Chapter 17
Hendricks
“Hendricks? . . . Hendricks?”
I’m brought back to the present by a severe nudge in the ribs from my brother.
“Ouch, what the fuck was that for?” I grunt. His chin jerks toward the center of the room, where I discover a set of beady eyes staring at me. “Mrs. Winston, I apologize. If you could repeat that—”
“I was saying the equipment and components for the kissing booth you suggested will be delivered here this week, so you’ll need to collect it and assemble it—”
“And by assemble, you mean—”
Her eyes narrow. She’s looking at me like I’m a spoiled brat who’s never built anything, which I’m not, and I have. What I don’t have, however, is any recollection that I agreed to this.
“It comes with instructions, don’t worry. I’m sure you and Story will manage just fine together. Nothing like a little teamwork.” She chuckles, and it takes all the self-control I have not to snarl at her. “And this was your idea.”
I peer over at Story, who’s looking far too innocent for my liking. More innocent than I’ve ever seen her before, that’s for sure. “Come on, Hen, what’s the harm with a little teamwork between friends?”
Okay, maybe I deserved that. “No harm, Stor. I can build whatever needs to be built.”
“We can build . . .”
“Right.” I glance at Mrs. Winston. “Anything you need, we can handle.”
She claps her hands. “Excellent. And I take it you’ve been making arrangements with the shelter this week too?”
“The shelter?” Did I miss a meeting this week? Because that’s how it feels.
“The dog shelter in Oxford. Or are we using another charity for the kissing booth? That is how it was used previously, correct?”
Next to me, Miles coughs, which sounds an awful lot like “Story.”
Ignoring him, I nod vigorously and add the cheeriest chuckle I can manage. “Yes. Yes. Again, I apologize. I was a little confused there for a moment. The shelter has been contacted, and they’re on board. We plan to have a good adoption drive for Valentine’s.”
“Excellent, excellent,” she crows, then moves to the next point on the agenda and a new victim.
Miles leans into me. “Did you really contact the shelter?”
“I will have by the end of the day,” I mutter back.
“By the way, if you wanted to play it cool, you’re doing a shit job.”
“I’m not trying to play it cool. I’m not trying to do anything.”
He scoffs, uncrosses, then recrosses his legs. “Sure. If you say so.”
I’m not going to argue with him, because I’m really not. Yes, maybe I am a little distracted, but I have a lot on my mind right now, and not just the image of Story sobbing in my arms, or the feeling of her body fitting perfectly against mine again after so long.
I’m proud of the way we’ve behaved like adults this week. Adults who are friends. I’ve said hello to her twice this week when I’ve dropped Max off at school, and that’s what friends do.
It’s neither here nor there that she’s sitting opposite me right now, directly in my eyeline.
Obviously, she’s the one person I’d be looking at the most. If Agatha Chase was sitting there instead of the other side of Miles—which explains why Miles is so close to me, he’s almost on my lap—I’d be looking at Agatha.
I’d be watching Agatha laugh softly at her seatmate, the other reception teacher who introduced herself last week. It would be Agatha quietly tucking her hair back, only for hairs to escape again. It would be the curve of Agatha’s throat I’d see as she sipped from her glass.
It would be Agatha I’d be acutely aware of, not she who captures my attention to the point I miss everything being said.
“Am I an idiot?” I sigh hard.
“You’re going to need to be more specific, Hen.”
I side-eye Miles. “Why are you here again?”
“I came for a drink. I didn’t know you were having a meeting. But as I’m here, I can remind you all that the charity polo match is the weekend after next.”
I nod. This one I have actually remembered, because I’m playing.
Miles, Lando, Alex, and me against the visiting team, usually made up of high-profile professionals Miles has corralled.
We host one twice a year at Foxleigh Park, and the Valentine match is usually seen as the kickoff to the early social calendar.
Therefore, it’s always well attended and raises several thousand pounds.
It’s a lot of fun, and by the end of the day, everyone’s either drunk on love or lots of champagne, though usually both. It leads to excellent donations.
“And then one last item on the agenda, which I’m assuming is why you’re here, Miles.” She looks at Miles, then me, then back at Miles, who puts his hand up.
“It’s me, Mrs. Winston. The better-looking one, remember?”
Across from me, Story rolls her eyes, and everyone else laughs politely—they’ve all been victims of Miles’s joke at least a dozen times. Maybe not Celeste, however, who seems to think it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard.
