Not So Happily Ever After (British Bad Boys)
Page 3
“I know that.”
I’m so glad one of us finds this funny. “What’s with the Snow White dig, then?”
“Dig?’ He appears genuinely confused. “Your hair’s always reminded me of Snow White.”
Wait. My hair? “That’s the reason?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” Crap. Did I just make a total idiot of myself? He doesn’t look as though I’ve stuffed up our newfound friendship.
I glance at my bright red apple and have the ridiculous urge to laugh.
An easy silence falls between us as we eat our lunch. God, I have missed this.
“How’s your dad?” he asks.
“He’s good.” Well, as good as he’ll ever be without Mum. A familiar pang of grief hits me, and I take another sip of tea to clear my throat. You’d think after six years the pain wouldn’t be so bad, but I miss her so much.
Still can’t think about the last conversation we had without wanting to curl up into a protective ball.
When he doesn’t respond, I chance glancing at him. He’s finishing his coffee as though that’s the most important thing in existence, but there’s an odd tension that wasn’t there a few seconds ago.
Mentally, I slap myself. It was only three years ago his dad suddenly died. In a strange way that brought us closer together, both having lost a parent unexpectedly. A shared connection, under the surface, like an invisible bond.
I lick my lips. It’s stupid, but it feels odd asking how his mum is, as I hardly know her, and we’ve only met a couple of times.
“Is your mum okay?”
His cup freezes halfway between table and mouth, and he shoots me a look I can’t figure out.
“Yes, she’s fine.”
Is it my imagination or does he sound as though he doesn’t want to talk about her?
“Oh, good.” Common sense tells me to move on, but I can’t help it. “Is she still enjoying her charity work?”
His mum was always very much a lady who lunches, except she was always the one who organized the events, as well as being joint partner with his dad in the private investment bank they owned. When his dad died, and Will took over the company, he told me his mum threw herself into her charity work. A form of therapy, I guess.
“Not so much.” His tone is definitely guarded now, as though I’ve crossed a line or something. “She resigned from several of the boards a while back.”
“I didn’t know that.” There’s no reason why I should, and even if Lucas knew it probably wouldn’t cross his mind to tell me. On second thought, I doubt my brother has a clue. Whereas Brooklyn and I spill our guts on a regular basis, guys are so weird about telling each other stuff.
He shrugs. “It was over a year ago. She needed time to…” he hesitates, which is so not like him that I have the scary urge to take his hand and squeeze his fingers. You can’t do that. I pick up my cup instead. “You know. Get her life together again.”
“Sure.” I nod to show I completely understand, even though a part of me wants to dig deeper because something just doesn’t feel right. And although once I would have, those days have long gone, despite our brand-new friendship pledge.
I take a sip of tea and try not to mind.
“What about you?”
I glance up, lips still attached to my cup, and his drop-dead gorgeous smile is aimed my way. Stop thinking about him like that.
“Still with Jon?”
My tea goes down the wrong way, and I choke. How does he even know about Jon? Even Dad didn’t meet him during the Easter break, before I ended things with him the first week back at Uni.
Which means he found out from Lucas. It also means my brother talks about me with Will. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
“Uh, no.” I press my napkin against my mouth and hope this conversation is dead. The last thing I want to talk to him about is my ex.
“New guy on the scene?”
Even my brothers don’t ask me this. But Will always did. He was forever teasing me about the numerous boys I dated while still at school, and then the handful of guys I went out with during my gap year, after I returned home from Africa.
“I’m taking a break from guys.” Isn’t that the truth. The same goes for my social life, too. Not that I’m telling my family that. They’d worry. That’s why I pretended to agree with Will earlier when he joked about my party lifestyle.
“Why’s that?” He grins like I’m joking.
If anyone else asked me that—my brothers, for example—I’d give a flippant response. Because they’re too much trouble. I almost tell him that, except for some reason I can’t.
“It turns out I can’t handle a relationship and keep up with my studies.” Talk about an understatement. At school, I was usually at the top of the class. For some insane reason, I thought Oxford wouldn’t be that different.
How wrong can you get? I might not be at the bottom of the class, but I’m not far off.
“Bit of a culture shock?” For once, he’s not messing around, and I have a scary moment when I want to confide in him completely.
There’s no way you can tell anyone, least of all Will, how badly you suck at Uni.
Brooklyn’s the only one who knows how rubbish things really are. Nerves spike through my stomach as I recall my tutor’s veiled warning at the end of last term.
Is there anything you need to talk about, Mac? We’re concerned about your grades…
“More like a rude awakening.” Thought you weren’t going to talk about it?
“Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself. You got into one of the top universities in the world. You’re allowed to have a non-genius day sometimes.”
I push worries of my just average grades to the back of my mind and give a little huff of laughter because he’s being kind of adorable.
In a totally platonic, my brother’s best friend kind of way.
“Genius is pushing it. That’s Harry’s specialty.”
“You’re still enjoying the course, though, right?”
Shock streaks through me. No one’s ever asked me that before. It’s always assumed I love what I’m doing, and I’ve never contradicted that view. Why would I? Gaining my medical degree has been my fate since I was nine-years-old.
