Chapter 9

9

I get back to business the next morning, although part of me spins in slow circles all the way to work. I don’t even huff at the usual crush of commuters, their numbers swollen by seasonal shoppers and rucksack-wearing tourists who squash me. Instead, I replay a conversation that travels with me on the Circle line. Today the Tube train wheels sing I don’t know how to strike a balance.

It’s so easy for me to fix that problem for Reece.

I do it by sending SOS emails to fundraising professionals. I mention the children more money could help if Reece knew how to raise it and how their expertise could make all the difference. These are busy people, but seeing his forehead furrows lessen when one agrees to meet with him early next year makes reaching out worth it.

Those furrows deepen in a hurry again when guests arrive after lunchtime, but I’m okay with seeing this brand of concern on him. It’s aimed at the kids who didn’t make it to the community centre. He’s grateful I invited them here with their families, if a touch worried. “It’s so good to see them, but they can’t have the cash to burn on travelling in and out of Zone One.”

“It’s all covered,” I promise as I leave him to do what he does best. “I raided Rex’s dog-treat budget.”

Repaying that embezzlement is also easy—I send Rex a photo later of Reece on a hairy sofa surrounded by smiling faces, to which Rex replies with a video-call request.

“Smart thinking,” he says over the sound of waves crashing and his dogs barking, so I guess I’m forgiven. “Hang on. Let me find somewhere quieter.”

The screen freezes, then I’m faced with Rex looking in dire need of so much more than my lint roller. His hair is a salt-stiff disaster. He’s also haloed by light streaming through the window of his family’s chapel as his voice echoes.

“Can I say hello to the kids?”

I deliver my phone to Reece and leave them to it, then I get busy with my laptop at the kitchen table, filling gaps in a party planning template.

Staying focussed is hard each time laughter drifts along the hallway to distract me.

I can’t have shut the study door behind me—Reece’s laughter rings out, and I like that so much better than his pre-party gruffness. I know exactly when Rex joins in. His hur hur hur makes the children giggle.

I also get distracted by my scarf when Reece heads off without it later to walk his guests back to the station. “Wait!” I follow him outside, aware the families watch as I loop it around his neck and then can’t help straightening each tassel.

Reece smiling down at me makes my hot throat worth it. He also murmurs, “Don’t worry. I’m not planning on staying out for long. I haven’t forgotten tonight’s party.” His sigh clouds, white and gusty. “Thanks for this, Jack. For everything. Maybe I can balance both parts of the job. I only wish…”

“You wish what?” I edge closer, our feet practically dovetailed. “Tell me.”

His voice lowers and he tilts his head at a little girl who hopscotches on paving stones in one of London’s most expensive boroughs. “It’s little Leena’s birthday. She hasn’t made many friends yet, but she drew a party for me.” He passes me a crumpled square of sticky paper, complete with balloons and a cake with five candles. “I know which party I’d prefer to attend if her folks could afford to hold one.”

It’s so easy to fix that. “Take her to Penny’s restaurant. She makes every meal a celebration.” I dig into my wallet for the company credit card and thrust it into his hand before pulling my phone out. “Go treat them all to dinner. I’ll call ahead for you.”

“But tonight’s?—”

“—banking party is my idea of fun, not yours? I’m happy to stand in for you.” I straighten my scarf on him, neatening already tidy tassels, then I send him on his way without me, and so what if I’ve worked off the clock once this week already?

I go chat up bankers so he doesn’t have to, and it’s worth it for the photos Reece sends me later of a very different celebration.

A birthday girl blows out candles on a cake smothered with them, and seeing those tiny flames lights a huge fire under my arse. Because kids are the whole point, aren’t they? The actual reason for the season and for the foundation.

Sure, I wasn’t fond of the ones I shared a classroom with when I was younger, but you better believe I get busy tonight doing more than fading into the background like I always tried to at school. I stalk a red carpet all on my own and summon my inner glitter to hit up every attendee on our potential guest list. Of course, I drop Smallbone’s top-dog position into each conversation. It isn’t as good as ending an evening with a little light rule-breaking, but my phone pinging at the crack of dawn the next morning makes another late night worth it.

For a moment, my breath catches, only it isn’t Reece sending a single word to start my morning. It’s Rex, and he’s excited.

Rex: What the actual fuck happened last night?

He’s spotted new donations, several of which top Smallbone’s contribution.

ha ha, loser

Rex: Second thoughts. Don’t break the spell by telling me how he did it.

Rex: Just let Reece keep working his magic with potential donors.

I don’t point out that it was me who prowled last night’s party on a money-raising mission, not the man in question. Getting to sit across from a different version of Reece at nine o’clock on the dot is reward enough for me getting brave in front of flashing cameras.

Today’s version of him is centred. Balanced. Ready for more of a challenge, as though a little girl’s birthday party has also confirmed why fundraising matters to him.

“Right,” he says, clapping huge hands together. “Let’s get this planning template finished.”

So that’s what we do all morning, even if I’m not a fan of how little time there is left to dot each i and cross each t. Past-me shouldn’t have done so much preparation. He should have been smarter.