“Yes, quite, thank you.” He winks at her, and flushed cheeks replace the laughter.
Story’s eyes roll even harder. “Anyway, I’m taking the opportunity to remind you that it’s the Valentine Polo Match in two weeks.
Tickets will be on sale here, in The One True Love, at The Cupid’s Arrow, and The Beanery.
Please encourage everyone you know to come, so I don’t have to don my ponies in pink ribbons for nothing. ”
“Wonderful, wonderful.” Mrs. Winston claps, cheery and excited as ever while everyone else looks like they’re losing the will to live and can only be revived with a strong drink.
“We shall certainly all be there. Now, if that’s everything, then I bid you adieu.
It’s going to be a wonderful event this year. ”
There’s the usual cacophony of chairs being pushed back, feet thumping on the floor, and a rush for everyone to get to the bar as quickly as possible.
I could certainly do with a drink myself.
Miles stands, and I follow. “Bar?”
“Lead the way.”
“Hey, Hen—”
Spinning around, I find Story standing behind me. “Hi, Story.”
She turns to my brother. She’s not so petty as he is that she’ll totally ignore him standing next to me. “Miles.”
“Story.” He shoots her a withering look and promptly walks off, leaving us alone for the first time since she cried in my arms.
“Still annoyed about Annabel, I see.” She tuts. But as she focuses on me, the bravado from earlier in the meeting seems to vanish the longer she pushes nonexistent loose strands behind both ears, repeatedly smoothing her hair down. “So we’re building the booth?”
“That’s what it sounds like.”
Around us, people are still shuffling out to the bar, holding their own conversations, shifting the furniture back, and she’s watching them until her shoulders drop. “Look, I can do this by myself if you’d rather not—”
“No, no,” I say, firmly. “It was my idea. I’ll see this through.”
Her eyes scan mine, checking if I’m serious. If I really want to spend time with her and whether I think it’s a good idea. She won’t find the answer, because I don’t know myself.
Eventually, she responds, “Okay then. I’ll check when it’s arriving and let you know.”
“Sounds good.” I smile. “I’ll look forward to it.”
Very adult. Very mature. I wonder if I should hold my hand out to shake hers, then decide it’s a step too far.
“See you in the morning, Hen.”
“See you in the morning, Stor.”
She walks out of the pub, ignoring Miles standing at the bar, and never looks back. I know because my eyes don’t leave her until she’s out of sight. Then my head drops, and I question every decision I’ve ever made.
I am an idiot. There is no doubt.
“Hen, what are you drinking?” Miles yells through the gap between the bar separating the front of the pub with the back.
I want a double scotch, but I go with Guinness instead. Picking up the final couple of chairs, I move them back to where they came from and join him by the bar. I get there right as my drink is placed down.
“Well, that was fun.”
“Was it?”
He nods. “Yes, I particularly liked the part where you were squirming in your seat about having to spend the day with Story—”
“I want to spend the day with her.”
“I know you do. That’s why you were squirming.” His smile reaches from ear to ear. “Your plan to be ‘friends’ with the woman you’re in love with will crash faster than Max when he’s had too much sugar. If you ask me—”
“I didn’t ask you,” I snap, ignoring the air quotes. “She’s leaving, so being anything other than friends is pointless.”
“Maybe see what Agatha thinks,” Miles says loudly at the moment she walks past us.
“Milo, for fuck’s sake,” I grumble as she turns around, brow raised.
She peers at Miles over the top of her large, black-rimmed glasses. “Yes, Miles. What do you need? Aside from enlightening.”
I bark out a laugh. Agatha never fails to crack me up, especially when it has to do with Miles. She’s the only one I know who can legitimately wind him up, and I love how haughty she gets with him.
“Don’t you worry about me, Agatha.” He winks, though his voice is tight. “Just curious if you’re sensing anything about Hendricks.”
Her mouth purses, and she clicks her tongue. “Like I said to Story, it’s not long now.” Her eyes slide to Miles. “Nor for you, alarmingly. But you must be careful.”
Miles’s eyes widen, his shock is almost amusing. Like me, he has no idea what she’s talking about, though people rarely do, but I’m not planning to get into a conversation about it either.
I go with, “Thanks, Agatha.” To which she nods deeply and walks away. Miles scowls until she’s across the other side of the pub.
