“Of course, Mother,” Oliver says.
“And don’t forget this,” Agnes pipes up as we turn to go.
She holds out the silver ring, now sitting in the center of a crisp dessert napkin. “A souvenir of your holiday,” she says with a smirk.
“Thank you,” I say, collecting the napkin with shaking fingers.
Oliver shoves it into his pant pocket, and we finally make our escape, hustling through the room with a smattering of applause rising in our wake.
Looks like just about everyone saw Oliver’s heroic efforts to help me cough up my pudding.
“Quick thinking, lad,” a male voice calls out. “Good work.”
“And so romantic,” a quivery female voice adds.
“Yes,” another agrees, “such a lucky girl!”
I remind myself that Iamlucky and grateful to be alive, even though I’m currently so mortified that I have to make a concerted effort not to sprint for the door.
But by the time we visit the coat check, retrieve our things, and make our way onto the street, my cheeks are nearly back to their normal temperature. The cold December air helps, and I gulp it gratefully as Oliver and I head down the stairs.
“Well,thatwas terrifying,” I say, clinging to the stone railing. “But honestly? Not as bad as I expected.”
“Agreed.” Oliver keeps a steadying hand parked at the small of my back that I appreciate. “I mean, you almost died, but you didn’t. I’d call that a win any day.”
“Agreed.” I laugh. “And the speeches were great.”
“Nearly as good as the Christmas pudding,” he quips, making me giggle again.
At the base of the stairs, I turn to face him, chest filling with a mixture of happiness, relief, and a tightness I can’t fully explain. All I know for sure is that I’m glad Oliver was there when I was in trouble, and I’m just as glad that he’s here now, when I’m not.
“What?” He reaches up, brushing a wayward lock of hair from my forehead. “What’s going through that busy head of yours, Red? A list of all the reasons British holiday traditions are hazardous to your health?”
Before I can confess that I like British holiday traditions nearly as much as I’m starting to likehim, my phone buzzes.
Then buzzes again.
And again.
“Uh oh,” I mutter, stomach dropping as I pull it from my purse. “Maya never texts more than once unless it’s something really…”
The words shrivel and die in my mouth as I scan the list of notifications.
These aren’t texts from Maya. They’re Google alerts from various socials. News feeds. And a British tabloid site promising a “scandalous new scoop.”
Looks like a fresh batch of mortifying photos just hit the internet…
“Featherswallow Heir Saves Choking American” is the kindest headline.
The others focus on how repulsive I look—feet dangling, face red, arms flailing as I convulse mid-retch.
But the worst one, the one that makes me groan aloud, is a shot of the exact moment the ring flew out of my mouth. My eyes are bulging, my mouth is open in an O of surprise, and Oliver’s arms are so tight around me, my breasts seem to be attempting to launch themselves out onto the table, as well.
The caption reads: “Proposal or attempted murder? Featherswallow has some explaining to do…”
“Oh no, Olly,” I moan, as I turn the screen to face him.
Oliver takes one look at the photo and bursts out laughing. Not a polite chuckle, either, but a full-bodied guffaw that makes his eyes crinkle at the edges.
