Chapter 2

2

Thankfully, traffic lights buy me some time. Normally, that would be my cue to fret about Rex missing the start of a meeting. Today I’m grateful. This pause gives me time to regroup. It also gives time for Rex to make a sales pitch he has no idea I’d already be sold on if things were different.

“That’s who really needs you.” He points as if I can’t see for myself. “Reece.”

Sirens scream, only they don’t come from passing police cars. These alarm bells are only in my head and wail a too-late warning.

Don’t wish he was single.

I mean Reece, not Rex, who is actually a rather lovely advert for matrimony, even if he used to give plenty of Horse Guard helmets a good spit and polish. These days, he’s soppy about partnerships, which include ours. “Listen,” he says, hitting me with the kind of honesty that is so rare in this city. “Yes, I want to keep you. But Reece is the one whose workload is about to double once I restructure the foundation. The management part is new to him. He could easily sink without support.”

“Valentin could help keep him afloat.”

That’s Reece’s boyfriend—although, despite my grumbled suggestion, I’m pretty sure Valentin isn’t true PA material. My job plays to strengths I’m also pretty sure Valentin would see as weaknesses, like the big boys at school did if they ever caught me waltzing in circles.

Their laughter and pointing fingers taught me to fade into the background, which is part and parcel of what I do daily to help my boss shine in public. That means being unobtrusive. Valentin is anything but. The man loves cameras—when he isn’t strutting red carpets in front of paparazzi at boat shows, he stars in self-made videos for his YouTube channel, many featuring Reece mid-rescue.

Rex can’t have heard my grumble. “Who can keep him afloat?”

It’s hard to rein in a huff. “Valentin Juno. You know? Raven’s wing hair. A face that makes Timothée Chalamet look puffy.” Rex still looks blank, so I keep going. “He’s got that sexy French accent as well as a really cuddly boyfriend. And he’s the heir to the Juno speedboat empire, remember? At least that means he might be useful. If you can get on Valentin’s good side, he might talk his father into donating one to the foundation.” I come up with a marketing pitch on the fly. “How about this? ‘Trust Juno to speed to the rescue.’ I bet his dad would cough up more than one speedboat for that kind of advertising.”

Rex doesn’t answer, which isn’t like him. He lives and breathes raising cash for his favourite obsession. Something strange happens to his face, and his silence is so unusual that I have to break it.

“Are you okay? I did warn you about taking too much Viagra. Should I call an ambulance?”

He ignores my questions, intent on asking one of his own. “You think Valentin is Reece’s boyfriend?” Rex can’t have watched the same videos as me. He shakes his head firmly. “No. I think that’s massively unlikely but let me just check.” He doesn’t mean he’ll check on Valentin’s relationship status. He leans closer to ask a completely different question. “You think Reece is cuddly?”

Shit.

Rex studies me for a long and piercing moment as Hackney blurs outside the cab window into a sea of grey with splashes of graffiti brightness. I only know that because studying street art like we’re at the Tate Modern is safer than engaging in what I can guarantee is coming unless I can divert him.

I clear my tight throat. This still comes out sounding strangled. “I could ask Valentin if his father would like to donate one if you wanted?”

“Donate one what, Jack?” Rex asks smoothly, and yes, here comes his teasing. “One cuddle with Valentin’s not-boyfriend? Because I’m pretty sure I’d know if he and Reece had ever been an item. Besides, Pops would have told me. His gossip radar misses nothing. Now, how about you tell me more about this cuddle you’d like with Reece?”

Denial isn’t only a river. It’s the only way to avoid admitting what has topped my Christmas list for what feels like forever. Distraction comes a close second. I go for broke with both, getting busy with my lint roller while saying, “I just meant Valentin could be the key to next year’s fundraising.”

“Pah.” Rex usually saves sounding dismissive for Lito or Smallbone. Apparently, Valentin has joined their ranks. “He’d only consider helping if a big enough audience was watching. That’s the only reason he spent time with Reece. To video rescues, Jack, not to get up close and personal.”

I’m not so sure about that, but I flick my lint roller over Rex’s sweatshirt one last time as he chunters under his breath about a man who was rude to me the one and only time he tagged along on one of Reece’s rare city visits. Valentin probably didn’t mean to be condescending about what he found me doing. Rex isn’t as forgiving.

“Why do you think he videoed you sorting through your sticky-note collection? Do you really believe he did it because he noticed what I do whenever you have an organising session? Or do you think he videoed it because he wanted to laugh at you in front of his three subscribers?”

“Three subscribers? Try three hundred thousand.” Their ha ha, loser comments took me straight back to my school days.

