Page 14 of Her Holiday Arrangement
The thought landed like a stone in her chest.
“Elizabeth?”
She looked up.
Riley was watching her carefully. “You kind of spaced out.”
“I was just… reviewing,” Elizabeth lied, and turned the tablet off. “We’ve covered enough.”
Riley nodded slowly and leaned back, letting her head rest against the leather seat. She looked smaller suddenly, as if the weight of pretending, of performing, was catching up.
“Sorry if I’m bad at this,” she mumbled, half-asleep already. “I’ve never had to… fake a relationship before.”
Elizabeth’s eyes lingered on her.
Riley’s lashes fluttered closed, her breath evening out. Champagne haze, nerves, early morning. The green coat was folded over her lap like a blanket now. Her boots were tucked beneath her seat. She curled just slightly, shoulder tilted toward Elizabeth.
And then, so gently it might have gone unnoticed, her head listed sideways. Not touching, but close. Just hovering near Elizabeth’s shoulder, her curls brushing the edge of Elizabeth’s sleeve.
Elizabeth sat perfectly still.
Every instinct told her to move. To create distance. To pull away from the warmth blooming between them. It wasn’t real. This wasn’t part of the plan. Riley was an employee. An expense. A convenience.
And yet.
She stayed still.
Watched the steady rise and fall of Riley’s chest.
Felt the not-quite-contact burn through her jacket sleeve.
She wanted it.
Not the act. Not the story.
Just the warmth.
The plane droned on, endless sky outside the windows. The clouds rolled below them like snowdrifts.
Elizabeth closed her eyes for one long moment.
And tried to remember the last time someone had fallen asleep near her, not out of obligation or performance, but trust.
She couldn’t.
So she sat in silence, afraid to move, and let the woman beside her drift into dreams that were, just maybe, more honest than anything either of them had said aloud.
The Hale estate came into view as the black SUV curved up the final snow-packed drive. White-capped trees arched like cathedral vaults over the road, and beyond them, the mansion rose in all its postcard-perfect tyranny, three stories of colonial gravitas, complete with columns, mullioned windows, and wreaths that probably cost more than Riley’s car.
Elizabeth’s jaw tensed automatically.
She hadn’t been here since last Christmas. Not since her grandfather’s memorial. Even in mourning, her mother had insisted on real fir garlands, an imported French caterer, and a harpist in the drawing room. There’d been no tears. Only brandy.
Now, the house stood glittering beneath strings of golden lights. Smoke curled from two chimneys. Flawless. Imposing. Cold.
Riley leaned forward in her seat, peering up through the window. “Oh my God. It’s likeThe Holidaythrew up on Downton Abbey.”
Elizabeth glanced sideways. “It’s… tasteful.”
