“Please stop.”
I’ve given myself the giggles. I wriggle off my tree branch to the one below and then hop down to ground level with a little less grace than I’d like; I stumble and have to grab on to something, which turns out to be Lucas’s arm, though it’s hard to tell the difference between that and a tree trunk, to be fair.
He pulls away from me in the darkness as if I’ve scalded him.
“What!” I say before I can stop myself. “I’m not contagious.”
It’s hard to read his expression—down here the lights from the pergola are blocked by the trees, and he’s shadowy, edged in dark gold.
“What did I do wrong this time?” Lucas says without particular rancour.
The forest floor is wet, its moss soaked through from today’s rain. We begin to walk back to the hotel, skirting the clearing with the pergola to give Charlie and Hiro their privacy. Our work is officially done—it’s over to Arjun, Ollie, and the waiting staff now.
“Do you honestly find me so repellent? Seriously?”
I glance across at Lucas’s profile, the hard jut of his brow and jaw, the precise lines of his haircut.
“You once expressed a desire never to come within two metres of me, ‘pandemic or no pandemic,’？” he says. “I am just respecting your wishes.”
I wince. I did say that. It sounds harsh rather than funny when he quotes it back to me. I remind myself that this man read the Christmas card in which I confessed my feelings for him and laughed. I do not need to feel bad for offending him.
“That was right after you told Mrs. SB on me when I’d broken lockdown rules for that wedding. I was pissed off,” I say, looking down at the path. We’re lit by little inset lights—they glow against Lucas’s ridiculously well-polished shoes with each step.
“I did not ‘tell on you.’ I raised a concern, because if you continued risking the health of everyone at the hotel in order to please a handful of guests, you could have got us closed down.”
“It was their wedding day,” I say, and here’s the rising tide of frustration that always comes after prolonged exposure to Lucas. “They wanted their whole family there, and all I did was find an innovative solution to how to get more than fifteen people celebrating without technically all being at the same—”
“It’s done,” he says, breaking in as we step onto the lawns. “We have already agreed to disagree on whether it was right.”
I grit my teeth. We’re almost at the hotel car park. Almost time to slam the door on my beautiful sky-blue Smart car, get Harper Armwright’s Christmas album playing, and drive away from Lucas at speed.
My phone buzzes in my hand, lighting up, and we both look down at the screen. An email from Mrs. SB. Subject line: ?15,000 reward from Eric Matterson?!?!
“Holy shit,” I whisper, coming to a halt and flicking the email open.
New plan, it reads. Return every ring. Even just one more reward like that would make this worth every bit of effort. Wow. You’re an absolute star, Izzy—WELL DONE!! X
“Well,” Lucas says stiffly, setting off towards the car park again. “You certainly got the credit.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It was me who did it, so . . .” I have to double-step to keep up with him. “Don’t be jealous. This is a hotel mission now. You’re officially part of the Ring Thing.”
He waits a long moment before responding. “That is a significant reward.”
“I’m sorry, was that an admission that the Ring Thing was an excellent idea and from now on you’re going to help me?”
“You didn’t do this in the hope of a reward.”
“I did it because it felt right, and putting good stuff out into the universe gets you good stuff back.” I spread my arms as we step between the hedges and into the car park. “Isn’t that kind of the same?”
He stares at me flatly. “I hope you don’t actually think that’s how the world works.”
I do, absolutely, so I roll my eyes at him. He slows, and I glance at his car. It’s one of those sleek, dark ones with blackout windows, the sort of car a supervillain would drive. Figures.
“To answer your questions, yes, I will join you in working on this ring . . . business,” he says. “Since Mrs. SB wants it done. And no. I don’t find you repellent.”
I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Lucas’s head is turned away from me, towards the hotel, with its beautiful eighteenth-century windows glowing gold. I take the opportunity to really look at him. His eyebrows are hard slashes, drawn together in his habitual frown, but his lips are surprisingly full. He has the sort of soft, wide mouth you’d describe as expressive on someone who had more than one expression.