Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
EMILY
I think…
It feels cold, anyway.
“Note to self: New Year’s Resolution, learn Celsius,” I mutter as Oliver and I head up the stairs to the Fletchers’ administrative offices on the fifth floor of a gorgeous Georgian building.
He’s meeting his brother for coffee at a café nearby and insisted on walking me “for luck,” and to protect my cream pants from the London muck.
He walked on the “mucky” side all the way from his flat, hustling me out of the way of lorry splashes, proving he’s the best fake boyfriend ever.
Except that maybe he’s my real boyfriend now?
Maybe?
We haven’t nailed that part down just yet, but we will. Soon. Once this presentation is over, I’ll have the bandwidth to tackle other big discussions, and I’ve already started work on a “Why We Should Give Long Distance a Shot” PowerPoint, with multiple lists to accompany the presentation.
Partly because list-making is in my soul.
Partly because I know it will make Olly laugh, and I love to make him laugh.
I just…love him. Period. I don’t care that we’ve been an item for barely a week and half of that was spent faking it.
I’m not here to second-guess a holiday gift from the romance gods.
I’m here to rock this presentation, go last-minute holiday shopping with my hot British boyfriend, and dance the night away at his office holiday party tonight.
And tomorrow, we’re doing Christmas Eve dinner at his brother’s house, then Christmas day luncheon and White Elephant presents at his mother’s, and then—assuming my luggage is still lost in the Twilight Zone—we’re going to hit the Boxing Day sales to buy a party dress for New Year’s Eve.
Oliver is already insisting that it must be sparkly, with a very naughty, very cheeky skirt…
I sneak a peek his way at the top of the stairs, still unable to believe this gorgeous, funny, fantastic man is mine.
Or about to be mine.
Mostly mine?
“Don’t be nervous, you’ve got this,” Oliver says, clearly misunderstanding the reason for my anxious expression.
“I’m not, just hyperventilating slightly,” I lie as we start down the hall. “That was a lot of stairs.”
“Damn straight,” he grumbles. “If I’d known there were that many, I would have skipped the stair climber this morning. The holidays are for phoning it in at the gym. I only like to do as much exercise as is strictly necessary to keep the pudding and wine from going to my waist.”
I grin. “Well, you’re doing an excellent job so far. Your abs looked delicious in the shower this morning.”
He makes a growling sound low in his throat as he sways closer.
“Stop. Don’t talk about it, or I’ll have to ravage you in a broom closet before the meeting.
Those leggings you wore on the treadmill should be illegal.
And the way your bottom jiggles when you run…
” He shudders. “Christ. I nearly dropped a barbell on my throat.”
I arch a brow. “In the immortal words of Beyonce, I don’t think you were ready for that jelly.”
His arm sneaks around my waist. “No, I most certainly was not. But I will be next time, I promise. I’ll arrange to get on the machine behind you and think wicked thoughts the entire time.”
I fight a giggle, gently pushing him away as the boardroom entrance—and the prim-looking receptionist seated outside—come into view.
“You’ve got this,” Oliver repeats, giving my elbow a squeeze, his hand warm and reassuring through the cashmere. “Remember, they’re already fans, or they wouldn’t have asked you to fly all the way across the ocean to pitch. They want what you’re selling.”
“Right.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “They want my Dickensian-meets-modern-sustainability with a top note of lush fairytale party planning genius.”
“Exactly! Damn, listen to how inspired that sounds. How could they resist?” He turns to face me a few feet from the desk, and honestly, it should be illegal for anyone to look this good at nine in the morning.
His charcoal suit makes his eyes swirl like blue-gray storm clouds, and his hair is defying the laws of physics with a mix of floppiness and structure that proves fifty-pound hair product really is worth the splurge if you can afford it.
He gazes deep into my eyes, into my soul, before whispering, “Are you ready for your pre-meeting cheerleading session?”
I nod, shaking my arms loosely at my sides. “Yes, please.”
“You are Emily Bloody Darling, ferociously prepared, adorably feisty American, with fantastic ideas and crackerjack execution, and you are about to slay that meeting to absolute death.”
“To absolute death,” I echo. “With my thirty-seven PowerPoint slides and sexily embedded video montages.”
“Hell yes, you beastly little organization freak,” he agrees, making me cover my mouth to suppress a laugh. “There will be no survivors. How could there be?”
