Chapter 21
I smooth down the lapels of my suit as I sit in the backseat of a stretch limo that’s just pulled up to the red carpet of the National Football Museum.
Photographers, fans, and fellow attendees swarm the grand entrance as celebrities and footballers make their way inside for the FPA Awards Gala.
The same gala where I’ll be named Player of the Year.
How crazy is that?
What’s even crazier is that all I can focus on is the nauseous feeling this suit is giving me. The suit Sloan made me.
The texture of the material wasn’t an issue before.
Come to think of it, nothing was an issue when I was with her.
As we grew closer, she became the only woman who could touch me any way she liked and not send chills down my spine.
My texture sensitivity had been magically cured.
She was like my own personal anxiety medication that soothed away the unusual strain that a lifetime of painful memories had inflicted on me.
Now, everything aches. It’s like I can feel the stitches closing in on me with every breath, tightening around me like a noose.
My mobile vibrates in my hand. I glance down to check it, sickeningly hoping to see Sloan’s name on the screen.
Dad: I’m very proud of you, Gareth. Wish I could be there.
My traitorous heart splinters down the middle from the tone of his text.
Part of me wants to text back and ask him what it would take for him to put me first for once in his bloody life.
Even when he asked me to move back to London, I knew he was only thinking of himself.
But there’s this new part of my heart—a part that never existed before—that understands a tiny fraction of the pain he feels on a daily basis.
It’s been over a week and still no word from Sloan.
I thought for sure she’d be in touch for tonight because this is clearly a big moment for me.
But nothing. It seems that the second I stopped chasing Sloan, she stopped turning around.
And every day since I left her house, the memory of her lips on mine becomes fainter and fainter, like a melting ice cube evaporating before my eyes.
If she was just some random bird, I wouldn’t give a toss.
I’d move on, grateful that I don’t have to worry about how little she knows about me.
But Sloan isn’t random. She isn’t casual.
She knows things. And the second I saw her with her daughter, something inside of me shifted.
The wall between us has been knocked down, and she has been humanised to me outside of our sexual relationship.
It wasn’t until I was staring down my pushy brothers that I realised what that truly meant to me.
I was seeing Sloan with my heart instead of my head.
But it was all for nothing because she’s not here. Now I have to go in front of all these people tonight and pretend like the last couple of months didn’t change everything I thought I knew about myself. Everything I thought I knew about Sloan.
I can do this…
…because control is something I’m far too familiar with.
My heart leaps into my throat when Gareth’s large frame climbs out of a black stretch limo.
I’ve been standing here for ages in my enormous black ball-gown, waving at multiple clients whom I styled for the big night as they make their way inside.
I was able to score a ticket to the event from one of them, and I took that as a sign that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be this evening.
However, I didn’t know what time Gareth was due to arrive.
Now I’m regretting this whole, grand gesture notion as I stand here like an idiot.
I positioned myself in front of the security officers that are holding fans back, and they all shoot me sympathetic smiles like I’m a girl getting stood up on prom night.
But when I see Gareth’s stunning frame wearing the sleek navy suit I designed for him, I realise that I’d endure a lot worse for this sight of him.
This moment is why I knew I had to style myself tonight as well.
Gareth freaking Harris.
I run my hands down the fitted bodice of the Alexander McQueen, long sleeve dress that Freya and I carefully selected for me this evening. It’s understated elegance—the perfect dress for a stylist to wear to an event because the very last thing one would ever want to do is outshine their clients.
It has a full sweeping skirt with pockets and an off-the-shoulder neckline that shows off my collarbone.
My brunette curls are tucked back into a low, chignon hairstyle, and I chose a deep red lipstick to give me a sense of drama that I need in order to be brave enough to stand alongside the honouree tonight.
And standing beside Gareth is exactly what I intend to do.
Aside from the stress of work, he is all I’ve thought about for the past week. That kiss. Those hands. His words.
He said a lot, but what broke me—what changed me in my core—were his remarks about being proud of me for protecting Sophia.
Gareth understood me more in the two minutes he witnessed me as a mother than Callum ever did in the six years we were married.
