Page 37 of His Until Christmas

Maybe that shows.

Reece tilts his head. “You okay?”

I nod.

I’m not, but I do know that the chair on Reece’s side of the desk creaks much less uneasily today, and that’s how I want to leave him—as easy in his skin here as he is in Cornwall and with children.

That doesn’t stop me from shifting in my own seat or from doing something that Rex would beetle his eyebrows over if he saw it.

I knock over neat piles of sticky-note pads and send pens and pencils rolling by leaning over the desk to do what any good PA would never—I invade Reece’s space when I’m on the clock and should be professional. My only saving grace is that I ask permission before taking over the laptop. “Can I?”

“Please.” He sits back as I open a spreadsheet already filled with potential venues. I preened when I put this list together. Now I second-guess each colour-coded option. “None of these are as impressive as the castle.”

Reece nods. “But it’s Arthur and Rex’s home. I can understand why they don’t want to open it up to just anybody like…”

“Smallbone?”

He nods. “And it would take a whole flotilla of boats to sail this many guests over to the island. The rehab centre is off-limits too. A London location makes sense if I’m going to try to raise a ton of money.” His hand brushes mine to open the guest list tab.

I could move mine out of the way to make space.

I don’t.

I leave it right where it is for him to cover with his own. His voice is as warm as the squeeze he gives my fingers. “Still wish I didn’t have to decide without you here to help me next year.”

Why the fuck did I tell Rex I was leaving?

The answer is as clear as the Cornish seawater painted on a huge canvas hanging behind Reece.

Because I thought this was one-sided.

That it was only me who wanted more than a daily message.

It wasn’t. I’ve never been more certain, and all it took was what Gran promised.

So what if a single night of twirling with a handsome hero at a glittering ball makes me as mushy as she was about Gramps? All I know right now is that I could have a little weep, like when the big boys trapped me on one end of the seesaw in the school playground.

I couldn’t get off that seesaw without a long drop that hurt. The same will happen if I change my mind about exchanging big-city bright lights for deepest, darkest Cornwall, only it will be someone else who will miss their sparkle.

Gran.

I slide my hand out from under his and squeak this out. “How about I take you on a tour of venues? I could show you the pros and cons of each so you can bear them in mind when you do need to make a decision.” I swallow. “And if I do end up working for another banker here in London, you know I’ll always help you, don’t you?”

He nods. He also lets me straighten his scarf. My scarf. Whatever. He’s neat and tidy when I lead him for a second time through central London.

I hit up the hotels at the top of my list first.

He agrees the Ritz is an obvious choice to attract guests with money. I watch him turn in a slow but halting circle in a swanky hall big enough for a banquet. “You really think we could fill this?”

“Yes. But there are smaller private dining rooms too.” I show him one that gave me country-house flashbacks the first time I saw it. Now all this mahogany furniture, crimson wallpaper, and velvet curtains seem ostentatious compared to Reece.

His unfastened coat reveals a sweatshirt, which is a rumpled reminder that he will have to man these parties without a lifeboat crew to support him.

And without me.

Why the fuck did I panic myself into handing in my notice?

I get a reminder of why in another venue after we climb the steps of The National Gallery and get shown spaces where works of art could add expensive cachet to private parties.

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