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“It was never official, but yeah. That’s done now,” I mutter, taking a sip out of my glass.

I offer a dry, half-hearted laugh, but my mind isn’t on Nancy. My head is entirely stuck on Ellise.

Josh catches on, the smirk fading from his face, replaced by that look he gives me when he’s sick of my bullshit. Josh is the closest thing I have to a brother. Hiding this from him now, after everything that’s happened between me and Ellise over the last couple of weeks. It’s so fucking stupid.

I run a hand over the back of my neck, letting out a heavy breath.

“What’s up man?” Josh pushes, leaning a little closer towards me.

“It’s Ellise,” I say, the words slipping out. “I’m out of my fucking mind about her.” I admit. Saying it out loud feels like instantaneous relief. “I tried to keep it about the duet. I tried to tell myself it was only wanting to piss off my old man, but it’s not.”

The silence stretches between us, thick with the weight of the admission. Josh stares at me for a few long seconds, his lips curving to form a smile, before he shakes his head and breaks into a full, disbelieving laugh.

“Thank fuck you finally admitted it.” Josh scoffs, leaning back with a thud against the booth. “Jesus Christ, Julian. You are a complete hypocrite, you know that? Acting all cold and unbothered. Anyone with eyes can see it.”

“Ah fuck, I know. I’ve been a bit of a prick about it,” I confess.

“A bit?” He snorts, shaking his head. “Try a massive prick, man. You’ve been walking around for weeks, snapping at anyone who asks simple questions—biting my head off every time her name comes up. It’s been insufferable.”

I sit there and take it. He isn’t wrong. I’ve been a complete arsehole, hiding behind an icy façade while losing my absolute mind about her.

“Look, I’m glad you’ve stopped pretending, anyway.” Josh adds. “Because watching you lie about it was a fucking nightmare.”

“Yeah, yeah. Message received.” I offer a genuine grin, setting my glass back down on the quartz table and burying my head in my hands.

He can call me out on my shit all he wants. For the first time in weeks, I feel lighter.

“So,” Josh says, leaning back over the table, his eyes glinting with a fresh layer of amusement. “Now that you’ve admitted you’re completely hooked on her, what actually happened in Greenwich? And, don’t even try lying about it.”

We talk for another hour. Well, he grills me for another hour.

Eventually, we call it a night, and I make the walk back through the crisp night air to the townhouse.

The house is dead quiet and dark when I step in. No lights have been left on for me tonight. Carmela has already travelled to Greenwich ahead of me to oversee the holiday preparations, leaving the place feeling colder and emptier than usual.

“You look thin,” she states the second I get inside.

“Hello to you too, Carmela.” I let out a rough chuckle, closing the door behind me as I lean in to give her a peck on the cheek.

Christmas at the Thorne estate has arrived.

“How’s my boy? Sit down sweetheart. I’ll make food.”

“I’ve literally walked through the door, and you’re trying to force-feed me already?” I laugh, kicking off my boots. “I’m fine, Carmela. How’s it been here over the last couple of days?”

“Quiet. Too quiet. Sit.”

I sit and don’t bother arguing. Arguing with Carmela never ends well for me. I learned that the hard way more than once over the last twenty years. When it comes to the matriarch of our kitchen, it is simply better to comply.

Carmela is the sole reason why this estate and the Manhattan townhouse have not been completely unbearable for me.

She also happens to make the best spaghetti bolognese I have ever tasted in my life. It is a dish that I have relentlessly requested multiple times per week for approximately fifteen years, and she has never once said no. She leaves the light on in the kitchen when I crawl home late at night. She is the one who never asks intrusive questions she knows I don’t want to answer. And she has a very specific look that she gives me, in silence, one that communicates exactly how much contempt she holds for my father, without her ever having to say a word about it. I respect her enormously.

Tonight she puts a bowl in front of me, mountain-high, the rich scent of red wine and slow simmered beef instantly making my mouth water. She sits directly across the table from me, wrapping her hands around a cup of tea. She watches me eat with the kind of fierce and protective energy she has dialled up ever since Mum passed.

“How is the music?” she asks, her eyes tracking the frantic speed at which I’m twisting the spaghetti onto my fork.

“Good.” I twirl another massive clump. “We’re actually getting somewhere with this duet now.”