Chapter Text
“Good morning, Mr. Scrooge!”
Anthony Bridgerton didn’t bother looking up from his computer. His eyes were locked on the screen, unblinking, jaw tight, the rhythmic tapping of keys and the occasional click of the mouse echoing in the otherwise silent office.
“I’m not Scrooge,” he muttered, his tone clipped.
Daphne, arms folded, leaned against the doorframe and surveyed her brother’s office. It was immaculate - as always. Minimalism, efficiency, and an almost military precision defined Anthony Bridgerton. Even the view beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows - Aubrey Pines’ snow-dusted town square, glowing under strings of colourful fairy lights - couldn’t thaw the glacial calm of his workspace.
“Grinch, then?” she offered, tilting her head, hoping to make him crack a smile.
“Not Christmas yet,” he replied, still typing.
“Twenty-two days and counting.” Daphne stepped farther in, her heels clicking against the polished floor. “It wouldn’t kill you to put up a Christmas tree. Or a wreath. Maybe - just maybe - a single sprig of holly?”
“Plants belong outside. Not inside,” he said flatly, eyes flicking to a new email notification.
“El might disagree. A piece of tinsel, then?”
Anthony sighed and finally leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his shirt before giving her the long-suffering look of an older brother who’d endured this all his life.
“Did you come in here just to critique my lack of… festive spirit?”
“Partly.” She grinned and reached into her tote, dropping a thick folder onto his desk. “But mostly to give you these accounts.”
He opened it, scanning the first page. “Thank you. Anything else, or are we done with the seasonal interventions?”
Daphne didn’t move.
He waited. “Spit it out.”
“Are you remembering to pick Benedict up from the airport?”
“Yes,” he said, with the tone of a man who’d already had this conversation twice. “I’m leaving after my ten o’clock meeting. You don’t need to remind me.”
“You say that,” she said, drifting toward the window, her reflection blending with the swirl of snow outside, “but I’ve seen you forget your own birthday before.”
“It’s in my calendar,” Anthony replied. “And on a post-it. And I set an alarm on my phone. I’m covered.”
Daphne smirked. “Good. Because the last thing we need is Benedict stranded at the airport. Again.”
Anthony’s lips twitched - almost, but not quite, into a smile. “Why did I hire you again?”
“Because no one else would survive more than a week working for you,” Daphne said sweetly.
He gave a noncommittal hum. “Fair point.”
Truth be told, he liked having her around. What had started as a temporary summer job had quietly become permanent three years ago, and though he’d never admit it, the office would feel unbearably still without her constant chatter.
“Besides,” she added, turning toward the door, “someone has to keep you grounded.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Go back to work, Daphne.”
“Already am.” She winked. “I’ll order a Christmas tree for the lobby.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” he called after her.
Her laughter echoed down the hallway, bright and teasing. Halfway down, she stopped and leaned back in through the door.
“Oh, don’t forget Neddie finishes early today!”
“I have an alarm,” Anthony said automatically. He wasn’t about to forget his own son.
When the door finally clicked shut, Anthony exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. Through the wide windows, the town square shimmered like a snow globe come to life. A choir rehearsed carols beneath the old clock tower, their voices faint but warm even through the glass.
The world was gearing up for Christmas.
Everyone was beginning to feel festive.
Everyone except the man sitting alone in the glass office of Bridgerton, Rokesby & Sons.
True to his word, Anthony was at the arrivals car park—early.
A completely pointless accomplishment, as it turned out, since his brother’s flight was running late.
He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap filling the silence of his SUV. Snow had started to fall again, gentle and insistent, coating the windscreen in a thin sheen of white. Anthony turned on the wipers, then off again, irritated by the noise. His phone buzzed twice: a reminder about his afternoon meeting, and another alert for Neddie — school pick-up 2:00 PM.
He was nothing if not efficient.
He was also freezing and mildly annoyed.
By the time a disheveled Benedict finally appeared through the sliding terminal doors, Anthony had begun to consider the relative merits of leaving him behind. His brother looked perfectly content - too content, given his tardiness - a coffee in one hand, a paint-stained backpack slung casually over the other shoulder, the picture of someone who had never once known the concept of urgency.
Anthony leaned over and hit the horn once, sharp and brief.
Benedict grinned and waved. “Missed you too, brother!”
He opened the passenger door and slid in, the smell of some odd festive coffee immediately filling the car.
“You’re late,” Anthony said, voice clipped as he shifted into gear. His eyes flicked to the clock on the dashboard. They had to be at Neddie’s school in twenty minutes. The school was forty minutes away.
A muscle in his jaw ticked.
“Blame the baggage carousel,” Benedict said easily, stretching his legs out and reclining the seat as though he’d just entered a limousine. “It didn’t start for ages. Everyone’s bags came out. Everyone left. Then…” He gestured dramatically with his coffee cup. “No bag.”
Anthony’s eyes narrowed. “And?”
“And then I remembered.” Benedict smiled sheepishly. “I didn’t check in a bag.”
Anthony turned to look at him, incredulous. “First of all - you came from Los Angeles with that?” He nodded toward the battered backpack, its ancient fabric splattered with various shades of dried paint. It was a miracle the thing hasn’t fallen apart yet. “Second - you are an idiot.”
“Takes one to know one,” Benedict shot back instantly, grinning like a man who lived for the sport of provoking his older brother.
Anthony exhaled sharply through his nose. “I’m not engaging with that.”
“Sure you aren’t,” Benedict said, sipping his coffee.
“We’re going to be late for Neddie,” Anthony grumbled.
“Relax, Tony,” Benedict said, waiting for his reaction to the hated shortened name. “It won’t kill him if we’re five minutes late. You’ll give yourself grey hair.”
“I have grey hair,” Anthony said dryly. “They’re all from you lot.”
Benedict chuckled, turning to watch the blur of snow outside the window. “You missed me.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Liar.”