Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
And I never will.
Chapter Eighteen
OLIVER
Edward and I wedge ourselves into the corner table at Café Bohème, the kind of place that thinks mismatched chairs with peeling paint are a design choice rather than evidence of financial distress.
The café is practically drowning in Christmas—fir boughs strangle the light fixtures, the top of the bar is lined with leering nutcrackers, and a mechanical elf in the corner giggles every time a server hustles by on their way to the kitchen.
It’s over the top in a way that would normally make even a holiday fan like myself twitch a bit, but this year…
Well, this year, I don’t mind it.
But I do mind that the table rocks every time Edward or I so much as breathe, threatening to send our flat whites sloshing over their rims. I also mind the sauced Father Christmas murdering “Love is All Around” on the bagpipes outside, each wheeze of the bellows perfectly timed to make conversation impossible.
“For the love of—” I wince as he honks out a note that could curdle milk. “Is busking whilst pissed a holiday tradition now?”
“Should I go ask to see his license?” Edward asks, steadying his cup as the table lurches again. “Somehow, I doubt he has one. That might scare him up the block.”
I sigh, shaking my head. “No. It looks like he’s taking a smoke break. We’ve been granted a reprieve.”
“Thank God.” Edward rubs his temples. “I’m already battling a headache. I’m getting too old for holiday parties every night.”
I grin. “Matilda’s office celebration was a banger, was it?”
He snorts. “Hardly. That’s why I ended up having that third Scotch. Not all climate scientists are as riveting as my lovely wife.”
“I bet,” I say, chuckling. “Feel free to skip my soiree tonight if you need a night to recover.”
Edward arches a brow. “Really?”
“Really,” I say. “I mean, I can promise you better music and food, but architects aren’t really known for our riveting small talk, either. And I know you have a lot more on your plate this holiday season, now that you’re a husband and head of the family.”
My brother’s shoulders sag. “Thank you for understanding. I think a night in would do us both some good. Poor Matty’s been exhausted by the shopping this year.” He arches a wry brow. “Apparently, our family is a bit ‘odd’ and difficult to buy for.”
I feign confusion. “Really? Us? Odd? I thought every family had a cutthroat pudding contest and a collection of horny holiday antiques displayed in the entryway of their ancestral home.”
He winces. “God, don’t remind me. I thought Matilda’s mother’s eyeballs were going to pop out of her head the first time she saw the elves with the giant you know whats…” He motions vaguely to his crotch, then up toward the ceiling in an arcing motion.
“Oh, I know,” I say, grinning. I can’t wait for Emily to see them. I expect she’ll laugh her head off.
I hope her meeting is going well. Once she lands the job, the rest of her time in London will be fun, frolic, and festive, smooth sailing.
And when it’s time for her to go…
Well, we haven’t discussed our options just yet, but if things are still as fantastic between us as they are now, maybe I’ll go with her for a month or two. I can work from the New York office, and it’s not like London is any fun between Christmas and when the tulips start popping in March anyway.
And by then, maybe Emily and I will have hammered out a long-term game plan to get her living in the U.K. for good.
It’s certifiably insane to be plotting plane flights and visa options a week in, but I really, really don’t like the thought of saying goodbye to this woman.
My woman.
At least, I’m hoping she’ll soon officially be mine. I have quite a romantic “be my girlfriend” plan plotted for tonight, involving the office rooftop, an antique ring on a chain, and a cheeky poem to keep things from feeling too over-the-top. I think she’ll love it, and I’m nearly certain she’ll say yes.
Please, let her say yes…
“Speaking of elves with giant dongs,” Edward says, pulling me from my moony “man in love” thoughts, “what fresh hell are you planning to unleash at the White Elephant this year? Mother made me promise to make sure you didn’t take things too far. She’s worried the fire department might not make it to the house in time. They’ve cut staff in the village, you know.”
I sigh. “I’ve told her a hundred times—that wreath bursting into flames was a freak accident. I still have no idea how it happened. It was nowhere near the candles on the table. I can’t be blamed.”
“She’s pretty sure you can,” Edward says. “The fire was your fault for bringing a cursed object into our home in the first place. Seriously, a Victorian hair wreath, Olly? Could you be more morbid? And at Christmas, too.”