Without letting me say anything, she recites an address in Belgravia and promises to send interview details to my email shortly before hanging up.
I'm left scratching my head until my phone alarm chimes, reminding me of my impending appointment. Having given myself a once-over in the mirror, I grab my bag and rush to the elevator.
“I absolutely love it.”I swish my freshly blow-dried blonde waves around my face, smiling broadly at myself in the mirror. “Thank you so much. You're a miracle worker.”
My smiling stylist shoos me away, her cheeks pinkening prettily. “My mum always says it's easy to polish a jewel, miss.”
I reach up to touch my brightly painted crimson lips—perfect for the season—blinking repeatedly at the sight staring back at me in my reflection. The new icy highlights brighten my already light blonde hair, making my almond-shaped blue eyes appear even lighter.
Once I've paid for everything—refusing to allow the treatment to be added to the bill that the Finchams aredetermined to pay—I slip out of the beauty suite and reach inside my cross-body bag for my phone.
Having noted the email details from Miranda for my interview in Belgravia at noon on Friday, I slip it back inside and make a beeline directly for the Mirror Bar. The barman, Tom, is super sweet, and he's kindly allowed me to take meals at the bar with him recently, rather than eating alone in the various restaurants interspersed throughout the hotel.
“Evening, Rory!” He spots me coming and throws me a wink, his Santa hat sitting slightly askew. “Let me guess. Fish ‘n’ chips?”
I shake my head with a wry grin. “You know I'm a sucker for the bangers ‘n’ mash.”
He chortles as he pats his co-worker, Steven, on the shoulder. “I'll be back in ten with Miss Williams’ dinner. Hold down the fort, alright?”
Steve rolls his eyes, and his elf hat shifts sideways when he glances around at the sparsely filled space and deadpans. “Oh no. However shall I survive without you?”
He resumes polishing glasses as a grinning Tom jogs off in the direction of one of the kitchens, and I take a seat on one of the tall bar stools adorned with red velvet cushions.
The bar is filled with a handful of ongoing conversations and soft Christmas music playing in the background, but it's quiet enough that I’m confident that I can easily drown them all out. So, I pull out my Kindle and open it to my latest spicy, holiday-themed rom-com.
Penelope Costaneverdisappoints.
CHAPTER 3
Cole
Iswirl the amber liquid around the bottom of my tumbler, grimacing when I realise that ordering another one and drinking alone would really cement this day as the shittiest of the shit—and just weeks before Christmas, no less.
Even so, when Steven, the new bartender on shift, catches my eye, I give him the nod to keep the whisky flowing.
Reed, for his sins, got called to perform an emergency who-the-fuck-knows-what-ectomy, and he'd lit out of the Landmark faster than a bullet. Jace isn't picking up due to whatever scandal is seemingly on the horizon, and there's no fucking way I'm going back to my room this early. The whole point of staying in this damn hotel was to avoid a Hollie-less house.
This is what happens when you stop letting people in, Adams...
My phone rings as I drain my glass, and I answer on the third ring, frowning when I note that Harrington Helpers is calling me.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Adams, Miranda Grant here. I hope I'm not disturbing you, but I have some excellent news to share with you. Consider it an early Christmas present!”
I shoot up a silent prayer while desperately trying to tamp down on the flicker of hope in my gut. “A possible candidate?”
There's a smile in her voice when she replies. “Yes! And I truly think this one is the perfect fit for your requirements.” She pauses before continuing in a more serious tone. “Though I believe this will be the verylastcandidate we send your way, Mr. Adams, so please...bear that in mind before you make any further...rashdecisions.”
I curse internally, knowing the agency has me by the short and curlies. Having run out of options, I can only murmur my acknowledgement.
Once she's confirmed an interview with a nanny she claims will knock my socks off—advising she will forward the details to my assistant, Jane, by lunchtime tomorrow—she bids me good evening and hangs up, leaving me somewhat hopeful that maybe this time she's onto something.
Tinkling laughter reaches my ears. Something low in my stomach tightens at the sound, and my fingers flex around my tumbler when I realise I'm holding my breath, waiting to hear it again. I sit up straighter as my eyes scan the space, searching for the owner. It's far quieter than usual tonight, so I easily spot her sitting at the bar beneath a strand of twinkling lights.
A slender woman with blonde hair covering her face leans forward, looking down at what appears to be a tablet of some kind. She laughs again, throwing her head back without a care in the world. Her exuberance is contagious, and I find my lips curling upward ever-so-slightly, my eyes riveted to the woman before me.
She looks back at the tablet, her eye-catching red lips—festive as holly berries—smiling at whatever has her complete attention, and my pulse kicks up inexplicably.
