Page 42 of So This Is Christmas

Nearly two weeks later, at the end of a very long day juggling both his jobs, Matteo ventured to the Owl and Spruce. He had been staying away from the pub that was now home to Ms. Delaney. He saw her often enough in the course of the average day, as she poked around, asked for information, and generally made a nuisance of herself. More than once, his own meetings with various people had been canceled to free them up to speak with her. It was vexing. As was the fact that she was always writing things down in an ominous fashion. She was like an evil Santa, keeping a layoff list instead of a naughty list.

The truce was definitely over. It seemed like it had happened in another lifetime, in a dream.

But as time passed, he started to grow annoyed at himself for letting her disrupt his routine. He often went to the Owl and Spruce for a drink in the evening. But now he couldn’t do that because it would look like he was spying on her? This was his pub.He had every right to be here, and if the side effect of that was witnessing Ms. Delaney leading up to a “casual sexual encounter,” to use Imogen’s alarming term for it, it couldn’t be helped.

Anyway, Ms. Delaney had a meeting at seven o’clock tomorrow morning, and it was going on ten p.m., so surely she would be upstairs in bed. He knew about her meeting because the palace scheduler who had been seconded to help Ms. Delaney with administrative work had emailed Matteo Ms. Delaney’s schedule that first week and had simply kept doing it without being asked—probably because she, like everyone, knew that Matteo was, to use Ms. Delaney’s metaphor, the ship’s engineer. He made things go.

So it was with resolve that he marched into the Owl and Spruce that evening and pulled out a stool at the bar.

That resolve faded as he caught sight of something in his peripheral vision. It was Ms. Delaney. She was not alone.

“Is that Bashir Hussein?” he asked Imogen, who had appeared in front of him.

She rested her elbows on the bar. “It is.”

“What is he doing with Ms. Delaney?” Ms. Delaney who should be in bed by now, on account of her early-morning meeting tomorrow.

“Can’t say as I know,” Imogen said in a tone that suggested the exact opposite.

Bashir Hussein was the principal of the elementary school in the village, and he was the best sort of person. He did a lot of community work. In fact, he was usually the first person Matteo turned to when he was trying to help a family with school-age children.

The blood-going-cold sensation started up again.

Damn it.

Still. He wasn’t about to embarrass himself as he had last time. He sat at the bar and did not turn around. Not even once.

“Would you help me with something?” Imogen asked, setting a scotch in front of him a while later.

“Of course.”

“The ice machine in the back is jammed. I was hoping you might take a look at it.”

What an odd request. Matteo was skilled in many areas, but ice-machine repair was not one of them. Still, people were used to the idea of him as a problem solver. “I’d be happy to have a look.”

Imogen asked one of her regulars to watch the bar, and he followed her to the kitchen. They had to pass Ms. Delaney’s table. He made sure to walk at a reasonable pace. Not too slow, because he wasn’t at all concerned with what Ms. Delaney was doing in her free time. Not too fast, either, because neither was he avoiding her. He slowed ever so slightly as he approached their table and murmured, “Good evening, Mr. Hussein. Ms. Delaney.” He looked at each of them as he spoke, and though he intended to keep moving, his gaze snagged on Ms. Delaney’s when her sapphire eyes flew open in surprise.

He didn’t let himself stay snagged for long, though. He kept walking. He left her to her surprise.

Was Mr. Benz back to spying on her?

No. Cara had to be reasonable. Yes, he was in the pub on a night Imogen had set her up with a man, but that had to be an unlucky coincidence. She hadn’t seen him here for weeks. And he had merely walked by her table, and he’d barely acknowledgedher as he did. He’d seemed brusquely intent on whatever his destination was. Perhaps the restrooms at the back of the bar. She smiled. The thought of Mr. Benz having normal, bodily functions was kind of amusing. She’d never seen him in anything but one of his signature three-piece suits, and part of her felt like he had been born in a tiny version of the same.

She wondered what he wore for pajamas.

She wonderedifhe wore pajamas.

Mr. Benz might be the kind of person who slept in the nude. She could imagine him having a Nordic-style, practical belief that things needed airing out. He might just have two modes: three-piece suit and naked. He was—

“...or perhaps not.”

Oh no. She had mentally followed Mr. Benz out of the room when she was meant to be paying attention to Bashir. “I’m so sorry. I zoned out for a moment there. Please forgive me. You were saying?”

“I was saying that it seems as though you’ve met Matteo Benz.”

Good lord. She couldn’t escape Mr. Benz in reality, in her mind,orin conversation with other people.

“I have. He’s been... helpful.” Which was true. Sort of. He had been helpful when he wasn’t too busy being unhelpful. He had been selectively helpful.

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