But for Will to ask. It blows my mind. Either he’s become scarily empathic over the last couple of years, or my “everything’s fine” mask slipped.
It must be my mask. Keeping up this masquerade is exhausting. And I’ve another four years of it.
You’ve a lifetime of it. I smother the flare of panic and give him a careless shrug. Mask on. “Sure. It’s my raison d’etre, remember?”
It’s the last promise I made to my mum.
Chapter Four
Mackenzie
What’s Will doing here?
I stop dead on the driveway and stare at his car. Did he come ’round to see me? Why didn’t he phone? How long has he been here?
It’s midafternoon on Sunday, and I’ve spent most of the day out with a group of girls I went to school with, catching up on gossip over brunch. Brooklyn couldn’t make it, but I’m meeting her later. Why didn’t I take Dad’s car today? The wind on the walk back from the bus stop has left my hair in a tangled mess.
My stomach free falls, even though I know I’m being completely illogical and dramatic. It doesn’t matter how I look. We’re just friends, nothing more. I repeat that mantra a couple of times as I unlock the front door and step inside. The house is quiet, and there’s no sign of Will or Dad in the sitting room, where everyone tends to hang out. Weird.
There’s no one in the kitchen, but the back door’s open. And standing in the middle of the garden, next to the lawn mower, are Dad and Will.
Is he actually cutting the grass?
That doesn’t make sense. Why would he be doing that? Right now, he’s drinking a bottle of water, his head tipped back, and it’s like his throat is a magnet because I can’t tear my fascinated gaze away.
Almost as
though he knows I’m standing here, he lowers the bottle, slowly wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and gives me his sexy smile. Crap. It’s like I’ve been caught doing something disgusting, even though I’m totally not perving on him at all. Just because he’s wearing a pair of faded jeans that hug his muscled thighs in a way too distracting manner doesn’t mean I was checking him out.
Keep telling yourself that.
Dad turns, sees me, and raises his hand in greeting. There’s no escape now, and I take a deep breath and saunter across the garden toward them.
Stop hyperventilating. My hands are clammy, and I have the suicidal urge to grin at Will. The closer I get, the harder it is to keep my eyes off the white T-shirt that stretches across his chest like an illicit caress.
An unwanted flashback streaks across my mind, of how I once worshipped his breathtaking pecs in all their naked glory.
Stop right there. No way am I going to think about the night almost two years ago, when we took advantage of that hanging sprig of mistletoe. Especially when we’ve only just managed to put the past behind us.
Dad kisses me, and after he’s asked me how my day was, he turns back to Will. “I’ll get some of that Danish oil you suggested,” he says.
Huh?
“A couple of coats will do it before we pack them away for winter.” Will nods at our wooden garden furniture on the patio. “If you want, I can pop round in a couple of weeks and sort it out.”
I can’t stop myself. “What’re you doing?”
He shrugs and avoids my eyes. “Nothing.”
“Will’s been marvelous,” Dad says. “Popping round during the past year to look after the garden. I really do appreciate your help,” he adds, smiling at Will, who appears to find his battered boots the most fascinating thing ever.
I glance at Dad, before staring at Will. Again. It’s like I can’t tear my eyes from him. “You’ve…” I hesitate, sure I’m misunderstanding something. Except I know I’m not. “You’ve been doing the garden since Mr. Fletcher died?”
Mr. Fletcher, our neighbor who was elderly even when I was a little kid, loved gardening more than life itself and had kept our garden in check for as long as I can remember.
Whenever I came home from Uni why didn’t I realize the grass wasn’t overgrown and the flower beds weren’t turning into a jungle? I guess, in the back of my mind, I assumed Lucas and Harry were doing it.
Get real. I just didn’t think about it at all.
But why didn’t Dad tell me?
I know the answer already. Why would he? He wouldn’t tell me if one of my brothers were keeping the weeds under control, and as far as Dad’s concerned, Will is part of the family.
He grunts in response to my question and continues to scrutinize his boots. Is he embarrassed? At least I’m not the only one.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Dad says, before ambling back to the house, and I can’t keep my mouth shut any longer.
“But gardening?”
He screws the cap back on the bottle with enough concentration to man a rocket to Europa. “I like being outside.”
I’m practically speechless. I mean sure, I know he loves being outside. He’d have to, with all the different sports he’s played over the years. It’s hardly the same thing. “I’m kind of shocked, that’s all.”
Finally, he grins and catches my gaze. “Could’ve fooled me.”
I let out a disbelieving huff. I don’t know why I feel so wrong-footed. “Do Lucas and Harry know?”
He shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. “Don’t know. It’s no big deal. I’m just helping out your dad.”
For a whole year. Because underneath his wild party rep, that’s the kind of great guy he is. The one I fell for, and never quite got over.
It’s not his fault that for one incredible night I thought there could be more between us.
“Well, thanks.” I smile. I’m so glad we had that friends-again talk yesterday. Otherwise I’d have no clue how to handle this right now.
You still don’t.
“I don’t need thanks.” His grin is hypnotic, and I have the scary urge to move closer to him. Don’t you dare. “There’s no garden with my flat. I miss getting my hands dirty.”
