A New Year Bride. Scarlet Wilson

do parties,’ she added.

      Grace turned to face her. ‘He doesn’t, does he?’ She hadn’t slept at all last night. The excitement of the day, the success of the decorations, the long hours she’d worked. The truth was she should have been exhausted and collapsed into bed. Instead, although her bones had been weary and welcomed the comfort of her bed, her mind had tumbled over and over.

      Even though she’d been so busy, as soon as she’d stepped inside the flat last night a wave of loneliness had swamped her. It had been there ever since her gran had died, but this time of year just seemed to amplify it. She’d ended up texting Clio and asking for extra shifts. She couldn’t bear to be inside the house herself. Keeping busy was the only thing she could think of.

      She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about all this. Finlay had been straight with her. He was still mourning his wife. Christmas was hard for him. He was her boss. He’d been angry with her. He’d almost fired her.

      But he hadn’t felt like her boss on the roof when she’d been contemplating an even lonelier Christmas than she was already facing. For a few minutes he’d felt like someone she’d connected with.

      Again, when he’d held her hand and those little tingles had shot straight up her arm.

      Again, when he’d given her that look as he’d stood behind her in the shop and stared at their reflection in the mirror.

      Again, when she’d seen joy on his face as he’d seen the purple Christmas decorations.

      But she was probably imagining it all.

      What did she know? When was the last time she’d been on an actual date?

      Wait? Was this a date?

      ‘He asked me to go to the party,’ she said out loud again. ‘It’s only a thank you for the decorations.’

      Alice gave a brief nod. ‘Is it?’ she said knowingly.

      Grace made a little squeak. Panic was starting to wash over her. ‘It’s just a thank you.’

      Alice turned and walked back to her chair. ‘I don’t know that he’s ever taken anyone else to the party—or to a party.’

      ‘No one else has done Christmas decorations for him,’ Grace said quickly, sliding the doors closed on the wardrobe.

      She had to stop overthinking this. He’d been clear.

      ‘He said we might not even stay long. And he said he doesn’t dance. But the food will be good and there will be champagne.’

      Alice’s smile grew broader. ‘So, if you’re not staying long at the party, what exactly are you doing?’

      Grace replied automatically. ‘I guess I’ll just go home.’ Her hand froze midway to the rubbish bag attached to her cart. Would she just be going home? Or would Finlay expect them to go somewhere else?

      ‘What will you be wearing?’

      ‘Oh, no!’ Grace’s hand flew to her mouth. She hadn’t even thought of that. Her mind had been too busy trying to work out what an invite to a party meant. Her stomach in a permanent knot wondering how she felt about everything.

      Truth was, there was no getting away from the fact that Finlay Armstrong was possibly the best-looking guy she’d ever seen.

      That voice, those muscles, and those blue, blue eyes…

      She swallowed and stuffed the rubbish in the bin. She’d seen women looking at him on their shopping trip. She’d seen the glances that already said, What is he doing with her?

      Her mind did a quick brain-raid of her wardrobe. A black dress from a high-street store. A pair of skinny black trousers and fuchsia semi-see-through shirt. A strange kind of green dress with a scattering of sequins that she’d worn four years ago to a friend’s wedding.

      Nothing suitable for the kind of party she imagined it would be.

      ‘I have no idea what I’ll wear,’ she said as she slumped against the wall.

      Alice gave her a smile and tapped the side of her nose. ‘Why don’t you leave it with me? I don’t have all my clothes in that wardrobe and I think I might have something in storage—’ she glanced Grace up and down ‘—that might just be perfect.’

      ‘Really?’

      Alice smiled. ‘Just call me the Christmas fairy. Come and see me on the day of the party.’

      Finlay wasn’t quite sure what he should be doing. His inbox had three hundred emails. There was a thick pile of mail on his desk. His PA had left some contracts to be reviewed. A few of his other hotels had staffing issues over Christmas. He’d also had an interesting email from Ailsa Hillier at the Corminster, asking how things were working out with her recommended company, Maids in Chelsea.

      She’d probably already heard about the Christmas decorations. Someone at The Armstrong seemed to tell their rivals all they needed to know. Just as well it was a friendly rivalry. Ailsa had lost her sister to cancer some years ago and when Anna had died she’d sent a message with her condolences and telling Finlay she would take care of The Armstrong until he was ready to return. In the end, that had only been eight days—the amount of time it had taken to bury Anna—but he always remembered the kindness.

      He picked up the phone, smiling as Ailsa answered instantly.

      ‘I hear you’ve gone all purple.’

      He choked out a laugh. ‘It’s a very nice colour.’

      There was a moment’s silence. ‘I’m glad, Finlay. It’s time.’ Her voice was filled with warmth so the words didn’t make him bristle. ‘I might need to steal your designer though.’

      Now he did sit straight in his chair. Ailsa couldn’t possibly know about that, could she? He didn’t give anything away. ‘Your designer didn’t pick purple this year?’

      She sighed and he imagined she was putting her feet on the desk at this point. ‘No. If they had then I could accuse you of copying. We are all white and gold this year and it already feels old. Tell me who you used and I’ll poach them next year—after all, I did give you the Maids.’

      He could sense she had a pen poised already. She was serious. And she didn’t realise the connection. ‘The Maids have worked out well, thank you. I’ll ask Rob to have a look in the New Year about recruiting more permanent staff.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Or maybe I won’t.’ He drummed his fingers on the table as he thought. ‘Some of our permanent residents seem to really like the Maids in Chelsea.’

      ‘I think the truth is, Finlay, we get what we pay for. The Maids might cost more, but, in my experience, they are a polite, friendly, well-mannered bunch of girls. They want to do a good job and most of them seem to hide their light under a bushel. One of the girls I met yesterday has a degree in marketing, another has worked with four different aid agencies across four different continents. I like that.’

      He liked that too. Hiding her light under a bushel seemed to fit Grace perfectly. The work she’d done here was great. Maybe it was time to find out a little bit more about the woman he’d invited to the staff party?

      ‘You still haven’t given me the name of the interior designer,’ Ailsa reminded him.

      He smiled. ‘Her name is Grace Ellis, but you can’t have her, Ailsa, she’s all mine.’

      He put down the phone with a smile, imagining the email he’d get in response.

      He stood up and walked through to the main reception; Frank was just waving off some guests. ‘Frank, do you know where Grace is?’

      Frank gestured off to the left. ‘Back down in the basement. She’s had some more ideas.’

      Finlay