Chapter 8

• CHRISTOPHER
• I took her hand as we walked in.
• It wasn't part of the plan. I hadn't thought about it, hadn't decided to do it, it just happened, the way my fingers found hers and held on, and I told myself it was for her benefit. She was about to walk into a room full of Donovans, and Donovans were a lot. She needed to feel steady.
• That's all it was.
• I leaned down slightly as we crossed the entrance hall. "By the way," I murmured, close to her ear, "you look stunning."
• I felt her hand tighten very slightly around mine. She didn't say anything. Good. That meant it landed.
• "Focus, Christopher."
• ---
• They were all already seated when we walked in ...my parents, my brother Marcus, his fiancée Sophie and every single head turned at once.
• "Sorry we're late," I said smoothly, pulling out Tricia's chair before she could attempt to do it herself and cause an international incident. "Traffic."
• There was no traffic. We both knew there was no traffic. Nobody else needed to know that.
• My mother's eyes went straight to Tricia and lit up in that particular way mothers' eyes do when they smell potential.
• "Christopher," she said, smiling. "Aren't you going to introduce us?"
• "Right. Yes." I cleared my throat. "Everyone, this is Tricia Damien. My girlfriend."
• The word landed in the room like a dropped fork.
• Marcus's eyebrows went up. Sophie's went up higher. They exchanged a look ... the kind of look two people share when they've both just received the same piece of suspicious information and are silently agreeing to investigate it later.
• I understood the reaction. I'd dated exactly four women in three years and the longest of those had lasted five days, two of which I'd spent travelling. My family had heard the word "girlfriend" from me before. They had learned, reasonably, not to get attached to it.
• But my mother... bless her, was already past suspicion and straight into delight.
• "Well," she said warmly, "welcome, Tricia. Sit, sit, eat."
• We ate. For about four minutes, things were normal.
• Then my mother put down her fork, folded her hands, and said, "So. How did you two meet?"
• And that was when Tricia took off.
• "Oh, it's such a funny story," she said, her eyes lighting up, leaning forward like she was about to tell the best anecdote of the evening — which, to be fair, she was, just not the true one.
• "I was at this event ...completely by accident, really and Christopher just would not leave me alone."
• I nearly choked on my water.
• "He kept finding excuses to talk to me," she continued, completely straight-faced, "and I kept trying to walk away, very politely, and he just followed me everywhere. It was very persistent."
• My mother laughed, delighted. "That sounds about right, actually."
• "Does it?" Tricia turned to me, her eyes wide and innocent, and reached over to rest her hand on my forearm. "He's very persistent."
• "I am not—"
• "He really is," she told the table, patting my arm gently,her fingers were trailing slowly down to my wrist. "Once Christopher decides he wants something, he just—" she gave a small, helpless shrug, "...doesn't stop. It's actually quite charming, once you get used to it."
• I sat there. With my arm currently being caressed in front of my entire family. My brain doing something I did not have a word for.
• "And how do you find him?" my mother asked. "As a person. Generally."
• "Oh, he's a workaholic," Tricia said immediately, and the table laughed because apparently this was also true and widely known. "He is constantly on his phone. I have to physically take it from him sometimes."
• "She does," Marcus said, grinning at me for the first time all evening.
• "But," Tricia added, her voice softening, turning to look at me properly and her hand moved, brushing through the hair near my temple, light and easy, like she'd done it a hundred times, "underneath all that? He's actually really sweet." She smiled. "Sensitive, even. People don't expect that from him."
• My chest did something. It was tight and warm at the same time. Sensitive. She wasn't entirely wrong, and the fact that she'd noticed — even as a performance sat strangely in my chest.
• She leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to my cheek.
• I went rigid.
• "Sorry," she murmured against my ear, just for me, barely audible. "For the act."
• For the act. Right.
• I forced my face into something resembling normal.
• My mother was now looking at Tricia the way generals look at promising recruits.
• "Tricia," she said, "I don't suppose you'd want to help with the wedding planning? Marcus and Sophie's wedding is in three months and I could use someone with ... " she gestured vaguely at Tricia, "...an energy like yours."
• "I would love that," Tricia said, and she actually meant it, I could tell.
• "Oh, and you have to be a bridesmaid," Sophie said suddenly, leaning across the table, all earlier suspicion completely evaporated. "I mean it. We need more bridesmaids and you're perfect."
• "Really?" Tricia's face lit up properly now, no performance at all. "I'd be honoured."
• Even my father who had said almost nothing all evening, which for him was practically a standing ovation, nodded slowly, looking at Tricia with quiet approval.
• "She's good," he said simply, to me, like that settled something.
• I looked around the table. My mother, beaming. Sophie, already pulling out her phone to add Tricia to a group chat. Marcus, watching me with an expression I didn't love — the kind that said we are absolutely discussing this later. My father, satisfied.
• And Tricia, glowing, completely in her element, having somehow, in the space of one dinner charmed an entire family that I had spent thirty years carefully managing.
• I sat back in my chair.
• This was supposed to be one dinner. One performance. Done by tonight.
• I looked at Tricia laughing at something Sophie said, and her hand still resting near mine on the table like it belonged there.
• "This," I murmured to myself, "is going to be a problem."