by Daws, Amy
“Are these the same boxes?” She hustles over and picks one up. I take a mental snapshot of the surprised smile on her face as she opens the box.
“They just need to be finished,” I offer.
“Where did you get them?”
I give her a sheepish look. “I made them.”
Her jaw drops. “You made them? But you never said anything before!”
Shrugging, I reply, “I thought maybe you can help me finish them and we can talk.”
“Oh yes, I’d love to!” She begins tugging at her top, attempting to knot it around her waist. “We can continue with your countdown while we work.”
“Actually, I prefer we skip the countdown tonight.” I grab a pair of rubber gloves off the counter. “I just thought…I don’t know. I feel like a wanker for not knowing much about you, so I thought maybe we could spend the night talking like I’m not some complete fuck-up with a dark and twisted past.”
I glance up just as her bright blue eyes darken. “Hayden, I’ve never looked at you like that. Not once.”
Her severe expression winds me up. I nod awkwardly and hand her the gloves. “All right. Tonight I’m going to teach you how to stain. Think you’re man enough for the job?”
She watches me for a moment, evidently letting my self-deprecation slide. “Manlier than most bubbly blondes I’d say.”
I frown at her strange reply. Not entirely sure of how to respond, I make quick work of showing her how we dip the cloth into the stain, rub it on heavily, and then wipe it off. I’ve already applied a thin strip of painter’s tape across the top of each box for the design element I’ll add later.
I set her up with her own supplies, and she sits down on the stainless steel stool next to me. Her loose shirt keeps getting in her way, so she stops what she’s doing and peels off the offensive material.
I try to look away, but out of the corner of my eye, I’m transfixed. Now wearing only her small tank, her creamy alabaster skin is on full display and her cleavage is drawing me to her. My body reacts reflexively to the lush softness of her skin.
She catches me eyeing her. “So, what do you need these extra boxes for?” I ask, dragging my possessive gaze away from her and back to the box in my hands.
“My brothers,” she replies, applying the first stroke of stain. “The one I got Sunday will be for my dad.”
“What are you putting inside them, if you don’t mind me asking?”
She looks over at me with a fleeting look of embarrassment. “Erm, it’s just something I stumbled upon earlier this year. It took me a while to get it all sorted. Now that I have, I want to make it a special gift.”
My brows lift as I angle toward her. “Do I get to know what the gift is?”
She shrugs. “It’s not so much a gift I suppose. Just…I found a series of poems my mum wrote and some other trinkets. I think they’d make the best surprise gifts.”
“That’s a lovely idea. How does she feel about you giving away her poems?”
She looks back at her project and murmurs, “She died when I was young.”
My heart clenches. “Vi, I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“I was only four. I don’t really remember much. But we shared a birthday, so I’ve always felt a connection to her on some level.”
I look at her thoughtfully. “What are the poems about?”
“They were written in Swedish, so it took me a while to find a translator. But they’re quite cool. They’re all about motherhood. It’s odd, but I felt like I got a glimpse inside her heart when I finally got them translated into English. Some of them are really beautiful, some tragic, some funny. It was surreal. I really connected to them…To her. My dad and brothers don’t even know they exist. The book was tucked away with all of her cookbooks, so it’s no wonder they never saw it.”
“It’s going to be incredible when you give them their gifts.” I give her a smile and ask, “So, what about you? Do you like to cook?” I can easily picture her in the kitchen looking just as she does now with a towel tossed over her shoulder. The image elicits a tiny smirk.
Her brow furrows as she catches my playful expression. “I do. I love it. I did all the cooking growing up and my brothers can eat, let me tell you.”
“I’m sure,” I chuckle good-naturedly. “What was it like living with a bunch of athletes?” My curiosity about her lifestyle is definitely piqued. I grew up watching football on the telly, and my entire family is Manchester United fans through and through.
She shrugs. “I don’t know any different.”
“You played for fun, too, I assume?”
