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He grins. “I won’t. It’s the best gift I’ve ever been given on Christmas Day.” He shrugs. “Maybe the second best.”

“What was the best?” I ask, remembering that his family was hardly ever in the same country for Christmas.

“Waking up outside your apartment.”

His answer catches me off guard. The moonlight throws a warm glow across his face, catching in his eyes. For a second the city feels very far away, like it’s just the two of us standing here in the quiet.

His grin fades a little as he studies me, his gaze moving slowly over my face like he’s trying to memorize it.

“By the way,” he says quietly, “this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

I blink at him. “What is?”

“Walking away from you tonight.”

My heart stutters.

“And not kissing you is taking every ounce of self-control I possess.”

“Then why won’t you give in?” I whisper.

His gaze holds mine. “Because when we kiss again. If we kiss again.” He corrects himself. “I want it to be because you’ve forgiven me and have taken me back.”

He reaches for my hand one last time, squeezing it gently before letting go.

“I’ll call you,” he promises.

“Good,” I reply, trying to sound calmer than I feel. “Make it first thing.”

He starts walking backward down the sidewalk, his eyes still on mine.

“Merry Christmas, Georgia,” he says, the softest smile pulling at his lips.

I exhale, my breath turning to vapor. “Merry Christmas, Theo.”

29

GEORGIA

I frown as I look at the message he sent me this morning.

Georgia. Can you meet me at 245 West 38th Street at 12 noon? – Theo

It’s the twenty-seventh – the day I was originally booked to fly home to New York if I hadn’t dramatically escaped London in a private jet, which I’m still kind of embarrassed about.

Theo hasn’t been back into my apartment. Yesterday he asked if I’d go with him to see the Statue of Liberty, followed by lunch in Greenwich Village. And in the afternoon, I worked on my resume, then called Sam who told me not to worry about him and focus on the damn article, while Theo disappeared, I assume to finally call his family and find out what’s happening.

Still, I’m bemused as I stare at his message. Not least because either he’s bought himself a new phone or found somebody else’s to borrow.

But what confuses me even more is the address. I know that building. It’s where The North Atlantic Monthly is based, along with the other prestige magazines and upscale news websites owned by Salinger Enterprises.

There are restaurants on the first floor though, so I’m wondering if that’s why he wants me to meet him there.

Why? What are we doing there? Having lunch? What should I wear? – Georgia

Doesn’t matter what you wear, you’ll still look beautiful. But business casual would work. And all will be revealed when you get here. If you can trust me… – Theo

My throat tightens at his question. My bruised heart is wary, and my overactive brain has way more questions than answers. But I keep thinking about my mom’s words.