Page 19

CHAPTER 18

H alloween arrived at The Red Lion as a fine mist rolled in from the Thames with the sort of dramatic timing that suggested London’s weather gods had been reading gothic romance novels. By late afternoon, the fog had thickened into something worthy of a Sherlock Holmes adaptation, turning the city’s streetlights into glowing orbs suspended in soft gray haze and blurring the outlines of buildings across the street until they looked like watercolor paintings left out in the rain. It was the perfect atmospheric backdrop for the night when the veil between worlds was said to be at its thinnest—which, given her current supernatural houseguest situation, made Tessa slightly nervous about what the evening might bring.

She stood back from her final decorating touches, surveying The Red Lion’s transformation with a mixture of pride, anticipation, and the sort of barely controlled nerves that came from knowing that everything she’d been working toward for months might be decided by the success or failure of the next few hours.

Every surface in the pub gleamed from days of obsessive polishing, reflecting the warm light from dozens of carefully placed vintage candelabras that had cost her more than she’d strictly budgeted for but created exactly the authentic atmosphere she’d been hoping to achieve. Paper lanterns hung from the ancient oak beams like golden fruit, casting amber pools of light across the worn floorboards that had witnessed centuries of London life. Historic photographs of the city during the Blitz lined the walls—carefully selected prints she’d ordered online and vintage-style posters from museum shops, all chosen to recreate the authentic atmosphere of Will’s era—while a genuine 1940s gramophone in the corner played soft jazz that transported the room back eight decades.

The fundraiser for historical preservation had been entirely her own idea, born from desperation and determination in equal measure. A 1940s-themed Halloween celebration that would honor Will’s era while raising both money and community support for the heritage application—practical activism wrapped in period-appropriate entertainment.

She’d spent weeks planning tonight and the final few days pulling everything together: coordinating with local historical societies, hunting down authentic décor from antique shops across London, and personally persuading dozens of local businesses to donate auction items that would appeal to preservation-minded bidders. Tonight’s success would determine whether all her efforts had generated enough momentum to counter Westfield Development’s acquisition plans and save The Red Lion from becoming luxury apartments.

The irony that Sebastian himself had orchestrated much of the evening’s guest list wasn’t lost on her, though she’d stopped trying to analyze the contradictions in their relationship weeks ago. Some things were too complicated for rational explanation.

“Stop fretting, you perfectionist,” Daphne said, appearing at Tessa’s elbow like a fashionable guardian angel. She looked absolutely stunning in a 1940s-inspired witch costume—a perfectly tailored black dress with dramatic shoulders, paired with a rakish hat that would have made Katharine Hepburn weep with envy. “Everything looks completely perfect. You’ve outdone yourself.”

“I just desperately want this to go well,” Tessa admitted, making one final adjustment to her own vintage-inspired ensemble. She’d chosen a deep blue dress with white polka dots, its sweetheart neckline and A-line skirt meticulously recreated from 1940s fashion plates she’d studied like architectural blueprints. Victory rolls and what she privately called a heroic amount of hairspray had helped her achieve the sort of hairstyle that would have made the women in Will’s photographs proud.

“It will be magnificent,” Daphne assured her with the confidence of someone who’d watched Tessa pull off seemingly impossible projects before. “You’ve thought of absolutely everything—I’m particularly impressed by the air raid siren sound effects you’ve planned for the ghost story portion.”

Tessa smiled, feeling a flutter of nervous excitement. The evening’s entertainment program included carefully researched ghost stories from the Blitz years, culminating in Will Donovan’s tale—though she’d be presenting it diplomatically as historical fiction rather than revealing the true haunting currently taking place in the cellar. The heritage board members would be considerably more receptive to documented facts than supernatural speculation.

As seven o’clock approached with the inevitability of all important deadlines, guests began arriving in small groups, shaking off the October chill and exclaiming appreciatively over the pub’s atmospheric transformation. Tessa greeted each arrival warmly, accepting compliments on the authentic ambiance while mentally cataloging attendees who might prove influential with the heritage board: a prominent local historian, the head of London’s largest preservation society, several journalists who specialized in architectural coverage.