“Why do you let her get under your skin?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. No one gets under my skin.”
My brow arches. “What about the girl in Aspen?”
Miles takes a long sip of his pint and swipes a hand across his mouth. “What about her?”
During our New Year’s trip to Aspen, Miles was very nearly run over by a woman galloping on a pony while yelling at Miles for being an arsehole. After he tracked her down at the stables, an argument followed. He declared that she was the most obnoxious person he’d ever met and stormed off.
Most people would have let it go, but not Miles.
In all the years I’ve known him, he’s never been this interested in a woman. I already know her polo stats—handicap, where she played, and where she’ll be playing next season. It’s the only woman anyone has ever known Miles to show the slightest interest in.
“I’d say she’s set up camp under there.” I tap a finger on his chest.
He rolls his eyes. “She hasn’t. But”—he stops and leans in—“I found out who she’s been working with.”
“Who?”
His eyes flash, devilish. “Torres.”
I gasp, followed by a splutter as too much of my Guinness ends up in my windpipe. “What the hell?”
A smirk I’m very familiar with creeps on his face. The beginnings of a plan. “Yup.”
“Miles, don’t do anything stupid. He nearly killed you before—”
“I’m aware, Hen.” A muscle twitches in his jaw, the one that shows up in me when I’m under stress.
“Milo—”
“Don’t worry,” he says, like it’s that simple. Because I know that no matter what, I’ll go along with whatever plot he cooks up. No questions asked.
We stare at each other, silently conversing. Me begging him to be careful, him laughing until an interruption comes along, and we both peer down to find Mrs. Winston.
“Hendricks, I must say again, thank you so much for rescuing my Churchy.”
“You’re welcome. I’m happy he’s on the mend. And thank you for all the shortbread you dropped off this week. But it was Story who found him, Mrs. Winston.”
“I know, and Churchill’s thanked her too.” She sips at a pint of Guinness, leaving an inch of foam on her top lip as she smiles. “I must say, it’s nice to see you two together again. I remember the pair of you running around the village—”
Miles’s arm slings around my shoulder, stopping one of the worst village gossips mid-sentence. “We’re all happy Churchill’s still with us, Mrs. W. And we shall look forward to a long summer of him stealing everyone’s apples.”
“Ah, yes. He is a naughty boy.” Her head falls back in amusement, and her eyes dart. “Oh, there’s Agatha. Must have a word . . .”
“Thanks.” I grin once she’s out of earshot.
“You’re welcome.” He knocks the rest of his drink back, places the glass on the bar, and slaps his stomach. “Let’s get out of here. I’m starving.”
“Right behind you.”
We try to be quick, but it takes a couple of minutes of pushing through the crowds, saying goodbye, listening and smiling to “Something I must tell you,” all the while I’m looking around for Story in case she decided to come back in. When we finally get outside, I wish we hadn’t.
“Hey! Miles, Hendricks. How’re you doing? Long time no see.”
We both turn to find a man walking toward us, hand outstretched, vaguely familiar. It’s not until he steps under the streetlights that his face fully comes into view.
“Pelling,” Miles greets, taking his hand and grinning at me so wide I’m tempted to punch him. “Shit, haven’t seen you in—”
“Nine years.”
“Must be. How are you?”
“Good, good. Can’t complain. Working in the city, small hedge fund, you know how it is.” He grins, and I refrain from telling him I don’t.
I’m a vet. I hate the city.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to keep the horror from my voice. Horror and suspicion. Like he says, nine years. In nine years, I have never once seen Sam Pelling in Valentine Nook, but now Story has returned . . .
“My parents still live in the area, so I pop down regularly. Usually catch up with some of the old VP crew while I’m here. Anyone who’s around—”
“Really?”
“Yup.” He nods. “You should come join us.”
“Thanks, we’d love to.” Miles grabs my shoulder, squeezing it so hard I wince. “But not tonight. We’re needed elsewhere. Definitely another time though, mate.”
“Great. Look forward to it.” He salutes and walks into the pub we’ve just left. It’s the only reason I don’t take after him because I know Story isn’t in there.
I take a minute, stuck on the spot as my brain whirrs. I know Miles is staring at me, waiting.
“Don’t say it.”
But obviously, he does. “Still think staying ‘friends’ with Story is a good idea?”