“Get out of here,” I whisper, waving him off. “Before you give me the hiccups. I always get the hiccups when I laugh when I’m nervous.”
“All right, good luck.” He kisses me, soft and quick on the cheek, but it still makes my knees wobblier than the stairs. “Go, dazzle them with your brilliance. Then text me when you’re on your way to the café, and I’ll have a second coffee waiting when you arrive.”
“You really are the best,” I say, meaning it.
He winks as he turns to go. “Remember that when I’m three sheets to the wind and humping your leg on the dance floor tonight.”
I wink back. “Oh, I will. I’m looking forward to it.”
Then he’s gone, striding back down the hall toward the stairs with that relaxed confidence that makes every woman we pass on the street stop to stare.
Which is fine.
They can stare all they want, but that gorgeous man is coming home with me.
With a private, slightly smug smile that feels good, if I do say so myself, I square my shoulders, check in with the receptionist to ensure I’m clear to go in a few minutes early, and push through the heavy doors.
Inside, the boardroom is mahogany and history, a monument to Timeless Business Decisions. The conference table could double as a small skating rink, and the view of London through the floor-to-ceiling windows makes me dizzy.
Or maybe it’s the ring of very posh and important people who pause sipping their tea to look up at me as I step inside that has my head spinning a little.
Ignoring the spike of anxiety dumping into my blood, I force my warmest smile. “Good morning, everyone, Happy Christmas.”
“Good morning! And Happy Christmas to you, Ms. Darling!” It’s Christoph, my main point of contact, looking even more luxuriously gay in person than he does on his social media.
He rises from the closest chair, his brown eyes warm behind designer glasses that match his three-piece suit. “So lovely to finally meet in person.”
“Hello, Cristoph. Likewise,” I say, clasping his extended palm.
His handshake is firm, but in a comforting way, and I already feel more at ease as he turns to introduce me to the rest of the table, including his boss, James, the CEO of event coordination, two executive assistants here to take notes for their bosses, and a woman from the budget department.
“We were all so impressed by your Brighton wedding,” Christoph continues as we finish pressing hands across the table, and I start to set up.
“The way you handled that seagull showed real grace under pressure. Especially knowing a Brighton seagull the way I do.” He glances to the rest of the table as he adds in a confidential voice, “Big as dogs and twice as aggressive. I had one steal the celery right out of my Bloody Mary while I was there last summer.”
The table titters with laughter, and I make a mental note to send Christoph a thank-you gift for being such a wonderful warm-up act. He’s getting everyone loose, relaxed, and ready to receive my message of party wonder.
Now, all I have to do is deliver.
“Can we get you anything before we begin?” he asks, motioning toward a sideboard against the wall filled with hot drinks and pastries. “Tea? Coffee? Cranberry tart?”
“No, thank you. You can just dim the lights if you don’t mind.” I tap my laptop to connect to the conference room’s display with another smile. “I’ve already eaten my way through multiple servings of Christmas pudding since I’ve been in London. I have to slow down before I go into sugar shock.”
The table titters again, for which I’m grateful.
My joke wasn’t as good as Christoph’s, but they seemed to appreciate my appreciation of British holiday desserts.
It’s as good a segue as any…
“Speaking of sweets, I have some fantastic options for the gala menu near the end of the presentation,” I say as Christoph hits the lights and returns to his seat, beaming up at me with what looks like genuine excitement. “London caterers are truly masters of their craft. And so creative.”
The first fifteen minutes of the presentation prove that my anxiety dreams last night were meaningless manifestations of stress, not prophecies foretelling certain doom.
My laptop doesn’t spontaneously combust—a Christmas miracle given my history with technology—and the emergency binders stay tucked away in my big briefcase as I move from slide to slide.
By the time I reveal the design concepts Belinda and I developed during our meeting—a magical entrance, enchanted conversation nooks, and a ceiling of oversized flowers for the dining area that gives posh Alice in Wonderland vibes—they’re all leaning forward, tea and tarts forgotten.
“Guests will feel like they’re entering a secret garden from a fairy tale,” I say, clicking to the rendering that made Belinda gasp when she first saw it.
“Attendees enter through a tunnel of wisteria. And at the tables, the ceiling blooms with giant peonies and rose vines, all in blush and cream with touches of gold.”
James, the CEO, fetches his glasses for a sharper look. The silver-haired woman beside him stops taking notes to grin at the illustrations as they materialize and fade on the screen.