As that realisation settled in over the week, I knew it wasn’t our arrangement that made me strong.
It was Gareth.
I also knew it would take a big moment for me to truly show him that I’m ready to dive in. I’m ready to change and stop running. To take charge of my life…together.
With a nod of determination, I move to head over to Gareth but pause mid-step as a stunning blonde in a gorgeous red dress climbs out behind him. He reaches down to offer his hand as she wobbles in her strappy silver sandals, and the affectionate exchange between them has my stomach dropping.
Just as Gareth’s hand moves to the small of her back, his eyes pass over me but immediately snap back with a confused, shocked expression.
Completely mortified, I turn away from him and begin pushing my way past the security team that’s evidently decided they aren’t just keeping people out. They are holding people in, too.
“Please excuse me,” I croak desperately. My need to flee is strong, but not stronger than eight grown ass men.
Why did I think showing up unexpectedly was a good idea? Why do I keep forgetting that he’s Gareth Harris—a famous soccer player who can get any woman he wants with the snap of a finger? Of course he wouldn’t sit idle for an entire week. I’m such an idiot!
A calloused hand wraps around my arm and slowly spins me in my black stiletto heels. “Sloan.” Gareth’s voice is so familiar and wonderful, I have to close my eyes to prepare myself for the sight of him up close.
My lids flutter open and I take in his masculine, strong beauty. The sexy scruff on his jaw. His smoky, hazel eyes rimmed with dark lashes. The perfect bend of his nose.
“Gareth,” I reply uncomfortably.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, his eyes searching my entire face for answers I’m embarrassed to admit.
I look over his shoulder at the blonde. “I should have called.”
“Called for what?” he asks, redirecting my gaze back to him.
I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. You’re…here with somebody. I should have assumed.”
“With somebody?” he snaps and tightens his grip on my arm with urgency. “You mean my sister, Vi?”
My jaw drops as I look behind him again and see that the blonde is now flanked by three enormous guys whom I instantly recognise as Gareth’s brothers. I met them when I styled them for a wedding last year.
“That’s your sister?” I ask because I’m still forcing myself to believe it. “I’ve…never met her.”
“Tonight’s sort of a family affair.” He shrugs.
“How wonderful,” I reply hopefully. “Did your dad make it?”
Gareth’s face darkens and the muscle in his jaw ticks. “No.”
I’m instantly transported back into Gareth’s house. Back into the beautiful sanctuary that his home became for me. For us. Back into the moments of tender sharing that we only scratched the surface on.
There’s still so much I don’t know about him, yet I know enough to know the pain behind his reply. I force a wobbly smile. “Well, it’s nice your siblings could be here for you.”
He nods and looks back at them. “They all head back tonight, though…Games tomorrow.” He turns his eyes to me. “It’s good to see you. Are you here with someone?”
I shoot him a shy smile. “Hopefully you.”
The serious look on his face disappears. It’s replaced by a knee-trembling intensity that I can’t seem to look away from. It’s like a wall has dropped and he’s not holding anything back now. “What does this mean?” he asks, his voice deep and melodic.
“We’re friends.” I shrug and step closer to him, running my hands along the lapels of his jacket.
“That’s all I know for certain at this point because this is complicated.
I’m a mother and I have baggage we need to discuss.
But I do know that I care about you and want to be with you tonight.
” I tilt my head to look up at him through my long mascaraed lashes. “Is that enough?”
He stares down at me. Longing, and pain, and desire flick across his face like a slideshow just for me. “For now.”
With sweet, sweet relief, I reach out and grab the pocket square out of his jacket. “You look incredible.”
His chest vibrates with a silent laugh. “I know this woman who thinks she’s just a stylist, but she’s so much more.”
With a proud smirk, I refold the fabric the way I want and tuck it back into the pocket. “Is that right?” I look up at him and feel a riot of butterflies take flight in my belly.
“I’m always right,” he replies with a wink, then turns on his heel to offer me his elbow. “Are you ready for this?” he asks, staring down the red carpet like he can see the future.
“I’m ready for this and more,” I state with a meaningful look that he picks up easily. Then, off we go down a path I never saw myself travelling with a damn soccer player.