I’m not sure how Rex makes that tinkly bell in his Santa hat sound angry. “The only three people Valentin Juno cares about are me, myself, and I. He wanted you to feel small.”

“I am small.” My lack of height never usually bothers me. I don’t know why I squirm even lower in my seat to admit this. “At least that video means I don’t stick my tongue out anymore when I’m concentrating.” Nothing like seeing your tongue tip almost touch the end of your nose in high definition to break that habit—one I got to see in a video also highlighting that my flush isn’t pretty.

The cab draws closer. So do I, but only towards Rex to revisit what else he mentioned. I ask this quietly, sure the heat clambering up my throat right now is as ugly as YouTube showed me, but I have to know this. “What do you notice when I’m having a Post-it sorting session?”

Rex isn’t only a nightmare. He isn’t just a handsome devil either. He’s entirely too soft for the cutthroat world of finance, or at least his voice is.

“I notice that you’re trying to solve a problem for me, Jack. That’s why I never, ever disturb you when I see you setting out all of your stacks in size and colour order. And it’s why I always keep my eyes open for these whenever I travel.” He rummages in his pocket before dropping something else from my Christmas wish list onto my lap.

This packet of sticky notes is bordered with cute puppies.

“Limited edition,” he says gruffly. “Picked them up in New York. Merry Christmas, you ship-jumping traitor.”

“My first present of the year. Thank you.” And it will probably be my last. I’m pretty sure I’ll only get coal from Santa for wanting the answer to my next question to be yes. “Do you…” My gaze darts to the man still waiting for our cab to pull up. “Do you happen to know if Reece came up to town on his own?”

Rex isn’t stupid. “You mean, did he bring the not at all attention-hungry Valentin with him?” He lets out a very Heligan harrumph as the cab reaches the school gates. “I’m not sure, but Reece knows our children mustn’t be used to boost anyone’s viewing figures.”

Reece crossing the playground to meet us all on his own seems like confirmation.

Rex straightens his Santa hat, ready to get out, but not before admitting, “Plus, I think Valentin’s been busy lately.” He eyes Reece approaching and quickly adds, “Be a damn shame if a second pod of orcas tried to sink another boat with him aboard it.”

At least I won’t be alone in getting coal for Christmas, or in going to hell for letting out a cackle, but killer whales are to blame for a meet-cute that only a masochist would watch over and over on Valentin’s YouTube channel.

Okay, it’s me.

I’m that weak-willed person.

In my defence, my view count can’t be the sole reason that rescue video went viral. Plenty more people watched Reece pull Valentin clear of apex predators that could have tried a whole lot harder in my opinion.

If they had lived up to their killer reputation, I wouldn’t have seen Reece clutch tight someone the exact opposite of me—an actual socialite invited to every party, not the hired help who only gets to peer through ballroom doorways.

Not that I’m jealous of his social standing. A few years in private banking only proved that money does not bring out the best in people. Regardless, I shouldn’t care. What I should be is professional. Only that’s a real struggle when Reece yanks open the cab door and says, “Jack, it’s you,” like I’m the one and only item on his own wish list.

Of course, I’m a complete twat, so I breathe, “Yes, it is me,” like the oblivious idiot in one of Gran’s favourite rom-coms who doesn’t realise he has no hope of snagging the lead. I can’t help being breathless, and not because Reece is better looking than a movie hero or more handsome than either of his brothers.

He isn’t.

I mean, yes, he’s a walking, talking reminder of two of my favourite people on the planet, but one of his brothers has a six-pack sculpted by pro ice time and the other has biceps built by a gym-based career and a protein powder addiction. Reece doesn’t have either of their physiques, but I also don’t get anything like this pitter-pattering behind my ribs whenever Calum tries to teach me to skate or I walk into my kitchen to find Patrick doing yoga in his undies.

If anything, Reece is a more rumpled edition of the Trelawney blueprint. I don’t mean his body is like the saggy sofa in my house share. I have no idea what’s hiding under that twin of Rex’s sweatshirt printed with the Safe Harbour logo. I just mean that he doesn’t take up space like they do. I’m not sure how Reece actually makes space for other people to sink into, but no wonder children share their secrets with him.

Having the same warm smile aimed directly at me?

It’s like waking up to find out Christmas has come early. It’s just my luck that Santa stuffed a stocking with gifts meant for another person.

That’s how it feels to know Valentin gets to wake up to all of Reece instead of to the single-word breadcrumb I receive every morning. Or that I did receive every morning, apart from a weird week in September when Reece went radio silent. I hated those seven days so much it scared me into getting real about my future. That’s why I’m stopping this stupid heartsick spiral before he, or either of his brothers, realise I’m as bad as Lito Dixon.

End up making things awkward between all three of them because I want what Reece doesn’t?

