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Beckett grins. “Me too. Anybody who makes Theo this annoyed has to be worth knowing.”

“Shut up, you’re not helping,” I mutter. But I don’t protest the fact I like her.

Because I do. Very much.

Beckett sighs. “Okay, let’s help then. I’ll get us another round and we can put our heads together and make a plan.”

Caleb shoots him a confused look. “Isn’t it more fun to see him suffer?”

“Well yes,” Beckett agrees. “But when was the last time Theo even mentioned a woman? Let alone looked like he was lovesick?”

“I’m not lovesick,” I protest, but they both ignore me.

“Okay, let’s do it,” Caleb agrees. “It might be the only way we get to meet this woman who knows how to grab him by the balls and twist hard.” He gives me a huge grin. “Tell us everything about her. Then we can work out how to make the poor woman give you a second chance.”

8

GEORGIA

I order room service – a chicken salad, fries, and a glass of champagne because I need to work myself up to ordering the whole bottle – and grab my laptop out of my suitcase, deciding that now is as good a time as any to start thinking about what I’m going to do come January.

Sure, I might not get the chop. But maybe this is the kick in the butt I need to get out of there. It was never going to work long term in the same company as Patrick. Even though we’re in different office buildings, there’s this lingering knowledge that he’s always around.

The thing is, I haven’t applied for a job in years. And as I read some threads on Reddit, it appears that the job market has gone the way of the dating market. App led, ghosting, vacancies that aren’t actually vacancies.

I sigh at the enshittification of life. Seriously, wasn’t it so much easier when we could drop off an application?

I hit on a thread about interviews. Somebody mentions that the recruiters they met had obviously stalked their social media, because they knew a lot about their movements.

Grabbing my phone I open up my sorely neglected Instagram account, and blanche when I see the two-year-old photographs of Patrick and me in Florida on vacation. I’m drinking the biggest margarita you can imagine. Patrick is scrolling on his phone.

But the one I pinned to the top is the worst.

Dear Friends. In case you didn’t get my texts, messages, or letters, this is to inform you that the wedding is off. Apologies if you made plans, reservations, or just believed in love. I won’t be on social media in the near future, so if you need more information, please message Patrick Sutherland.

Oh god, I’d written that one in a fit of anger. Mostly because my mom told me that half the family hadn’t gotten the message that the wedding was off. Well, hopefully they have by now. I hurriedly delete it, then scroll through and delete all the other inappropriate images in my feed.

But now it looks empty, dammit. Like I don’t have a life. Any recruiter is going to think I’m either a saddo or hiding something.

So I start uploading photos of London. The ones I’ve taken so far are pretty good. I even add captions, because I’m a journalist, dammit, and words still matter more than images, right?

I’m uploading the last photograph when there’s a knock at the door. Assuming it’s room service, I jump up, putting my phone down on the table, and rush to answer.

When I open the door, two men and a woman are outside, all wearing the familiar Hunt Hotel uniform with the double-H entwined on their vests.

It’s a bit overboard for a salad and champagne, but I smile anyway.

“Miss Ingram?” the woman says, her eyes sparkling.

“That’s me.”

“Great. We’re here to decorate your room. And of course serve your dinner. Please make yourself comfortable and we’ll get to work.”

I blink. “Decorate?” I repeat.

“Yes, we have a few things to make your room festive.”

She gestures at something to her left. I have to peek around the door to see what she’s pointing at. It’s one of those huge hotel carts overloaded with boxes of decorations, along with a real tree, at least seven feet tall, propped against the wall.