She scrunches her nose and shakes her head. “No, I didn’t. I travelled with my dad and brothers instead.” Suddenly, she stops what she’s doing and looks up at the ceiling as if she’s having an epiphany. “I loved being a mini-mummy to my brothers, but I submerged myself in their world and their schedules so much that I didn’t have time to do much of anything just for fun.”
I frown. “Surely there were some things you did for yourself.”
She looks at me seriously as if she’s just been whacked in the face by a sad truth. “Not a lot. I didn’t even have many mates. Really, the first proper thing I’ve done was get my own flat last year. That’s pathetic.” She shakes her head in frustration.
“It’s not pathetic to be close to your family. Growing up travelling with them sounds amazing. I’m sure being in a house with your brothers and dad was a life experience all in its own.”
“You have no idea,” she chuckles in a secretive, knowing way. “Are you, Theo, and Daphney close?”
I pause and try to determine the best way to answer without turning the conversation around on me again. “We used to be. Then we weren’t. Now we are again.”
Her face screws up in confusion. “Mind embellishing a bit?”
“Tonight isn’t supposed to be about me. It’s supposed to be about you, and you’re treading into day three material.” I squint at her speculatively.
She laughs and her smile lights up her eyes. “It’s a give and take, Hayden. It’s called conversation for a reason. This isn’t an interview. Go on then, we’ll get to day three eventually anyway.”
She turns back to her box and swipes the cloth over the excess stain, her tongue flicking out as she applies more effort to a particular seam.
“Day three was a rather painful experience that Theo and I discussed in great detail during my stint in rehab. Theo has a tendency to blame himself for everything, from Marisa’s death, to my attempt, to all the darkness in the cracks. Perhaps it’s an older brother thing. Regardless, it took a great deal of opening up for him to relieve himself of that lot.”
“Why would he blame himself for your attempt?”
“A few days before the charity gala last year, he and I…Well, we exchanged some very painful words right here in this shop. I was completely pissed out of my mind and had caught wind that he was bringing Leslie to the event. It just set me off.”
“Why is that?” she asks, her brow quizzical.
“I felt he didn’t have the right to be happy because no one else in our family was. It had been three years since Marisa’s death and I was in no way moving on from my guilt. So Theo bringing a date to the gala felt like a slap in the face. Like he didn’t care. About Marisa. About our family. About me. I took it all wrong, which I know now was ludicrous.”
Vi frowns and shakes her head. “I don’t think any feelings you had back then were ludicrous. You guys were all living in the wake of a very tragic accident. There’s no way to know how long it takes you to get over something like that. I’m sure everyone processes at their own pace.”
I half smile at her comment. “You sound like Doc, my therapist. I was so rat-arsed that I shoved Theo into one of his works in progress and it busted all to pieces. He exploded on me, telling me what a royal fuck-up I was and that I was going to end up dead in a ditch. He even took a swing at me with a two-by-four. It was bloody awful.”
/> “God, were you hurt?”
Shaking my head, I answer, “No. I don’t think he was really trying to hit me. I think he was just trying to snap me out of my stupor, but I was too pissed and too depressed. No one could get through to me. After that, I spiralled further downward.
“I showed up to the charity gala two days later for the sole purpose of fucking with him and the life he was starting with Leslie. Based on the couple of times I had spoken to Leslie, I knew he hadn’t told her about Marisa. I even flat out asked her when I was really pissed one night. The secretiveness of it struck a nerve with me. Like what I did was some horrid, dark tale that couldn’t be spoken. I felt so incredibly insignificant to my family, it was in that moment I decided everyone would be better off without me.
“It’s crazy to think about now…because Leslie ended up being the one who saved my life. She’s the one who found me and called the paramedics. After all of my horridness toward Theo—toward her—she was the one to walk in and pull me up from rock bottom.” I pause as my eyes tear up over the affection I feel for Leslie. “I have an intense connection with Leslie because of all of that. It’s something I think only her and I fully understand, but it’s special. It’s…meaningful.”
Vi closes her mouth and nods in agreement. “I can’t even imagine. Leslie’s never mentioned a word of any of that to me.”