Nope.

I feel a little bit sick at the thought of unwanted feelings in the workplace, ones that replay each time I relive a Christmas kiss between me and Reece that was more of a near miss than the real deal. That was my first year in London, when I knew nothing apart from Gran’s stories of finding her Prince Charming in a weeklong romantic whirlwind. Almost three years of hindsight mean I know Reece actually tried to dodge making mouth-to-mouth contact with me, then was super kind about it. We’ve built what feels like a real friendship one word at a time since, so adding more distance, not less, had been my plan to preserve it.

I only meant to move desks in London. Maybe up a floor at the bank, or along the hallway from my current office. Adding an extra three and a half thousand miles across the Atlantic only came up after I mentioned to Gran that a partner from the NYC office had reached out. Her eyes lit up for what felt like the first time since we lost Gramps, and I’ll do pretty much anything for more of that brightness for her.

Now the whole Atlantic wouldn’t be enough distance to avoid Rex’s eyes lighting up the same way as Gran’s did, only my boss’s eyes gleam at the sight of Reece pulling me into a squishy cuddle.

“Jack.” Reece’s murmur is a warm gust that should chase away my sleet-induced shivers.

It doesn’t.

“Jack,” he repeats, as if my name is his all-time favourite. Which is silly. My phone is full of reminders of his extensive vocab—words I’ve needed to look up before responding. The four letters spelling my name shouldn’t sound like a revelation. They do all over again when he breathes my name for a third time. “Jack, it’s been too long. You haven’t come down to Cornwall in forever.”

I shiver even harder and squeak out my usual excuse. “London is life!”

He’s such a textbook Trelawney; his hug shows no sign of stopping. Reece inhales so deeply his lungs must go all the way down to his ankles, and his happy hum rumbles right the way through me. “I didn’t think I’d get to see you yet.”

I wriggle free. “Yet?”

“I mean before tonight.” A small frown flickers across Reece’s comfy-cosy features. “At dinner? You do all still have dinner on the first Friday of the month, don’t you? Thought I’d surprise you then.” That flickery frown deepens, his forehead a worried concertina. “Me turning up would have been a good surprise, yes?”

The best.

Also the worst.

I look around him for the reason, searching the school playground. “And will Valentin be eating with us?”

“Valentin?”

Reece shrugs and gives me a second early Christmas present.

“I haven’t seen him since September.”

Rex isn’t as surprised as me. I see it in those aristocratic eyebrows rising and, after years of watching him in meetings, I translate that with no problem. What did I tell you? But Valentin’s absence doesn’t change anything else, does it? Even if Reece is actually single, I’m still not going to pull a Lito Dixon the moment we’re alone in a shared office.

Make him feel as trapped as I did?

I’d swim the Atlantic to stop that from happening.

Reece must mistake my shudder for another sleet-induced shiver. He slings a heavy arm across my shoulders and shepherds me across a community centre car park to an entrance where a social worker meets us. She talks Rex through the plan for this visit—a quick catch-up with kids Reece has already spent time doing his play therapy thing with, then both of them will meet with the kids’ parents or carers. As she explains that to Rex, Reece asks me a quiet question.

“You staying for both sessions?”

“No. I need to get back to the office.”

“But you’ll definitely make it to dinner?” He steers me to an alcove off the hallway before I can answer. “I did wonder if you already guessed I’d be here today after…” He slides out his phone, giving it a little wiggle.

I pull out my own and find our daily chat thread. “That’s why you sent this to me this morning?”

“Yes.” He ducks his head, standing close enough that the sleet darkening his golden-blond hair drips onto my phone screen. The word London blurs under that water droplet. So does my resolve for distance when he rubs it away. He’s got such good hands—square and solid, careful and oh-so steady. I’m the opposite of steady as soon as he says, “I wanted to see you.”

“Me?” I wheeze so hard he must think I’m asthmatic. “Why?”

“Because you emailed the foundation restructure agreement to me.”

Oh.

“Yes. Yes, of course. But you?—”

“Could have signed it in Cornwall? I know. I almost did. I just wanted to check in with?—”

Rex joins us, eyeing both of our phones.

“Ah, swapping numbers?” He nods. “Good plan.”

Swapping numbers?

I flash Reece a look, asking a silent question about our daily texting habit that he must translate as easily as I did Rex’s arching eyebrows. His negative head shake is subtle enough Rex doesn’t notice. He’s too busy being swept away from us and into a meeting room across the hallway by excited children.

