Page 30 of Her Holiday Arrangement
Part of Elizabeth wanted to step in, remind her that the staff were perfectly capable of setting the table, of pouring coffee and juice with exacting efficiency. It was a small thing, a minorprotocol breach, but every minor thing mattered when family and appearances were involved. And yet… she let Riley move forward, allowed the gesture.
She told herself it was harmless, that Riley was just trying to be helpful. But another, quieter thought crept in—her family would notice. They would see Riley carrying trays, touching silverware, fumbling lightly with the coffee pot, and immediately assign her some lesser, servile role, even if she were Elizabeth’s “girlfriend.”
Elizabeth suppressed a sigh and turned her attention to her own breakfast plate, reminding herself that appearances had always mattered more than comfort, more than propriety. And yet, watching Riley, so earnest, so determined to do the right thing in her own messy way, Elizabeth couldn’t help but feel a twinge of admiration. There was something disarming in Riley’s chaotic competence, something human that no amount of silver-spoon refinement or family expectation could replicate.
Riley’s head tilted slightly as she balanced the coffee and juice, her brows furrowed in concentration, and Elizabeth felt the oddest mix of protectiveness and… something else.
And for a second, Elizabeth let herself picture it, the version of this holiday that wasn’t a lie. Waking up to Riley because they lived together. Riley in her robe because itwashers. Riley making her laugh over burnt toast or letting her cold feet invade the bed. Riley fitting into the cracks of Elizabeth’s life not because she’d been paid to, but because she’d wanted to.
She pressed her fingers into the base of her espresso cup, grounding herself in porcelain and heat.
No. Stop.
This wasn’t real. It wasn’t a fantasy to indulge.
Riley turned back, catching her watching, and raised an eyebrow. “What? Did I put the mugs in the wrong place?Because if this family is strictly a juice-on-the-outside cult, I’m going to need someone to write that down.”
Elizabeth felt a smile tug at her mouth, involuntary. “You’re fine.”
“You sure? You’re giving me your CEO face. Like you’re planning a hostile takeover of my cutlery choices.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes, but her chest warmed. “Just… keep doing what you’re doing.”
“Look at that. Approval from the boss,” Riley said, mock-saluting her before disappearing behind the dining chairs.
Elizabeth watched her go, that stupid robe trailing behind her like it belonged there.
Maybe it did.
And maybe that terrified her more than anything.
The dining room gleamed with cold elegance, polished silver, crystal glassware, holly-trimmed china that hadn’t seen the light of day since last Christmas. A fire crackled in the massive hearth, casting a golden glow over the twelve-foot tree in the corner, every branch meticulously decked in red and gold.
It was the kind of holiday perfection that had taken years of family orchestration to master. And Elizabeth felt nothing.
Nothing, except the heat of Riley’s thigh pressed against hers under the table. That, she couldn’t ignore.
Riley was sitting straight for once, trying her best not to fidget in the elegant, high-backed chair beside her. Her hair was half-tamed, her sweater slightly too bright for the subdued Hale aesthetic, and she’d managed to sneak a cinnamon roll onto her plate between caviar blinis and poached eggs.
She looked like a misplaced ornament in the middle of a symmetrical tree, and somehow, she made the whole thing better.
Elizabeth slid her hand under the white linen tablecloth and let her fingers rest gently on Riley’s knee. It was supposed to be part of the act. A casual display of intimacy for the family audience. But her fingers lingered longer than necessary. Just the light press of her hand, the heat of Riley beneath her palm.
Riley went stiff beside her.
Elizabeth didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her skin buzzed. Her pulse was suddenly, unreasonably loud in her ears.
Margot, across the table, was mid-sentence, gesturing with her mimosa. “…and of course, the house in Saint-Émilion needs renovations, but Julian says it’s the wrong season to deal with French contractors.”
Julian made a grumbling noise, not even looking up from his phone.
Annette Hale, seated like a queen at the head of the table, cut her brioche with surgical precision. “You should’ve planned ahead,” she said. “It’s not as though winter is a surprise.”
Riley, possibly to deflect the tension, turned to Elizabeth and whispered, “So… what exactlyisa blini?”
Elizabeth almost smiled.
But then: “So, Riley,” Margot said sweetly, voice slicing through the chatter like polished glass, “how did you and Elizabeth meet?”
