staves off Reece’s suggestion that we stop texting each other.

Reece will stop, though. And he’ll be right to.

Here’s the real truth.

I should have been the one to suggest it.

I want to escape that guilty feeling. Maybe that’s why I rap on the door more loudly than I need to before swinging it open.

Inside, every head turns.

“Lord Heligan?” I hold up my phone. “Sorry, I just heard from Timothy Smallbone’s PA.” We both grimace, but Smallbone still holds the purse strings to a large donation. According to Rex, he’s been a dick since their shared school days. This donation isn’t even Smallbone’s money, but nothing makes him happier than making Rex beg for every penny.

“Sorry,” I repeat. “He’s demanding you call back. I don’t think he’ll wait.”

These children won’t wait either, a point that Rex makes as he gets to his feet. “Keep them busy for me? Play a little game until I can get back?”

“Me?” Unlike wielding my lint roller, entertaining kids isn’t in my skill set, and a sea of little faces study what probably looks like horror on me.

“No,” Rex says on his way out. “I meant Reece, but now you mention it, go ahead. That way Reece can listen in on my call.”

I follow him out into the hallway, prepared to argue until Rex says, “Reece, you’ll need to learn how to handle slippery knobs like Smallbone.” His nose wrinkles. “Christ, what a mental image.” They stride down the hallway together.

Just as quickly, Reece turns back.

“You’ll be okay in there with the kids, Jack?”

“Of course I’ll be okay.” I do what Gramps suggested for scary moments, mentally swishing an imaginary Horse Guard cloak around me for protection. Not that children scare me, but?—

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