She was deep in animated conversation with a conservation expert about the challenges of maintaining original Victorian plumbing when the front door opened again, admitting another swirl of fog—and Sebastian.

Every carefully prepared greeting vanished from her mind like smoke. He wore an impeccably tailored 1940s suit that looked like it had been waiting decades for exactly the right occasion: high-waisted trousers that emphasized his height, a double-breasted waistcoat that accentuated his lean frame, and a fedora angled with the sort of casual perfection that suggested he’d been born wearing period clothing. The vintage style suited him far too well for Tessa’s peace of mind, transforming him from a modern corporate shark into someone who looked like he’d stepped directly out of one of the wartime photographs lining her wall.

Their eyes met across the warmly lit room, and something unmistakable flickered in his expression—a warmth that had nothing to do with business strategies and everything to do with the way he was looking at her. Her pulse immediately began behaving like a teenager’s, skittering and jumping in ways that had nothing to do with event planning stress.

“You look...” Sebastian began, then seemed to catch himself and reconsider his words. “The pub looks absolutely incredible. You’ve created something magical here.”

“Thank you,” Tessa said, absurdly pleased by the genuine admiration in his voice. “You look very...well, aren’t you just the cat’s pajamas.”

Sebastian’s eyebrows rose with surprise and delight. “I was aiming for devastatingly handsome, but I’ll take feline sleepwear.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Tessa said, though her smile gave her away completely.

“Family archives,” he said, gesturing to his outfit with a grin that made her stomach do interesting acrobatic maneuvers. “These belonged to my grandfather. I thought Will might appreciate the historical accuracy.”

“Even your fashion choices are historically researched,” Tessa observed. “Do you do anything without a strategy?”

“I’m working on it,” Sebastian said, his voice dropping to that intimate tone that made her pulse quicken. “You’re a terrible influence on my corporate efficiency.”

The image of Sebastian carefully searching through family heirlooms specifically for this event—for her event—touched something tender and warm in her chest. Before she could formulate a response that wouldn’t reveal exactly how much his gesture meant to her, he stepped aside to introduce the small group of people who’d accompanied him.

“These are Margaret Thornfield and James Whitmore from the heritage board,” Sebastian said quietly, “and several property developers who specialize in historical restoration work rather than demolition. They were all intrigued by the historical preservation angle when I described your project.”

Tessa blinked in genuine surprise, trying to process what he’d just told her. Sebastian—whose company was still actively attempting to acquire her pub for development—had personally recruited allies for her preservation cause and brought them as his guests to her fundraiser.

The contradiction should have confused her, made her suspicious of his motives, but it didn’t. Their relationship had evolved far beyond the neat categories of opponent and ally, business rival and romantic interest. What existed between them now was too complex and genuine for simple labels.

“Thank you,” she said finally, the words feeling entirely inadequate for the depth of gratitude and bewilderment and growing affection churning in her chest.

Sebastian’s hand brushed against hers as he moved to let his guests mingle—a contact so light it might have been accidental, except for the way his fingers lingered just long enough to make it clearly intentional.

“Of course,” he said, and the simple words carried more weight than any elaborate declaration.

The evening was officially underway, and despite all her nerves, Tessa felt a surge of confidence. Whatever happened tonight, whatever contradictions and complications lay ahead, she was exactly where she belonged—in her pub, surrounded by people who understood its worth, with Sebastian beside her instead of against her.

For the first time in months, victory felt possible.

The evening unfolded with the sort of graceful momentum that only came when months of careful planning finally aligned with cooperative circumstances. Sebastian found himself unable to concentrate on his own conversations, his attention drawn again and again to watching Tessa work the room with natural charm and genuine expertise. She drifted from guest to guest in her blue polka-dot dress, the candlelight catching auburn highlights in her carefully styled hair, her voice animated and passionate as she shared stories about the pub’s history and the importance of preserving London’s architectural heritage. The Red Lion had never looked more alive, more vital, more worth fighting for.