“Aha.” I cross my arms so I’m not tempted to give him a friendly prod on the shoulder. Or think about what else his hands could do. “This is therapy for you, is it?”
“Cheaper than a shrink.”
I don’t want to go back into the house. I want to stay out here while he works, trade mocking insults the way we used to, and secretly drool over the sexy splendor of his biceps.
We’re friends again now. I could do that. Except friends don’t fantasize over perfectly structured musculature. Guess I need to work on that.
“See you, then.” I sound nonchalant, which is a huge relief, and I stroll back to the house. But my skin prickles with awareness, and I just know he’s watching me.
It doesn’t mean anything. And even if it does, it’s not like we’re going to jump over that line again. It takes all my self-control not to give in to the clawing need to glance over my shoulder. Just because I discovered a different side to him today doesn’t change the facts. But the scent of freshly mown grass drifting in the breeze is always going to remind me of today.
Brooklyn’s already at The Swan when I arrive, perched on a barstool by one of the artistically crumbling brick walls, and greets me by dramatically pointing at the two enormous cocktails on the table.
I sit on the stool opposite her, lean my elbows on the high bar table between us, and take a long suck of the blush pink drink, which is topped off with a couple of chocolate sticks and greenery.
“Uhh.” I blink to stop my eyes watering. “Okay, that’s pretty foul.”
“Undrinkable?”
“I’ll suffer.” I take another suck of the straw. We’ve been coming to the historic mid-eighteenth-century bar, right on the Portobello Road, ever since we turned eighteen, and somehow started a ritual where we’d find the most revolting cocktails ever. If either of us couldn’t drain the glass, the other won.
Since neither of us are quitters, we’ve never had to figure out what the loser needs to forfeit, but along the way, we’ve found some unexpected gems.
Tonight is not a gem night.
“What’s happening with Atomic Fire, then?” Brooklyn tucks wayward strands of her platinum blond hair behind her ear. Although she isn’t directly involved in the Foundation, she always helps whenever we need an extra pair of hands. “Do you need to find a new act?”
“I’m trying not to focus on the worst-case scenario.”
“Hey.” She reaches across the table and gives my fingers a quick squeeze. “If Jake bails, it’s not your fault.”
Her support means everything, but she knows how deep in the shit we’ll be if Atomic Fire pulls out at this late stage. And since I’m in charge, the buck stops with me. Sure, insurance covers the monetary loss, but it doesn’t help find another A-list act or fix excited kids’ disappointment.
Failure is not an option.
“I think everything’s fine.” I give her a brief recap of the visit. “Hopefully that’s the end of it.”
“I hate to say it, but keep hoping.” She takes a long sip of her drink and gives a delicate shudder.
“Positive vibes, Brook. I already have the zero rating from Will.”
Her head jerks up, lips still clamped around her straw, and a loud slurping noise erupts from her glass. She coughs out her straw and pins me to my seat with her steely gray gaze. “Will?”
Even though the potential disaster of Atomic Fire backing out haunts me, I haven’t been able to get Will out of my head. “We went to the hospital together.”
She narrows her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was in a rush when I texted. It’s no big deal.” Why did I even say that? It’s a good job she knows me so well.
“Oh. My. God.” Brooklyn sucks in a breath, flattens
her hand over her heart, and addresses the dark timber ceiling. “You had lunch with him.”
Just because I didn’t tell her why I couldn’t meet her for lunch yesterday doesn’t mean I wasn’t going to. Truth is, I’m desperate to discuss the whole thing with her, as then I might be able to stop obsessing about it.
“It was a last-minute thing. We only went to the Park Café.”
“With Will Hamilton. The guy you avoid like an outbreak of Ebola.”
“Lucas decided I needed protection from Jake and asked him to pick me up. I’m going to tell my brother what I think of that, but it was hardly Will’s fault. It would’ve been rude not to have lunch with him afterward.”
Brooklyn looks supremely underwhelmed by my explanation. “What happened? Did you push him into the Serpentine?”
“No. It was all very…civilized.”
“Civilized.” She rolls the word around as though tasting every syllable. “We’re talking about the same Will, aren’t we?”
Although Brooklyn and Will have known each other for years—we were all at the same school, after all—she hasn’t seen much of him lately. Everything she knows about how things are between us has come from me.
And I might not have been quite straight with her. Because the truth is, Will’s attitude toward me never really changed after that night. It was me, twisted up with embarrassment at my naiveté thinking that maybe we’d had a special connection, and then the ridiculous sense of disillusionment the following day when he broke his whispered, midnight promise to me.
I haven’t even told Brooklyn about that promise, which just goes to prove how completely stupid I was to get so hurt over it. Of course he didn’t want to spend Boxing Day at an exhibition of my artwork. Even my parents never took my art seriously, so why would Will?
He could’ve called to let me know he wasn’t coming. Not just left me standing there in the freezing cold while snowflakes blurred my vision.
I take another sip of the disgustingly sweet nightmare in front of me. There’s no point discussing the past when I have a far worse problem hanging over my head.