Page 39 of His Until Christmas

I should say something witty. I overshare instead. “I should be thanking you for helping me have two firsts of my own.”

His eyebrows rise. So does heat my scarf could have hidden if I wore it. My throat is bare to him, no way to hide it, so I mutter as I leave him, “My first red carpet walkandmy first dance at a Christmas ball.”

I leave him on the doorstep and only let myself look back when I reach the end of the street.

He’s still there, still rumpled and crumpled compared to how he looked in a dinner jacket. He bends his head, and I find out why a second later.

We already broke a no-repeat rule in a starry courtyard. Did it again, if briefly, in a portrait gallery that a scuzzy ghost from my past captured with his camera. Now three little words ping onto my phone screen to shatter our one-word rule.

Be safe, Jack.

I raise a hand and wave, which leaves me feeling almost as foolish as that YouTube video the first time I watched it. But he waves back right away, and I have to battle hard against the urge to reverse my direction.

I already muddied our working waters, already got reminded by an ex-boss that I hadn’t only said no. I’d promised never.

I head for home instead and am almost at the Underground when footsteps thump behind me. That’s usually a sign to take evasive action—to get out of the way of trouble—but perhaps nurture does win out over nature. A lifetime of watching rom-coms means my heart fucking flutters, and I think three little words of my own.

Please be him.

I turn, and?—

“Hey, Jack.”

Reece couldn’t look more out of place in this posh postcode. He’s windswept, his shirttail sticking out from under his sweatshirt, the coat he grabbed still unfastened. Even the piece of paper he holds is crumpled. He turns it around to show me my own handwriting spelling outeventphotography.

I look up from it to see what a much better photographer than Lito once captured—Reece is determined all over again. He’s also dotted with what only registers as snow when he says, “You said you still had selfies to take. Christmas lights and window displays for your gran, right? And that there were bonus points if they were snowy.”

I nod.

He nods straight back. “You helped me on Monday. And Tuesday.Andtoday. You’ve helped me all week, Jack. How about I take a turn by taking photos for you?”

“When?”

“Right now. This evening. Me and you.”

“Together?”

He nods. Then he shakes his head and takes a step back. “I know I said?—”

“No repeats? Or that you’d got me outof your system?” We both have to know those are only words. What really counts are actions, like his next ones show me.

He closes in on me again, and this is quieter, almost drowned out by passing traffic.

“I was going to say that I wouldn’t cross your professional line, Jack. Only…” This smile isn’t helpless. It’s hopeful. “We keep doing it, and yet we still manage to work really well together.”

He draws in a deep breath, and yeah, his lungs really must go all the way down to his ankles. It takes him forever to exhale and then say this. “I can’t help thinking that you’re off the clock again now. That you aren’t a PA until nine tomorrow. I’m not your boss, just someone who could take photos for you, and who needs to scout for more future party locations but doesn’t know his way around this city.”

“Well,” I say primly. “Luckily for you, I do.”

I hold out a gloved hand, and fuck anyone who says this shit only ever happens in movies.

My real-life hero takes it.

10

I don’t let goof his hand until Underground ticket barriers divide us, then he’s behind me on the escalator and still there on the way to a platform. A rush of warm air signals a train’s arrival, and we reconnect in a crowded carriage when his hand finds my hip.

No one else can see that connection, or how his hold tightens with the tilt of a train curving through tunnels underneath the city.

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