To keep Reece here for longer.

Of course, wishing that is pointless. We’re already halfway through our one and only week together. I’m not sure how it can be Wednesday, or how there can only be two more days until Reece will head home for an early Christmas tradition, and I’ll be busy with a Christmas shopping trip where I’ll need to tell Arthur I’m leaving.

Maybe that shows.

Reece tilts his head. “You okay?”

I nod.

I’m not, but I do know that the chair on Reece’s side of the desk creaks much less uneasily today, and that’s how I want to leave him—as easy in his skin here as he is in Cornwall and with children.

That doesn’t stop me from shifting in my own seat or from doing something that Rex would beetle his eyebrows over if he saw it.

I knock over neat piles of sticky-note pads and send pens and pencils rolling by leaning over the desk to do what any good PA would never—I invade Reece’s space when I’m on the clock and should be professional. My only saving grace is that I ask permission before taking over the laptop. “Can I?”

“Please.” He sits back as I open a spreadsheet already filled with potential venues. I preened when I put this list together. Now I second-guess each colour-coded option. “None of these are as impressive as the castle.”

Reece nods. “But it’s Arthur and Rex’s home. I can understand why they don’t want to open it up to just anybody like…”

“Smallbone?”

He nods. “And it would take a whole flotilla of boats to sail this many guests over to the island. The rehab centre is off-limits too. A London location makes sense if I’m going to try to raise a ton of money.” His hand brushes mine to open the guest list tab.

I could move mine out of the way to make space.

I don’t.

I leave it right where it is for him to cover with his own. His voice is as warm as the squeeze he gives my fingers. “Still wish I didn’t have to decide without you here to help me next year.”

Why the fuck did I tell Rex I was leaving?

The answer is as clear as the Cornish seawater painted on a huge canvas hanging behind Reece.

Because I thought this was one-sided.

That it was only me who wanted more than a daily message.

It wasn’t. I’ve never been more certain, and all it took was what Gran promised.

So what if a single night of twirling with a handsome hero at a glittering ball makes me as mushy as she was about Gramps? All I know right now is that I could have a little weep, like when the big boys trapped me on one end of the seesaw in the school playground.

I couldn’t get off that seesaw without a long drop that hurt. The same will happen if I change my mind about exchanging big-city bright lights for deepest, darkest Cornwall, only it will be someone else who will miss their sparkle.

Gran.

I slide my hand out from under his and squeak this out. “How about I take you on a tour of venues? I could show you the pros and cons of each so you can bear them in mind when you do need to make a decision.” I swallow. “And if I do end up working for another banker here in London, you know I’ll always help you, don’t you?”

He nods. He also lets me straighten his scarf. My scarf. Whatever. He’s neat and tidy when I lead him for a second time through central London.

I hit up the hotels at the top of my list first.

He agrees the Ritz is an obvious choice to attract guests with money. I watch him turn in a slow but halting circle in a swanky hall big enough for a banquet. “You really think we could fill this?”

“Yes. But there are smaller private dining rooms too.” I show him one that gave me country-house flashbacks the first time I saw it. Now all this mahogany furniture, crimson wallpaper, and velvet curtains seem ostentatious compared to Reece.

His unfastened coat reveals a sweatshirt, which is a rumpled reminder that he will have to man these parties without a lifeboat crew to support him.

And without me.

Why the fuck did I panic myself into handing in my notice?

I get a reminder of why in another venue after we climb the steps of The National Gallery and get shown spaces where works of art could add expensive cachet to private parties.

We’re left to look around on the promise of being quiet—a happy couple must be getting married in a nearby gallery. Music plays, and despite being on the clock, I do what I once told an employer could never, ever happen.

I don’t mean that I kiss Reece again. We barely brush lips, but I do let him spin me for a few slow and sweet circles before he leaves to give the events coordinator his details. Then I spin a few more times all on my own until a mean laugh stops me.

Lito Dixon doesn’t have to tag loser onto the end of his ha ha for me to hear it.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t frigid little Jack Frost.”

He swaggers over, camera in hand, to show me what I told him I’d never do with him, even if he paid me.

He scrolls past second-rate wedding photos, and there I am on his screen, my arms around Reece, and our lips only brushed for a moment, but Lito caught it.

Reece smiles down at me in another shot as if I’d just said I do to him instead of fuck no to everything Lito once suggested.

Now Lito sniffs the same way he used to after one too many bumps of marching powder, and his suggestion is as oily as I remember. “We had some unfinished business in my darkroom. If you’ve finally defrosted, I might have an opening for you.”

“Why? Because you can’t keep an assistant?” I clear my throat, wishing I sounded stronger. “Do you even need an assistant these days, if you’re only a one-man band?”

That’s better.

Kinda.

I don’t know why I shake. I scurry away, hoping to God he can’t see or hear how badly. I also toss this over my shoulder.

“Besides, I’m not looking to be anyone’s assistant. I’m moving on to something much bigger and better.” I pluck a reason out of thin air. Patrick would call it manifesting. Frankly, it’s desperation. “I’m an equal partner.”

