Page 72 of Nothing More

“Quite.”

“It’s given me an idea, though. How would Jean-Jacque care to escort me to the gala?”

Ian grinned, all devious teeth. “Oh, I think he’d be delighted.”

“Good. He can also help me with Blaire Blanchard.” She gave him a brief rundown of the problem Greg had come to discuss.

Ian made a face andtsked. “Consider it handled.”

A part of her felt uneasy about leaning on him so much, accustomed as she was to handling all of her own problems.

But another part of her felt as if a huge weight had been lifted, finally having someone who was a true help – a true partner – rather than another voice clamoring for attention and assistance.

“Ta, darling.”

They traded cheek kisses, and she returned to her office in time to breach the tail end of a conversation she didn’t like at all.

For starters, Shepherd had joined them, and stood now at the edge of the coffee table, hands in his pockets, jangling change. He looked up from whatever Cass had been showing him on her phone, and gave Greg a dismissive headshake. “Nah, see, that’s for putzes. You gotta have the real thing. The mess, the sap, the hassle, dropping F bombs while you wrestle it outta the truck – that’s part of it. The magic of Christmas and all that shit.”

He glanced up – they all did – as she heeled the door shut with an intentional thump.

“Shep.” She bared her teeth in a smile that immediately had his brows lifting, mouth forming a silentwhoa. “Are you entertaining Mr. Ingles with one of yourfascinatingstories?” If he couldn’t read the warning in that statement, there was no hope for him, not even as a Lean Dog head-basher. Sorry, Maverick, this one’s too stupid for cannon fodder.

But, lucky for him, he said, “Oh, uh…” And stepped back from the table.

Greg chuckled easily. “No worries. Max was sharing his feelings on the optimum tree. I myself prefer a slender, artificial tree.”

Shep snorted. “Lifeless.”

“Easy to set up, easy to take down, no fallen needles, no fire hazard,” Greg said.

“I want arealtree,” Cassandra said. “Ian promised he’d take us tonight, but now he’s left.” She rolled her eyes and slumped to rest her chin in her hand; sent Raven a pleading gaze.

Raven felt more than a little blindsided. “A real Christmas tree, you mean?”

“Duh. What other sort of tree would I mean?”

She thought of her pale, ash wood floors, her cream rugs, her spotless mantel. “Isn’t it a bit soon for one of those?” Truth told, she hadn’t set up any sort of tree – real or fake – in her London flat in years. One of her friends, Steph, had brought along a twig three years ago, with a single red Christmas ball at the top, laughingly offering it up as a joke. It was the most festive things had been in that flat for a decade.

“Nah,” Shep said, “people start putting that shit up before Thanksgiving these days.”

She shot him a fast, murderous look.You’re my assistant, she tried to convey with a glare.Act like it.

“No, we can’t wait,” Cassandra said. “All my friends have them, and I want one, too.” Her jaw got that stubborn set to it that was more annoying than cute these days.

“We don’t even have any ornaments.”

“So let’s buy some.” Cass rolled her eyes and huffed dramatically. “It’s not like you can’taffordthem.”

It was a shame she’d spoiled the girl…

“Mum and I always have a tree,” Cassandra continued, back to pleading – though not without a streak of true earnest want. She wasn’t a good enough actress to fake this level of homesickness. “Usually a really small one. Last year’s was crooked. We thread popcorn, and cranberries, and Mum dries out orange slices–”

“Alright, alright,” Raven said, cutting her off with a gesture. “Did you and your mum have Christmas – or Christmas in Victorian times?”

Cass tried to smother a sheepish grin with her sleeve.

“Yes, fine, we can have a real tree. And ornaments. I’ll have Melanie call round…” She trailed off in the face of another big-eyed, mulish look. “Ah. You want to pick it out yourself or something equally quaint, yes?”

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