“No,” Will said firmly, because the head of the Farrell family was the kind of lady you had to be firm with, or next thing you knew you’d find yourself, er … buying her a farmhouse in Scotland. “No, Ms Tricia, I’ll get it. You’re very busy there with your cat.”

“Mmm, yes, you’re right,” she allowed, pausing to coo at the bundle of fur in her arms. “She’s pregnant, aren’t you, darling? She’s a very pregnant cat.”

“Congratulations to the happy couple.” He hauled his suitcase out of the car boot and strode across the gravel, practically shoving Ms Tricia into the house. Her long, pink dress looked awfully thin, and her brown skin was turning a bit blue already.

“How are you?” he asked once they were safe in the cozily lit hallway, a thousand family photographs smiling down from the lime-green walls.

“Don’t small-talk me, William. I hate it. Tell me some celebrity gossip, hm?”

Oh, I’ve got celebrity gossip, alright.

But he couldn’t say it out loud because it wasn’t for Ms Tricia. It was news for an entirely different Farrell woman, and she had to be the first one to hear it, because she was special. And this Christmas, finally, he was going to show her as much.

So he chose something else to placate Ms Tricia with. “Er … Cherry Ambjørn is pregnant again?”

“Oh, William, you’re rubbish. I read that in the papers last week.”

“Fair enough.” He smiled, setting his suitcase down by the worn-but-elegant console table. This house was old, and old-fashioned, and a bit rickety, but Ms Tricia liked it that way. The stone floors were covered with red-and-gold rugs—for Christmas, of course; they were usually blue. And the stairs behind her had a stuffed angel decorating every other step, and a shit-ton of tinsel wound over the bannister. Will approved. Now he was here, he would bully Jase into helping him attach tinsel from the ceiling, too, and maybe they would nail some bells and whatnot to the doorframes.

Mistletoe, even. Mistletoe could be great for his plans. But perhaps he was getting ahead of himself.

“Where is Jase, anyway?” he asked out loud, then realised he’d carried his thoughts into his words, which was a problem of his. But he was with the Farrells now, and they were practically family, so no one would judge him if he came off a bit dopey. There weren’t a thousand cameras pointed at him, or co-stars who were paid to pretend to like him but secretly thought he was dim, or pretty people with ugly smiles who stared at his crotch a lot. Just the Farrells. And that suited him better than fine.