Page 71 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
Two of my colleagues standing in the hallway cast envious glances my way as Esther places the flowers reverently on my desk.
“There’s a card.” Esther stands poised with a look of expectation on her face.
“Thank you, Esther,” I say, trying to summon the dismissive tone some of the senior partners use with her. I hate doing it, but there’s no way I want a witness to me reading what’s inside the white embossed envelope. “And can you close the door when you leave, please? There’s a nasty draft around my ankles.”
I sit and stare at the flowers, my heart sinking. I’m sure Teddy has sent enormous bunches of flowers to every woman he’s ever dated, or hoped to date. If he wanted a way to make me feel special, this isn’t it. Pierre would have flowers delivered like this—so predictably showy I knew he’d simply asked his assistant to order something impressive without a single personal thought behind it.
Still, I reach for the envelope. My name’s written in that rushed, spiky blue scrawl of his, as if a bird skittered ink across the page in quick, sharp steps. Inside, the little card is filled with the same messy, impatient script. This is no florist’s practised hand. I’ve seen it before; lyrics scrawled on a crumpled pieceof paper.
Now that I can see he chose them himself, I let myself admire the bouquet—the winter green, the gilt ribbon, the audacity of it—then lower my eyes to the message he wrote for me.
‘Dress for a Christmas party’. That’s what Teddy’s card said, so under my winter coat, I’m wearing a figure-hugging red cocktail dress. The car he sent for me arrived on the dot of 6pm, and I’ve spent the whole twenty-minute drive twisting at the rings on my hands and picking at my nails. When it comes to a halt, I look up and see, to my surprise, I’m once again at Pemberton Square.
“Number thirty-five’s just there on the left, m’am.” The driver nods at the scene of yesterday’s humiliation.
“Thank you,” I say, as I climb out. The cold air hits my face, sharp with the possibility of snow. I smooth down my hair, adjust my coat and stride towards the house, undeterred by my heels slipping on the cobbles, still slick from rain. Now I know who she is, if Briar Hargrove thinks she can intimidate me, she’s seriously mistaken.
I grasp the doorknocker and give three emphatic raps. Straightening to my full five-foot-eight (and probably closer to five-eleven in these Manolos) I fix a smile on my face and wait for the footsteps to approach.
When the door swings wide, I’m braced for battle with Briar, but all I see is empty space. My gaze drops, and I blink in surprise. A small girl stands there, maybe seven or eight, with enormous chocolate brown eyes that tilt up to study me. I instantly see Teddy. Her hair isthe same stunning shade of red as his, so dark it’s like autumn leaves just before they fall, and a similar constellation of freckles dances across her nose.
My prepared confrontation evaporates. Whatever I’d expected tonight, it wasn’t this. I stare at her, wondering if there’s something important Teddy hasn’t told me, but when she speaks, I realise she’s not some secret love child.
“Are you Trouble?” she asks with perfect seriousness. “Uncle Dory said Trouble was coming over.”
A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. Of course he did. And Dory? That’s what Briar called him, too. I can immediately picture him as a boy, probably just as mischievous as he is now, earning himself a nickname fromFinding Nemo. It’s cute even though I’m pretty sure Dory was a girl.
“I guess I am,” I say, pushing down my laughter. “Though most people call me Rachel.”
“I’m Elodie, but everyone calls me Ellie.” She steps back, gesturing like a proper little adult. “Would you like to come in? It’s cold out there.”
I have to bite back another smile at her earnest politeness. “Thank you, Ellie. That’s very kind.”
As I step inside, the warmth hits me immediately. The hallway glows with soft lighting; the shades of pinks and golds are welcoming and comfortable tonight.
“Uncle Dory,” Ellie calls up the stairs. “Trouble’s here, and she’s really pretty!”
Warmth floods my cheeks.
“Coming.” Teddy’s voice carries down from somewhere above, and my pulse quickens despite myself. God, what this man doesto me. Every instinct screams to forget the hoops I’m making him jump through, but the memory of Pierre’s betrayal still echoes in my mind, a warning I can’t ignore. I force myself to stay strong.
Footsteps sound on the stairs, and he appears, pulling a dark sweater over his head. For a moment, his stomach is visible—lean muscle and that trail of copper hair I remember tracing with my fingertips—and a wave of heat surges through me. When he emerges fully clothed, his hair is mussed, and my fingers itch to smooth it the way I’ve done before, to feel those silky strands between my fingers again. The memory of how he’d groaned when I tugged gently makes my breath catch. I force myself to step back, acutely aware of Ellie watching us with curious eyes.
“Hi there, Dory,” I say, testing the nickname. “I think your invitation was for Rachel, but I have to warn you—Trouble showed up instead.”
His grin is slow and devastating. “Even better. I was hoping she would.” His eyes sweep over me, lingering just long enough to make my skin tingle. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” The simple compliment shouldn’t affect me this much, but his voice has gone low and rough, and I feel it everywhere.
“Hope you don’t mind if we have a chaperone tonight,” he says, ruffling Ellie’s hair.
“She’s adorable,” I say, meaning it. “And probably excellent at keeping you in line.”
“Uncle Dory’s always in line,” Ellie says indignantly. “Mummy says he’s a proper gentleman.”
Teddy’s laugh is rich and warm. “Did she now? Well, that’s news to me. But we can’t disappointyour mum, can we, Ells?”
When his eyes meet mine over Ellie’s head, there’s heat there that has nothing to do with being proper, and everything to do with the promise of later. My breath catches.
