Page 29 of Her Holiday Arrangement
She was expected to be serene. Accomplished. Untouchable. That was what made her valuable.
Elizabeth was halfway through her second espresso when she heard it, the soft shuffle of footsteps, the almost-silent yawn. Then the sound that made something in her chest twist in ways she wasn’t prepared for:
Riley’s voice.
“Okay. I know I’m late to the party, but does anyone else smell actual heaven, or is that just me being dramatic again?”
Elizabeth turned toward the sound instinctively. And there she was.
Riley stood in the arched doorway of the kitchen, bleary-eyed and barefoot, wearing a robe, one of Elizabeth’s spares, charcoal gray with deep cuffs and a belt knotted crookedly.
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Why are you wearing my robe?” she asked, voice careful, controlled, though curiosity and something sharper tugged at the edges.
Riley glanced down at herself, a faint pink rising in her cheeks. “Uh… your stylist didn’t pack one for me,” she admitted quickly, tugging the belt tighter. “This one was lying on top of your bag, I guessed it was a spare, I swear I didn’t go rummaging around.”
Elizabeth studied her for a long moment, noting the way the oversized sleeves swallowed Riley’s wrists and the soft rumpled way it hung around her shoulders. She said nothing, simply gave a measured nod. “Just… try not to spill anything on it.”
Riley blinked, relieved, and stepped aside to let her pass, still muttering a small, embarrassed apology.
Elizabeth walked past her, noting the slight tilt of Riley’s head as she watched Elizabeth’s reaction. For a fleeting second, Elizabeth caught herself thinking how vulnerable Riley lookedin something that wasn’t hers and quickly shoved the thought aside. Her hair was a soft disaster, frizzy from sleep, and she had mismatched socks tucked into a pair of absurdly expensive guest slippers that looked like they belonged in a five-star spa, not on someone who hadn’t finished a full REM cycle.
Elizabeth’s stomach did something unprofessional.
She watched as Riley scanned the room, smiling as she took it all in, the bustle of the staff, the smell of fresh bread, the garland-strung windows gleaming with snow-dappled light. She looked impossibly out of place and somehow like she belonged. The robe hung off her like borrowed armor. It was too intimate. Too domestic. Like they wereactuallywaking up together. Like they’d been doing it for years.
She caught Elizabeth’s gaze and grinned. “You look way too awake for someone not possessed by caffeine demons.”
Elizabeth lifted her espresso in silent answer. She didn’t trust herself to speak.
Riley yawned again and made her way into the room. “Okay, what do I do? How do I not get in the way but still seem incredibly helpful and charming?”
“No need,” Elizabeth murmured, voice low. “They have it handled.”
But Riley was already moving, chatting with one of the sous-chefs about cinnamon ratios, asking someone if she could carry the silverware, waving off instructions with a cheerful, “I’ve got it, promise, I was a waitress for three summers in college, this is my battlefield.”
Elizabeth watched her fold napkins like origami turtles and arrange them in the wrong order. She made the staff laugh, drawing smiles from people who rarely looked up. She asked questions, complimented the decorations, charmed a passing footman into handing over a mini croissant. She did it all whiletrailing crumbs, her robe slipping off one shoulder, her socks showing one pine tree and one questionable avocado.
It should’ve been a disaster.
But somehow, it wasn’t.
Riley glowed. Not in a forced, camera-ready way. In a warm, real way that pulled people in. She didn’t smooth herself to fit. She just existed, unabashed and unapologetic, and the world made space for her.
Elizabeth stood still at the edge of it all, espresso cup cooling in her hand, watching Riley fold herself into the rhythm of the house like she’d been born here.
She’s good at this,Elizabeth thought.Too good.
This wasn’t supposed to feel easy.
This wasn’t supposed to feel like watching your partner move through your home with practiced ease, making it hers, making youwantto come down early just to see her.
She had hired Riley for one reason: damage control. A Band-Aid over a holiday wound. But now the Band-Aid was cracking jokes with the pastry chef and laughing with the woman who polished the silver.
Elizabeth had never made anyone laugh in this house. Not like that.
“Should I put out juice or coffee first?” Riley asked, holding up a glass carafe in one hand and a silver coffee pot in the other. “Wait, don’t answer, I’m just going to bring both and let the chaos sort itself out.”
Elizabeth’s gaze flicked down at her, noting how Riley’s robe brushed against her arm as she bustled past. It was a faint touch, accidental, or at least that’s what Riley thought, but it made Elizabeth’s pulse stutter. Too close. Too real.