As soon as the door closes behind him, Reece edges closer to me in this sheltered alcove. “Listen. I wanted to check in with you about something. Talk face-to-face before signing those papers. You see, I wondered if we shouldn’t…”

More sleety drips fall. This time, one catches on his eyelashes. He brushes away that glistening diamond, but I’m hung up on the sweep of his fingers. On the feathering of lines at the corners of his eyes. His crow’s feet are deeper than either of his brothers’. He’s still only in his early thirties, so age can’t be the only reason. Those worry lines must be due to all the stories his trafficked children share with him.

I instinctively clutch my phone tighter, remembering a spate of sad, sorry, and alone words he sent me in early autumn, which suggests he has worried about them. And that he still carries the weight of their survival stories.

He’ll only have more to carry when his workload doubles.

It’s the worst possible time to want to help him shoulder that load, because Reece finishes what he started—what he must have caught the train all the way from Penzance to Paddington and then to Hackney to accomplish. He draws a professional line like the one I tried to by giving Rex my notice.

“Jack, if I’m going to take on a full management role with the foundation, should we stop?”

“Stop?”

I bet I look as witless now as when Valentin’s camera caught me getting busy with my collection of sticky notes.

“Yes.” Reece straightens to his full six-feet-something. “Should we stop our…”

Silly little game of word association?

He uses a different descriptor.

“Sharing?”

Reece cradles his phone as if it’s precious.

“Because we might also share an office.” He hurries to add, “When you relocate to Cornwall with Rex, I mean.”

At least this is proof that Rex hasn’t leaked the news of my leaving. Neither can have Sebastian or Patrick since this morning. I should be grateful. I’m actually a little bit sick instead at Reece hovering a finger over the chain of words we’ve spent close to three years exchanging like he’s about to delete them.

“Don’t.”

He meets my eyes. I’m not sure what his show me. I can’t read him like I can Rex. Perhaps that’s why he edges closer. Reece blocks my view of anything but him looking worried. “Listen, Jack. I really, really don’t want?—”

Me.

I know that.

I do.

I’ve built something imaginary out of nothing more than what barely counts as a Christmas kiss and my phone pinging before six every morning. Now it pings with a reprieve from a conversation I didn’t anticipate having under decorations pinned to the ceiling of a community hall in northeast London. That’s what I focus on after reading that new text, avoiding his eye contact by locking my gaze onto those decorations rather than on him still looking worried. Or cornered. By me , even though I’m the one with my back to the wall here.

Above me, red-nosed reindeer dance and miniature Christmas trees twirl, but it’s a cardboard cutout of mistletoe that guts me.

If my housemates were here, they would snog under those painted green leaves and white berries as quick as blinking. Mistletoe has been their thing ever since they officially became boyfriends. Now all I want to do is kiss away the worry lines worn by Patrick’s big brother, and fuck knows what that does to my expression.

Reece crowds closer. “Oh, no. Bad news?”

I slide away my phone and do what he just modelled by pulling myself up to my full five feet six and a quarter. I also get back to being professional. “No. Just something I need to warn Lord Heligan about.”

He frowns at me reverting to Rex’s formal title. “If it relates to the foundation, maybe I could deal with it for him? You do look worried.”

Here’s what I don’t have to contend with whenever we message each other one word at a time—Reece’s concern is genuine and way too soft for this sparkly but sharp-edged city. It tempts me to admit the real bad news would be him working in close confines with someone who caught text-based feelings.

For him.

I settle for squeezing past Reece to peer through a hallway window. These panes of glass are scattered with paper snowflakes and crayoned Diwali candles that obscure my view of one of London’s premier, and soon-to-be ex, private bankers. He sits cross-legged on a grubby carpet surrounded by little children who show off their own artworks, and fuck knows why I’m as gritty as that flooring. “I’m only worried about my lint roller. It has its limits. If he gets glitter in his ears again, he’s on his own this time.”

“This time?” Reece joins me at peering through the hallway window. “Tell me about the first time? Or at least tell me how you organised these sessions at such short notice.” He almost sighs this. “I need to learn the ropes if I’m going to run half the foundation with him.”

This is a man who has also sent me words like positive and strength and powerful . It’s the first time I’ve heard him uncertain.

Here’s a second example.

“I’m only used to making rescues and the one-to-one therapy that follows,” he admits. “This organisational part is all new to me. I don’t want to get that wrong, or the fundraising element Rex is desperate to offload. I can’t mess that up when lives depend on me finding more money.”

He edges closer, his shoulder miles and miles above mine, our arms not quite touching. When I look up, I’m tempted to give him a good long cuddle like I’m a Heligan with zero impulse control around golden retrievers.

He really is worried.

Forget single-word exchanges. Reece asks a three-word question that might as well be an SOS signal from someone already sinking.

“Help me, Jack?”

And me?

I’m the muppet who really wants to.