A man I can't stop thinking about.
I'm debating between heels or flats when there's a knock at my door.
“Room service,” a female voice calls.
I tighten the belt on my robe as my brow furrows, knowing I didn’t order anything before I open the door to find a young staff member holding a small wrapped package.
“Delivery for Miss Williams,” she says with a smile.
“I think there's been a mistake—”
“No mistake. It was delivered this morning.” She hands me the package and a small envelope. “Have a lovely day.”
Before I can ask any questions, she's gone.
I carry the package to the bed, turning the envelope over. My name is written on the front in unfamiliar handwriting—probably the hotel's. Inside is a note card, and I recognise Cole's messy scrawl immediately:
Rory,
When I said I quite enjoy giving you things you like, I meant it.
Thought this grumpy little bastard might remind you of me while I'm neck deep in doctor’s appointments and colour-coded spreadsheets.
I can’t wait to see you again.
Cole
My heart does a stupid little flip as I carefully unwrap the package. Nestled in tissue paper is the little ceramic hedgehog from the Covent Garden Christmas market—the one wearing a tiny Santa hat, with its distinctly grumpy expression that had made me laugh.
The one I'd told him reminded me of him.
I press my hand to my chest as it feels like my heart might just burst. When did he even buy this? He must have gone back while I was absorbed in something else.
Sneaky Hotshot!
I set the hedgehog carefully on the bedside table where I can see it, then reread his note, tracing my finger over his untidy handwriting.
God, this man.
I finish getting ready with a smile I can't seem to wipe off my face, the grumpy little hedgehog watching me from its perch. Every time I glance at it, I think of Cole—his laugh, his terrible jokes, the way he protested he wasn't grumpy even though he absolutely is. The way he kissed me goodbye this morning, like if he didn’t taste my lips one last time, he’d never make it through the day.
By the time I'm dressed and ready to leave, I feel like I could float to the interview.
I arrive at the Belgravia address at precisely five minutes to noon. The townhouse is gorgeous—all white stone and elegantChristmas wreaths on the door. This is clearly a wealthy neighbourhood, and I feel a flutter of nerves, hoping Miranda’s stringent Grinch is at least half as nice as the Finchams.
You've got this,I tell myself firmly.You're qualified. You're experienced. You can do this.
I ring the bell, and a moment later, the door opens to reveal an older woman with kind eyes and a warm smile.
“Hello, dear! You must be from Harrington Helpers,” she says. “Come in, come in!”
“Thank you. I'm Aurora Williams.”
“Lovely to meet you, Aurora. I'm Barbara.” She steps aside to let me in. “Please, don't mind the mess. We've been doing a bit of Christmas decorating.”
The house is beautiful—all high ceilings and original features, with tasteful Christmas decorations throughout. A massive tree stands in the corner of the entrance hall, presents already piling beneath it.
“Your home isbeautiful,” I say honestly.