He’d spent the past three days calling in favors and pulling strings to ensure that exactly the right people would attend tonight’s event—decisions that his board would definitely not approve of, but that had ceased to matter somewhere between bandaging Tessa’s injured hand and their revelatory late-night phone conversation.

Outside, the Halloween fog clung to the windows with supernatural persistence, but inside The Red Lion, golden candlelight created an atmosphere that felt suspended outside of normal time. The 1940s music, the period costumes, the warm glow reflecting off polished wood and brass—everything combined to make the evening feel like stepping into a living museum where the past and present coexisted in perfect harmony.

Sebastian and Tessa moved through their respective hosting duties with an unspoken synchronization that surprised them both. When she needed a specific bottle of wine from behind the bar, Sebastian appeared with it before she could ask.

“Are you reading my mind now?” Tessa asked, accepting the bottle with raised eyebrows.

“Just your body language,” Sebastian replied smoothly. “Very educational reading material.”

“Sebastian Westfield!” she hissed, though she was fighting a smile. “Behave yourself. We’re in public.”

“I am behaving,” he protested. “This is me being extremely well-behaved. You should see me when I’m not.”

Later, when a guest cornered him with detailed questions about tax incentives for historic preservation, she materialized at his elbow with exactly the right statistics and contact information.

“Efficient,” Sebastian murmured in her ear as the guest wandered off satisfied. “I could get used to this sort of partnership.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Tessa warned, though she made no move to step away from him.

“Too late,” he said softly. “I’m absolutely full of ideas.”

They worked together like two halves of a well-coordinated whole, anticipating each other’s needs with the sort of intuitive partnership that usually took years to develop.

“You two make quite the impressive team,” Oliver observed when he arrived fashionably late, looking distinguished in an impeccably tailored period suit that emphasized his natural elegance. “I’ve never seen you so...seamlessly integrated with someone else’s agenda, Sebastian.”

“I’m perfectly capable of collaborative effort when the cause merits it,” Sebastian replied with dry humor, though his eyes automatically sought out Tessa across the room.

“This looks like considerably more than professional collaboration,” Oliver said, his knowing look pointed enough to make Sebastian slightly uncomfortable. “Alice sends her regrets, by the way. She’s not feeling up to evening events at the moment.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Just the usual pregnancy exhaustion, though I’ve surprised her with a full day of country house tours tomorrow. I’ve been putting off the house hunting too long, and she’s been too polite to complain about my procrastination.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Harry and Daphne with the twins in tow, both boys wearing miniature Ghostbusters equipment that had been cleverly retrofitted with 1940s-appropriate embellishments. The sight of four-year-olds in period costume carrying homemade paranormal investigation gear was simultaneously adorable and slightly surreal.

“Mr. Sebastian!” the twins chorused, abandoning their parents to race across the room toward him. “We need backup! The ghosts are extra strong tonight!”

Sebastian allowed himself to be dragged toward the fireplace area where Will’s presence was most frequently detected, earning an affectionate smile from Tessa when she noticed him crouching beside the hearth with complete seriousness, examining wall cracks with a cardboard “ghost detector” while the boys provided solemn scientific commentary.

“The sad soldier is much more powerful tonight,” Malcolm explained with the gravity of a university professor. “It’s Halloween. All the ghosts get stronger when the veil is thin.”

“Is that so?” Sebastian asked, adjusting his vintage fedora as he peered into shadows. “What exactly does he need from us?”

“He’s still looking for his picture,” Ewan said matter-of-factly. “The one with Rebecca. But he’s getting really tired of waiting.”

“The sad soldier likes your hat, Mr. Sebastian,” Malcolm announced seriously, adjusting his own miniature fedora.

“Even the supernatural appreciates good haberdashery,” Sebastian said solemnly, tipping his fedora to the corner where Will presumably lingered.

