Chapter 5 Freddie #2
For all the beautiful nature pics he’s posted, there isn’t a single one that doesn’t feature him front and centre doing some ridiculous pose that’s clearly designed to look candid but in fact just makes him look like a twat.
Even the captions entertain the lie that these pictures were spontaneous accidents and not cherry-picked from dozens of different snaps.
“Caught bathing in Andaman sunsets by @larabanana,” says one.
“Just a spirit guide at one with nature,” says another.
Viggo’s coyly tilted jaw and soft gazes don’t fool me, but it seems I’m the only one.
With each photo’s likes sitting somewhere in the low thousands, his followers clearly lap it up like hot shit off the pavement.
Bigvig grins stupidly at me from one of the few selfies he’s posted of him and Lara.
His eyes are glazed, like there isn’t a thought in his brain.
Or maybe I’m underestimating him. Bigvig could be having a complex internal debate on something incredibly intellectual, like Einstein’s theory of relativity or at what point in the toasting cycle does bread cease to be bread.
I doubt it though; he looks thick as mince.
To be fair, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed. I would one hundred percent sleep with this man, but I wouldn’t feel good about it after. And, in the morning I wouldn’t give him the fancy cereal for breakfast, not that he looks like he’d go anywhere near a bowl of Crunchy Nut.
I put my phone down, surprised at how much venom Bigvig has triggered in me. Thanks to my internet sleuthing, the pieces of the puzzle are starting to fall into place.
Please delete.
Now the comment makes sense. It seems Lara’s moved on, but methinks Mister Shaunthecoffeeguy might still be hung up on his ex.
Why else hasn’t he deleted the picture like she asked?
Any chance he didn’t see the notification?
Is anyone who says they “didn’t see the notification” ever telling the truth?
More importantly, does this mean he’s single after all?
Oh, the possibilities…
The crunch of shoes up the garden path is followed by a clunk of metal as Rory puts his key in the unlocked door.
“It’s open!” I call and Rory lumbers his way inside.
He’s in his gym kit which is about three sizes too small for his Dorito-shaped torso. In one hand he’s holding a bottle of strawberry protein shake. The bright pink perfectly matches his sweaty face, fresh from a lunchtime workout.
He slings his bag down by the shoe rack and acknowledges me with a grunt.
“You’re back early,” I say.
Rory takes a swig from his shake. “I’m working from home this afternoon. I have client calls in half an hour, so I’ll need the living room.”
“That’s cool,” I say, not budging from the sofa.
Rory looks me up and down. “Surprised you’re not packed yet.”
I shrug. “You said if I got a job I could stay.”
“And yet you’re still here.”
Clambering onto my knees, I puff out my chest like a majestic lion. “Because, as of an hour ago, your little Fredster’s employed.”
Rory scoffs. “Bullshit.”
I show Rory my texts with Shaun, pointing to the one where he offers me the role. He reads for a moment and frowns.
“‘No bare midriffs?’”
I snatch the phone back. “Ignore that. That’s a, um, private joke.”
Rory blinks. “A private joke.”
“Aye.”
“With your employer?”
“Yes…”
“Who you just met today?”
I smile, innocently. “What’s your point?”
Rory narrows his eyes. I can almost see the cogs grinding in his brain. “Exactly how did you get this job?”
“Uh, the normal way,” I say, defensively. “By having the right skills.”
“You don’t have any skills,” Rory says, harshly. And it’s not true; I can play chromatic scales on the guitar and they’re hard as balls.
“Maybe not the kind you value,” I smile, killing him with kindness, “but I have my ways.”
Rory shakes his head. “I knew it. You man-whored your way into a job, didn’t you?”
“Of course not—” I begin, but Rory’s having none of it.
“You are unbelievable, Fred. ‘No bare midriffs.’ What did you do, strip off mid-interview?”
I try to think of something to say to that, but I’m lost for words. He knows me too well. My grin turns sheepish, my cheeks flush.
Rory scoffs. “That is so bloody typical.”
He turns his back to me and goes to the fridge. A twinge of annoyance pinches my eyebrows. I vault over the back of the sofa and take a seat at the breakfast bar as Rory pulls a Tupperware of chicken and broccoli from the fridge.
“Hardly anywhere was hiring and you gave me an ultimatum. I had to use all my assets, show a little initiative, you know?”
“Coasting on your looks is not ‘showing initiative’,” Rory seethes, ramming the Tupperware into the microwave. “That pretty face won’t last forever, you know.”
“Aw,” I flutter my eyelids. “You think I’m pretty?”
The veins in Rory’s massive neck bulge like tiny snakes. I should stop winding him up, but it’s hard when he’s acting like such a jerk. I got a job, didn’t I? What more can he possibly ask of me?
Rory folds his ham-sized arms. “I’m not in the mood, Freddie.”
“Well from next week I can start paying rent again. That has to cheer you up a little bit?”
He says nothing. The microwave whirrs and the chicken spits.
“I thought you’d be pleased,” I say, my voice more puppyish than I’d have liked. “I got a job, Rory. I’m going to be a barrister!” He frowns. “Shit, no, the other one—ba-ree-sta.”