“She won’t. She’s loyal and loving in ways that I never knew before I met her. She will always be an important part of my life, which is why I’m so grateful she’s marrying my brother. Calling her family will put a nice label on what I feel for her.” I pause and laugh quietly to myself. “My affection for her is only a fraction of what Theo feels for her. It’s why he’s rushed her into getting married so fast after they had Marisa.”
“They are pretty disgusting to watch, aren’t they?” Vi giggles, but her face drops just as quickly. “I’m glad she was there, Hayden.”
I nod and frown, attempting to blink away my impending emotions. Then I turn back to the box I’m working on. “He’s found his happy ending, and I’m grateful I get to be here to witness it. It took a lot of therapy with Theo to make him believe that I had made up my mind about killing myself prior to our row. But we’ve overcome our differences. Now he’s like a proper mate.”
She huffs out a laugh and I turn to catch her smiling.
“What?” I ask, curious where her mind just drifted off to.
“I think Booker is my best friend. He’s my youngest brother and…I don’t know. He’s the only one I can talk to openly without pause, you know?”
I nod because I do understand, but I am curious. “You don’t have any close girlfriends?”
She shakes her head. “Not really. The few I had in school were only interested in my brothers. Plus, I always felt uncomfortable around other girls. Except Leslie, surprisingly. I’ve always got on with her.”
“Leslie’s not the typical girlie girl,” I confirm.
“No. She’s the opposite of a bubbly blonde,” she laughs awkwardly, peeling off her gloves and brushing back the few blonde wisps cascading around her face.
I stop what I’m doing and turn more fully to face her. “All right, that’s the second time you’ve mentioned that. What’s going on?”
She frowns and reaches over for a new box. “You tell me.” Her brow arches at me in challenge.
“What do you mean?” I’m honestly completely in the dark, having no idea what she’s going on about.
She looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “That’s how you described me on Saturday when we were walking back to my flat. It kind of stuck with me I suppose.”
Frowning, I attempt to recall what I said.
“‘A blonde, bubbly distraction’ were your exact words, I believe,” she provides for me.
My features turn grave as realisation dawns on me. “I think you’re missing a couple words.”
She shakes her head and, for the first time, I see a look of distress on her face. This bothers me immensely because my characterisation of her was simply a defence mechanism. At that point in time, I was trying to get her out of my mind.
Fuck me, I’m a bloody prat.
Her stiff posture causes an ache in my chest. Without thinking, I stand up, strip my gloves off, and stride right over to her. She doesn’t turn to look at me, so I wrench her stool around to face me. When her eyes remain cast downward, I tilt her chin up in an attempt to make her see my sincerity.
“I believe I said bright and beautiful if I’m not mistaken.”
She rolls her eyes and purses her lips, still refusing to make eye contact with me. I hate how she’s shutting down because of something daft I said in the moment. I clasp her face, forcing her blues to meet my greys.
“Vi—” I start, attempting to find the perfect words to relay how completely breathtaking she is in so many ways.
The wounded vulnerability in her gaze knocks all sense out of my head. When words refuse to come, I lean down and kiss her, willing my lips to do the apologising for me. She groans into my mouth in protest at first. But then she grabs me, holding me tight against her. Her fingers bite into my forearms as her mouth opens, permitting my tongue access to hers.
Actions always did speak louder than words.
Her legs spread and I tuck into the warmth of her, hunching over further to deepen our kiss. My thumbs push back the stray strands of her hair and relish in the suppleness of her round cheeks beneath my touch. Christ, everything about her is so soft. Her lips are smooth and responsive. Plump, pliable, and welcoming me to take every ounce of control I want. Her submission only excites me more. I press into her knowing that if I wanted to, I could take her. Right here, right now. I could yank the straps of her tank down and feast my eyes on the bare beauty of Vi before letting my mouth do the devouring.
But that’s not what this kiss is about. That’s not what she is to me. Vi Harris is so much more than a potentially soul-altering shag.
Pulling away, I rest my forehead against hers. “Please know there aren’t enough words for me to describe how utterly intriguing I find you.”
I watch her chest heave at my raw and exposing words. With a sigh, a sweet giggle escapes her moist lips. “Why didn’t you just say so?”