I almost throw myself down the stairs next, the whole time reciting affirmations, and why the fuck my vision blurs each time I choke on I’m braver than I believe, I couldn’t explain. I can only find Reece and then hurry outside where I can blame my eyes watering on the wind whipping across Trafalgar Square.

Thankfully, Reece is distracted by kids chasing pigeons under Nelson’s Column. I pull myself together as he gives a lesson in kindness, crouching with his arms out until birds and kids flock to him.

We head off for a children’s museum for our last stop, which had been at the bottom of my list as too small. It turns out to be at the tippy top of Reece’s.

“Perfect choice, Jack,” he says once we get back to Kensington, and he heads inside. “Although you’re right. The castle is the obvious choice, and Arthur would love a reunion if foundation children made up the guest list instead of moneymakers. At least that children’s museum has a logical link to them. It’s a?—”

It’s so easy to finish his sentences lately.

“—middle ground you could live with?”

We must be on the same page. The same spreadsheet tab. The same wavelength. Reece flings his coat on the stand in the hallway, and this next is emphatic. “Exactly. I can see what would work now.” He’s much more careful with my scarf, which he straightens on its peg before turning to take my coat from me.

He stops dead at finding I haven’t left the doorstep.

“Wait. You aren’t coming in?”

“No.” I tap my watch. “It’s already after six.” I’m about to suggest we share a working dinner, and if London was a place for being honest, I’d tell him I’m a tiny bit rattled by a chance meeting with someone slimy.

I can’t even face a Tube ride home on my own.

I’m glad I held my tongue when it sounds as if he already has a busy evening planned without me.

“Okay. I’ll do some location research of my own so I have more to contribute tomorrow.” He lets me go with a quiet, “Thanks for everything today, Jack. For all week, really. I know it’s all been extra work for you when you probably had interview prep to finish.”

Finish?

I haven’t even started.

At least this is honest. “I’ve been happy to help.”

“You know what helped me the most?” He scrubs at the back of his neck. “Seeing that exhibition on my first day. Those photos. Didn’t realise how much I needed a reminder of what really matters. Kinda made my first big-city party survivable.” He meets my eyes. “And enjoyable. With you.”

I should say something witty. I overshare instead. “I should be thanking you for helping me have two firsts of my own.”

His eyebrows rise. So does heat my scarf could have hidden if I wore it. My throat is bare to him, no way to hide it, so I mutter as I leave him, “My first red carpet walk and my first dance at a Christmas ball.”

I leave him on the doorstep and only let myself look back when I reach the end of the street.

He’s still there, still rumpled and crumpled compared to how he looked in a dinner jacket. He bends his head, and I find out why a second later.

We already broke a no-repeat rule in a starry courtyard. Did it again, if briefly, in a portrait gallery that a scuzzy ghost from my past captured with his camera. Now three little words ping onto my phone screen to shatter our one-word rule.

Be safe, Jack.

I raise a hand and wave, which leaves me feeling almost as foolish as that YouTube video the first time I watched it. But he waves back right away, and I have to battle hard against the urge to reverse my direction.

I already muddied our working waters, already got reminded by an ex-boss that I hadn’t only said no. I’d promised never.

I head for home instead and am almost at the Underground when footsteps thump behind me. That’s usually a sign to take evasive action—to get out of the way of trouble—but perhaps nurture does win out over nature. A lifetime of watching rom-coms means my heart fucking flutters, and I think three little words of my own.

Please be him.

I turn, and?—

“Hey, Jack.”

Reece couldn’t look more out of place in this posh postcode. He’s windswept, his shirttail sticking out from under his sweatshirt, the coat he grabbed still unfastened. Even the piece of paper he holds is crumpled. He turns it around to show me my own handwriting spelling out event photography.

I look up from it to see what a much better photographer than Lito once captured—Reece is determined all over again. He’s also dotted with what only registers as snow when he says, “You said you still had selfies to take. Christmas lights and window displays for your gran, right? And that there were bonus points if they were snowy.”

I nod.

He nods straight back. “You helped me on Monday. And Tuesday. And today. You’ve helped me all week, Jack. How about I take a turn by taking photos for you?”

“When?”

“Right now. This evening. Me and you.”

“Together?”

He nods. Then he shakes his head and takes a step back. “I know I said?—”

“No repeats? Or that you’d got me out of your system?” We both have to know those are only words. What really counts are actions, like his next ones show me.

He closes in on me again, and this is quieter, almost drowned out by passing traffic.

“I was going to say that I wouldn’t cross your professional line, Jack. Only…” This smile isn’t helpless. It’s hopeful. “We keep doing it, and yet we still manage to work really well together.”

He draws in a deep breath, and yeah, his lungs really must go all the way down to his ankles. It takes him forever to exhale and then say this. “I can’t help thinking that you’re off the clock again now. That you aren’t a PA until nine tomorrow. I’m not your boss, just someone who could take photos for you, and who needs to scout for more future party locations but doesn’t know his way around this city.”

“Well,” I say primly. “Luckily for you, I do.”

I hold out a gloved hand, and fuck anyone who says this shit only ever happens in movies.

My real-life hero takes it.