Page 64 of How to Belong with a Billionaire

“But…but…” Her voice rose into something dangerously close to a whine. “Arden.”

“What? This better be spectacular.”

Groaning, I allowed myself to be bullied out of bed. Whereupon Ellery sprang over to the window and ripped the curtains open, revealing the dirty redbrick of the bar opposite and the wire curlicues around the car park—or parking lot, as I guess Americans would call it—all thickly sugared with…

“Snow!” I yelled.

“Yeah.” Ellery offered one of her rare, non-mocking smiles.

“I can’t remember the last time we actually had snow at Christmas.”

“Well”—she seemed to remember herself and shrugged—“give climate change another couple of years.”

“Oh, come on. You were excited too.”

“No I wasn’t. I just thoughtyouwould be.”

“And you were right. Let’s go out and play.”

It turned out, snow didn’t fuck around in this part of the world. It came down in fat, fluffy flakes and piled up in pillowy drifts by the sides of the roads, bringing fresh unfamiliarity to an already unfamiliar city. I was glad of Caspian’s coat and Ilya’s scarf, and relieved that Ellery’s various expeditions had included a shopping trip, because she was, at last, dressed for the weather, even if her beanie had cat ears on it. Caspian would probably have killed me if she’d fallen ill on my watch.

Which was when a different, but still horribly relevant, thought hit me like a freight train.

“Ellery,” I said, “your family know you’re with me, don’t they?”

Her eyes flicked to mine and then away again. “Probably.”

“What doesprobablymean?”

“You’re the one with the English degree.”

“I don’t mean its etymology. You did tell them, right? Please tell me you told them.”

“They won’t notice anyway.”

Oh Jesus. My mind was already whirling with headlines:HART FAMILY SCION IN ABSCONDMENT SCANDAL; POSH BIRD BAILS WITH BROTHER’S BF; GAY JOURNALIST ABDUCTS HEIRESS. “Believe me, they’ll notice.”

“That’s their problem.”

“You have to tell them. Or”—I paused beneath an ice-crinkled awning to catch my breath and calm my racing heart—“if you won’t, then I will.”

She pulled her hat even further down her brow. “Do what you like. But I’m not going back.”

“What? Ever?”

“Until you do.”

Okay. We could work with that. My numb fingers fumbled my phone out of my pocket and I began swiping through my contacts. I’d deleted Caspian’s number in a moment of remembering I had pride, and Ilya—even assuming he took my call—didn’t work for Caspian anymore. That one time I’d contacted Finesilver had gone awfully. So that left…

Well, fuck me sideways with a rusty banana. Nathaniel had given me his contact details when he’d invited me for dinner. And while he was absolutely the last person I wanted to be texting, it didn’t seem like I had much choice. I startedDear Nathanieland then realised how weird that looked.Hi Nathaniel, I tried again,this is Arden St. Ives.Wait. How many Ardens was he likely to have in his phone?Hi Nathaniel. This is Arden. I’m afraid yours is the only number I have. Could you please tell Caspian that Ellery has decided to spend the holiday in the US. She’s safe and well, and sorry not to let you know sooner. Happy Christmas to everyone.

I hitSENDbefore I could obsess over it, trying not to resent how much it probably cost me to text the UK. And in a less than a minute, despite how early it must have been over there, got back:Season’s greetings, Arden. Thank you for letting us know.

Ellery and I weren’t best pleased with each other for a little while after that, but then she took me to the Public Garden, which looked so beautiful, with the stripped bare trees and the silver glaze of ice on the pond thing, that I couldn’t stay cross with her. We found some untouched snow near a parade of brass ducks in Christmas hats, and tried to make a snowman. Except it ended up looking more like a penis, so we committed to the design, and fashioned a towering, majestic snowdong, complete with scrotum, instead. After we’d unleashed it on the world via Insta, I got worried about kids seeing it, as it were, in the flesh, and went full Bastard of Bolton on our creation.

From there, we stopped for French hot chocolate at a mildly pretentious coffee shop, and strolled through the various Christmas markets, arm in arm, before looping Nikwards. This time he was up in his room, waiting by the window, shadows of the falling snow dappling his face like sunlight.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” drawled Ellery, taking in the nice but undeniably hospitaly furnishings.