Amused, I drop one final gentle kiss on her lips and then pinch her nose, smirking at how she’s got such an uncanny ability to make my smile grow. I release her and position myself back on my stool. Once I turn away from her, we manage to get back to our task at hand with a charged, heavy silence. My beguilement fades as I realise my grave error. I was so blindly concerned about hurting Vi’s feelings and fixing her misinterpretation that I let my body do the talking instead of my head. She attempts to fill the quietness with mindless chatter, but the entire time, all I can do is chew on my lip and curse myself for being everything I promised I wouldn’t be. When I delivered that speech at the gala, I did it to prove one thing. One universal truth that I wanted to put on public record.
I’m not weak.
I am strong.
Vi Harris has somehow managed to rattle that truth.
Fear seeps into my soul again. If I’m weak with her, what else can get me? Can the darkness swallow me whole again without warning? Can I fall down the tunnel that is my depression? Can I be sucked back into that place I swore I would never return?
As I walk Vi back to her flat, I feel distracted and distant. I’m not being a complete arse like I was the night of the gala, but I’m definitely different. She looks at me curiously as she stands facing me in the darkened alley. Her eyes are wide and probing. Inviting. She wants me to kiss her again and, Christ, do I want to do nothing more. This would be the perfect time to make up for the last kiss I gave her in this very spot, when I left her abruptly with nothing more than a sodding thank you.
But I refrain. I withhold. I find some pittance of restraint and I move back. By the time she steps into the lift, my body is roaring for the bloody doors to close before I crash through them
and capture her with my entire body.
Just as she disappears behind the steel, I glance down at my watch and catch it ticking over to 11:11. I exhale a shaky breath and turn to lean against the brick wall. Slamming my eyes shut, I clench my jaw and wish the same wish that I wish I knew how to stop wishing.
THE NEXT DAY AT WORK, I’m shocked when I receive a text from Hayden. I kind of assumed after his rather sudden brush-off last night on my doorstep that he’d go silent on me again. Instead, he asks if we can get together tonight to continue his countdown. I suggest a coffee shop, but he explained that he’d prefer somewhere more private for what we’ll be discussing.
We settle on meeting at my flat. Wondering what day two of his countdown entails leaves me feeling anxious the entire day at work. He’s obviously keen to get it all out, and I’m quite amazed at his tenacity. To relive, in great detail, the days leading up to an attempted suicide has to be intense for even the most healed survivors. But one thing I’ve learned about Hayden is he doesn’t back down from a challenge.
I would have assumed that learning all of this about him would have tempered my attraction. A cold dose of reality is a sure-fire way to snuff out any sparks. But the truth is, it’s only adding to the magnetic pull he’s got on me. He’s rich, and deep, and complicated. So many mysterious layers reside within Hayden Clarke, and I’m desperate to reach the centre. The fear of rejection is beginning to consume me, though.
Last night, his demeanour shifted back to that ice-cold way again. It was the same way he acted toward me when we were dealing with drunken Benji. He’s sharing so much with me, but there always seems to be something about me that doesn’t make men climb mountains for me. I remember Leslie sharing Finley and Brody’s love story with me. He flew over a bloody ocean to chase her down after she crushed his heart with no clear explanation. Why can’t I find even a fraction of that type of devotion?
Regardless, I must be a glutton for punishment when it comes to Hayden because I rush home early to tidy up my flat. Not that it needs it much. I definitely have a minimalist style, so there’s not much tidying to be done. But my bedroom is an entirely different story than the rest of my flat. It is the one room where I let my personality play. Leslie calls the décor gothic glamour. It’s basically like the Addam’s Family meets Beverly Hills glamour. When I moved in, I covered the wall adjacent to my bed with a lilac and dark purple damask print wallpaper, adding to the drama of the room. My bed itself is a large king with a striking black baroque-carved headboard. The duvet is a decadent dark plum, crushed velvet material that Leslie found for me at some quaint fabric store in Brixton. Toss in the millions of upscale plush throw pillows and you have yourself a bed fit for a queen.
