“Another bet?” I say as Lucas looks up slowly from the computer screen.
“Yes. You see, this year, I’m giving Poor Mandy a break from being the Christmas elf,” Mrs. SB says.
“No!” I say.
Mandy is a brilliant Christmas elf. She delivers all the hotel cards and presents—I write every guest a card, and Mrs. SB and Barty get everybody a small gift, and Poor Mandy distributes them in this absolutely ridiculous elf costume that must date from about 1965. It is a staple of the Forest Manor Christmas.
“Yes,” Mrs. SB says firmly. “The poor woman never complains, but that costume simply doesn’t fit her anymore, and it’s not right. I was going to ask one of you to do it.”
Lucas’s head turns slowly towards me.
“So perhaps . . . whoever fails to return the ring gets elf duties.”
“Absolutely not,” says Lucas.
“That’s a great idea,” I say.
This is perfect. I have no problem with wearing an elf costume and delivering presents, other than the fact that I like my Christmas to be exactly like the Christmas before, and I would prefer Poor Mandy to have to do it on those grounds. But Lucas having to dress up as an elf? Yes please.
“The costume won’t fit me,” he tries.
Mrs. SB is on the customer’s side of the desk now. She leans on her forearms, looking slightly gleeful.
“Mandy is an excellent seamstress.”
“But she can’t adjust it for herself?”
“Come on, Lucas,” I say. “What are you, scared?”
“What are you, five?” he says, eyes locking on to mine.
“It’ll be fun.”
“This is serious. All of this. I’m not looking for fun.”
His tone has shifted; his eyes are dark. I swallow, looking away, conscious of Mrs. SB standing on the other side of the desk. We’ve been like this all day, Lucas and I—even when we’re bickering like normal, there’s an undercurrent there, the reality of the night ahead never far away. Every time I remember what we’re planning to do this evening, my stomach dips like I’m on a plane that’s just hit turbulence. Teasing him has been an easy way to feel in control, but the truth is, I have no idea what’ll happen the moment the clock strikes five.
“I do know that the situation is serious, OK? I’m aware of the stakes,” I say, keeping my voice light. “But Mrs. SB is right. We work better with a bit of competition.” I pull out one of the waiting lost-property boxes—I need something to do with my hands. “I think a bet really would be best for the hotel.”
“And you feel the same?” Lucas asks Mrs. SB.
“Oh, entirely,” says Mrs. SB.
Lucas sighs. “Fine,” he says. “I will enjoy seeing you in those elf boots, Izzy.”
That undercurrent again. That edge to his voice, even now, when we’re talking about bloody elf costumes.
“I’m not losing this one,” I say. “Also, I would rock those boots, and you know it.”
Lucas’s eyes flick over me.
Mrs. SB chortles, drumming her hands on the desk for a moment. “Excellent,” she says. “Excellent!”
Lucas’s face remains implacable. I imagine him in that elf costume, and discover, quite disturbingly, that Lucas da Silva can make literally anything sexy.
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
Finally, finally, the Bartholomew clock strikes five.
Lucas stops typing instantly. He turns his head to look at me. After a day of teasing Lucas at every opportunity, I have a feeling I’m about to get my comeuppance.
“I’ll drive,” he says, picking up his bag and heading for the door.
I scramble to catch him up, wriggling into my rucksack straps as I step outside.
“You’re not driving me,” I call, and he slows slightly, not turning around as he crosses the gravel towards the car park.
“Ah. You’re seeing Louis tonight instead,” he says.
“What? No. No.” I’ve caught him up now. “How do you even know Louis wanted to hang out tonight?”
I only remembered my plans with Louis this morning. I messaged him earlier to cancel, to which he replied, Tomorrow night instead?
His persistence is admirable, if slightly exasperating.
“He told me.” Lucas glances at me, eyes dark. “In detail.”
“I rescheduled him to tomorrow, since we have . . . plans tonight. I just meant you can’t drive me because I’m not staying over at your place,” I say. “Afterwards. I can’t just leave Smartie here.”