Page 34 of His Until Christmas

I come down to earth at the foot of stone steps leading to the entrance of this party.

“Okay.” I drop my hand. “This is as far as I can go.”

“You aren’t coming in?”

“No plus-one, remember? I’m off the clock now, but you’ll be fine. Just don’t forget to talk up the foundation.”

He nods. “I’ll do my best.”

I hand him Rex’s invitation. “I know you will. You’ve got this.”

Reece nods one more time, then heads up the steps of a venue full of potential donors. His tight hold on that invite is the only sign he’s nervous.

I can’t un-see it.

The door opens, Christmas tunes and conversation billowing out like the huge breath I see Reece huff.

The sound of money being made and music playing will cut off as soon as that door closes behind him. He turns back before that can happen, but he must trust myyou’ve gotthisaffirmation the same way he trusted me this morning by following me across London.

Those massive shoulders straighten again and he heads inside, only this time I’m the one who follows.

I can’t help it.

I’ve never run up a set of steps faster or been more brazen. There still isn’t a plus-one on the invitation I snatch from him. That doesn’t stop me from yodelling a greeting to another PA, who thankfully remembers me from shared meetings. Her nod means the doors open for both of us.

Reece is startled. He’s also relieved, and I witness repeats of that relief as we circulate and I give him pointers.

“See that huddle.” I point out a group. “They’re London’s biggest financial players. Chief financial officers, portfolio managers, and a couple of Treasury Department heads. The man right at the centre is Clive Simpson. He’s actually human for a CFO.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because his PA likes him. Go ask him how his son is enjoying university. Marine biology. He’s studying gulf streams. Could lead into you mentioning how the island is in the path of one. Then you can bring up?—”

“The foundation. And how the currents bring boats our way. Got it.”

He goes, and as soon as he’s safely chatting away about all things Cornish, I get busy dropping nuggets of information to other PAs.

So what if I take Smallbone’s name in vain by mentioning how much he’s donated. My phone pings with meeting requests that I forward to Rex along with a surreptitious shot of Reece in the thick of a conversation with high-powered budget-holders.

I have a good long look at my phone screen before I press Send—at Reece, who must be talking about kids for his smile tobe this gentle. My phone is almost knocked out of my hand when music plays and bankers and wealthy clients get busy on the dance floor.

On TV, they’d pair up to waltz in sophisticated circles. In real life, their dancing is surprisingly sweaty and energetic, no doubt fuelled by the marching powder I see snorted in corners of this grand ballroom.

Reece also looks a bit hot under the collar when he finds me.

“Someone just offered me coke.”

“And you said?”

“Yes, I’d love a pint. Because I’ve talked myself dry.”

I don’t mean to laugh. After a moment, he does too. He also admits, “This is nothing like I expected. I mean, I can talk about what we do for kids and families, no problem. The asking for cash part…?” He shakes his head. “I know they’re both vital. I can’t judge how to strike a balance. I’ll try harder at the next party.” His gaze fixes on a night-dark window, and all I see is longing.

“Need some fresh air?”

“God, yes.”

I find some for him, and he breathes deeply the minute I close a door behind us in a courtyard we only have to share with the moon and stars and shadows.

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