I can’t read Rory’s face; he’s not even looking at me. Why is he being such a dick? Unless…
“Oh, I get it,” I say, slowly. “You hoped I wouldn’t find a job, didn't you? You wanted me to leave, that’s why you’re annoyed. I see now.”
Rory clears his throat, “I don’t… that’s not—”
The microwave dings. Rory’s mouth remains open for a second, like he’s going to finish his sentence. Then he looks away. “Never mind.”
He removes the steaming Tupperware from the microwave and squirts some ketchup on it. Setting the bottle down, he turns to look at me, his face in deep thought.
“Don’t you hate coffee?”
“Desperate times.” I place my elbows on the counter, leaning forward. “Look, I want to stay, Rory. If I have to pretend to like coffee for four shifts a week, then so be it.” I grimace. “If you’ll have me, of course.”
Something glints in Rory’s eye. It’s not pride—that would require a full personality transplant—but at a stretch, you might call it basic human respect. A win is a win.
“I start tomorrow,” I carry on, striking while the iron is hot, “and I hate to ask, but I really need some new jeans. These ones are more hole than not.”
“Right…”
He’s going to make me grovel. I try to look as pathetic as possible. “So, can I borrow twenty quid? You can add it to my digs for next week.”
Rory impales a piece of chicken on his fork. “Just borrow a pair of mine.”
“You’re about four sizes bigger, I’ll look like a borrower.” I see the corner of Rory’s mouth twitch. Playing to his bodybuilder ego usually scores points. “Plus, I want to look professional.”
There it is. The silver bullet. Rory’s all about appearances. He cares about his suit almost as much as what’s under it, and for the first time, I’m talking on his level.
He chews slowly, his wide jaw grinding away at the meat. As he swallows, he pulls his wallet from his pocket. He fishes out a few notes and hands them to me.
“That’s fifty,” he says. “Shops will be closing soon. Get something smart.”
I take the cash. “Thanks Rory. I swear I’ll pay you back.”
“Oh I know you will. Your lodgings depend on it,” he says, returning to his meal. He’s about to take another bite when he hesitates and lowers his fork. “You are taking this seriously, aren’t you?”
I place my hand over my heart.
“I swear I am taking this seriously. But asking me not to flirt is like asking Claudia Winkleman to lose the fringe. It’s just not going to happen.”
Rory sighs. “Flirting with your boss is like asking for your P45.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
My brother pinches the bridge of his nose. “Have you ever heard of not shitting where you eat?”
“I mean, yeah…” I haven’t, but I assume it’s a given. What kind of animal eats in the bathroom? I swear Rory speaks his own language sometimes.
“Just be careful.” He stirs his food and looks up at me again. “If you get fired because you say, or do, something inappropriate, that’s on you. I’m not going to bail you out again because you couldn’t hold yourself back.”
I chew the inside of my lip. Holding back is going to be tricky, especially when my boss is as gorgeous as Shaun, but I guess Rory has a point.
If I get sacked, I’ll be back to square one and the pit in my stomach from this morning has only just been filled.
Still, I’m sure there’s a middle-ground to tread.
If Shaun ends up making the first move, I can hardly be blamed—or fired—for that now, can I?
“Understood.” I give Rory a salute, though the fingers of my other hand are crossed, hidden from view under the breakfast bar.
Rory nods, satisfied. “Do you want a lift back into town?”
“Nah, it’s okay,” I push back from the bar and go to grab my jacket. “The snow’s stopped.”
“Fine, but take a scarf. It’s freezing.”
I frown and Rory’s eyes dart to the floor. Without asking, I know we’re both thinking the same thing. Those words aren’t his own. Nostalgia fills the room like a raincloud.
“I’ll be fine,” my voice sounds small and distant. “I’m a macho man.”
Rory lets out a dry huff of laughter. “Sure.”
Five minutes into the walk, I regret turning down Rory’s offer of a lift.
While the break in the snow holds, the wind is like icy daggers, ripping through my old leather jacket as if it were made of tissue paper.
The exposed patches of skin on my legs prickle for a while before turning completely numb.
The sky is already dimming by the time I reach the town centre. The Christmas lights I saw being put up earlier have been switched on, twinkling stars festooning the length of the high street in streams of flashing colour.
As I arrive at Threads, the town’s biggest clothes shop, the CCTV above the door shows my lips have turned blue. I hurry inside where the air is warmer. A shop assistant tells me they’re closing in ten minutes with a look in their eye that says “and not a minute longer.”
At the back of the shop, I find the men’s jeans and start to browse for the most flattering pair I can find.
Rory is right. Trying to seduce Shaun is risky, regardless of whether he was checking me out or not. Though he totally was. What I can do is make myself look as irresistible as possible.
I try on a knitted beige shirt with a plunging V-neck collar that’s marked down to almost half price and a pair of coal-black jeans so tight, they might as well be painted on.
The musical notes tattooed along my collarbone pop against the beige of the shirt and the jeans hug my butt in all the right ways.
Checking myself out in the mirror, I’m happy with the overall effect: smart but foxy. I’d fancy me if I wasn’t me.
Hopefully Shaun feels the same way.
I strut up to the till and pay for the outfit, confident that my odds of seducing my hot new boss just went through the roof.