From across the room, Tessa called out: “Your ego doesn’t need ghostly validation, Sebastian!”

“Are you suggesting my ego is already sufficiently large?” he called back.

“I’m suggesting it has its own postcode!”

The twins giggled, delighted by the adult banter, while several guests looked on with obvious amusement at the byplay between the elegant businessman and the spirited pub owner.

Sebastian felt an unexpected chill that had nothing to do with supernatural temperature drops when Ewan added seriously, “Look harder. He says time is running out.”

Sebastian spent twenty minutes engaged in serious ghost hunting with the twins, a commitment that earned him an increasingly warm smile from Tessa every time she glanced in their direction. When their eyes met across the candlelit room, he could only offer a slight shrug. What could he possibly say? Playing paranormal investigator with two preschoolers while wearing his grandfather’s vintage suit felt more natural and right than most of his board meetings.

“Sebastian,” Daphne’s voice interrupted his thoughts as the twins ran off to investigate another corner. “Can I have a word?”

Something in her tone made him wary, but he nodded. “Of course.”

Daphne guided him to a quieter corner, her expression serious despite the festive atmosphere around them. “So let me get this straight,” she said without preamble. “You’re the reason she’s holding this fundraiser in the first place—trying to stop your company from buying her pub. But here you are, helping her with it, bringing heritage board members, and you’re obviously head over heels for her. How’s that working out for you?”

Sebastian felt heat rise in his chest, part embarrassment and part something more defensive. “It’s...complicated.”

“I imagine it is,” Daphne said, her tone not unkind but relentlessly direct. “What happens when your board finds out you’re actively sabotaging your own deal? Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? Sabotage?”

“I’ll handle my board,” Sebastian said, though the words felt less certain than he wanted them to.

“And Tessa? Does she know you’re choosing her over your company’s interests? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re having your cake and eating it too—playing the supportive boyfriend while your company still threatens everything she’s working to save.”

Sebastian was quiet for a long moment, watching Tessa across the room as she laughed at something one of the heritage board members was saying. The sight of her genuine happiness, knowing he’d helped create it, made something twist painfully in his chest.

“She knows I’m here,” he said finally.

“That’s not what I asked,” Daphne replied gently. “Sebastian, I like you. More than I expected to, honestly. But Tessa is my friend, and she’s been hurt before by men who weren’t straightforward about their intentions. She deserves to know where she stands with you—all of where she stands.”

Before Sebastian could formulate a response that wouldn’t sound like complete cowardice, Tessa took center stage beneath the amber paper lanterns. Her voice rose and fell in perfect rhythm with the soft jazz playing in the background as she told carefully selected ghost stories from London’s wartime years. Sebastian found himself completely captivated—not just by the stories themselves, but by her natural storytelling ability, the way she commanded attention without demanding it, the passion that made every historical anecdote feel personally meaningful.

When she began recounting Will Donovan’s tale—carefully presented as local folklore rather than current supernatural reality—the pub’s lights flickered in a way that had nothing to do with electrical problems. A reverent hush fell over the assembled guests, but Tessa continued seamlessly, folding the moment into her narrative as if she’d planned the atmospheric enhancement. Sebastian noticed the vintage photograph behind her tilt slightly on its mounting, then slowly straighten itself, and when he caught Tessa’s gaze across the room, he knew she’d witnessed Will’s subtle participation as well.

Enthusiastic applause followed the conclusion of her stories. Guests lingered over the silent auction displays, placing final bids on donated items while several heritage board members approached Tessa to promise written letters of support for her preservation application.

Daphne’s words echoed in Sebastian’s mind as he watched Tessa’s face light up with each promise of support. She deserved to know where she stood with him. She deserved honesty about what he was willing to sacrifice for her—and what he was still too afraid to give up.

But tonight wasn’t the time for that conversation. Tonight was about her triumph, her dreams coming closer to reality. The reckoning with his board, with his company’s interests, with the fundamental contradiction of his position—that could wait until tomorrow.

Couldn’t it?