Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
In the morning, I have no choice but to vigorously get myself off twice before morning coffee, despite the fuzzy head—because there’s no other way I can cope. All I can think about is Stef.
“Fuck,” I mutter breathlessly under my breath, sprawled out on the appropriately super-king-sized bed, approximately the size of a small nation. A nation where Stef isn’t a citizen.
Get a grip, Theo. Not at all fucking helpful.
I end up ordering some coffee after blasting Florence + the Machine and a scalding shower in an effort to bring me back to my senses.
In my dressing gown, I sit by the table overlooking the Windsor Castle gardens.
Outside, everything is beautiful and still.
When I open the window for fresh air to help my hangover, I blink in the morning sunlight, take in the new spring greens of the grounds, and wait for the painkillers to kick in.
Which is when I turn my hand to a trawl on social media as my brain thuds.
My timeline is nothing but clips of dancing and selfies and shenanigans from friends and relatives.
Even Auggie posted sometime around 4:00 a.m., the maniac.
Nothing untoward, just a selfie with Thomas where they beam at the camera together, looking entirely thrilled with each other.
It’s a little bittersweet, seeing Auggie so happy, but a lot more of me is happy for him because he deserves someone who adores him.
Then there’s Aidan, in the midst of my scroll of epic Windsor Castle shots.
I was not prepared for Aidan this morning. I wince. He’s got some feature on House and Home or House & Garden or who the hell knows what magazine would have the indecency to give Aidan an actual platform he doesn’t deserve based on his bullshit.
Frowning, I watch the video tour through his beautiful Richmond home.
The home, by the way, I helped Aidan decorate, source antiques and modern art for him, right down to finding the leafy monstera and buying his favorite painting now hanging over the sofa I found for him.
Obviously, he’s not one for giving credit where it’s due.
His place was a bachelor pad trash fire before me.
Never mind what the exposure on House & Garden would do for my—and Ethan’s—career.
Naturally, Aidan doesn’t credit me aside from mentioning breezily in passing about having some help. Aidan waves a hand. “Oh, I just hired a designer.”
“Motherfucker,” I splutter in outrage.
Richmond is more or less on the way home from Windsor Castle.
I have half a mind to turn up on Aidan’s doorstep and give him an absolute piece of my mind because he fucking deserves it, the arsehole.
I scowl fiercely at the end of the video as the credits flash up, and then it starts to repeat.
I slump back in my chair, drain my mug of the last of the coffee, and make my best effort to not slam down the porcelain because it doesn’t deserve it.
“Fucking ridiculous,” I mutter. “Ten out of ten.”
My phone buzzes beside my elbow. I lean over to peer at the notification on the screen.
Auggie, no less. Private message, not the prince group chat. My eyebrows climb in surprise, and I pick up my phone.
Auggie, 9:30 a.m.
I didn’t know you felt that way about Eddie. Good to see you both last night Ax
I blink. Did he watch us over by the bar? The place was absolutely heaving with guests, after all. An unsettled feeling begins to set in. I message back.
Theo, 9:33
Happy to see you happy Tx
I swipe through my missed messages and notifications. Most are things that can wait. Another client request. Mamma checking in on me. Then a message from Ethan.
Hey tiger, glad to see you had some fun last night, guess you’re following James’ advice after all? Also I see Aidan’s still an arsehole. See you Monday.
My stomach knots with dread as I swipe into Instagram to see a stack of notifications light up, along with the first post from James two hours ago, with highlights from his birthday party. There’s an impressive collection of reels and photos. It’s fascinating what’s there and what isn’t.
The cover photo shows James blowing a kiss, holding up a bottle of champagne like he’s won a sporting trophy, followed by a shot of a sparkling tower of full champagne glasses.
Windsor Castle’s grounds. Auggie and Thomas, arms around each other’s shoulders.
People dancing. James and John laughing over some joke.
James dancing suggestively with Elsie. There’s no Frankie as yet. Interesting.
And then there’s a photo I wish I hadn’t seen. The way that James took the photo makes things look more heated than they were. I don’t remember Edward’s hand on my shoulder. Or kissing him so intently, eyes shut.
Shit. Fuck. Double fuck.
That’s way more than I bargained for on socials. And why the hell wouldn’t James clear the photo with me before posting? Because he was drunk, I tell myself darkly. And I was drunk. And Edward was probably drunk too. I groan.
The worst part is knowing Stef’s going to see this too, if he hasn’t already. I should’ve warned him last night. Though, I try to reason, he knows full well about the fake-dating ploy. But he’d already been salty about the Duke of Wiltshire, specifically.
Desperate, I wonder if there’s any way I can convince James to take down this post before Stef sees it.
After getting dressed for the day and a couple of texts to James, which I fully expected him to ignore because he’d be passed out drunk somewhere on the Windsor Castle lawn after last night, I’m on my way to meet him in a reception room for breakfast. I march down the corridor, on a mission.
When I push through the doors of the small breakfast room, where James is sat at a round table with Frankie and Elsie and John, I rush in.
“Good morning, Theo—” James says breezily, lifting a hand to toast me with his tea.
“What the hell was that?” I demand hotly, folding my arms roughly over my chest.
Frankie’s startled. Elsie looks intrigued, giving me an appreciative once-over. And James shrugs, entirely unperturbed by my eruption.
“What the hell was what, darling?” James asks absently, taking a sip of his tea before setting it down.
“You can’t be serious. You full well know what,” I hiss.
James considers me for a long moment as I practically vibrate on the edge of a meltdown. “Sit. Talk to me.”
I roughly rub my face and plonk heavily into a seat.
Frankie pours me a coffee and slides it over to me with a sympathetic smile. “Good morning, Theo.”
“Morning. Thanks.” I glare at James, who at last starts to register some distant element of concern. I nod at Elsie. “Good morning, Elsie.”
“Morning, Theo. Good to see you again.”
“Morning,” John offers too, clutching his tea and looking a little worse for wear.
I nod at them both.
James leans back in his chair, resting his forearm on the edge of the table. A slight frown creases his face, and he runs a hand through his sandy-blond hair. He’s still wearing his tux. And so’s Frankie. Elsie’s in her dress.
“Have you even been to sleep yet?” I ask him, incredulous. “It’s 10:00 a.m.”
“Of course not.” James shrugs. He has a slightly glassy, loose-limbed look.
Still drunk.
Great.
“Now,” James begins, “why are you upset? I really don’t have the foggiest—”
I give him a dark look, holding on to the coffee like an anchor in this chaos. “The photo.”
“The photo…” James gazes at me, entirely lost. Then Frankie leans over to murmur in his ear. He looks a bit drunk too, but to his credit, he has always ranked higher overall on the emotional intelligence scale. “Ah.”
“Ah,” I echo, staring him down.
James nods slowly. He frowns. “You and Eddie had a lovely time.”
“James.”
He sighs. “It was an excellent photo, in my defense. And this is all part of the plan, remember? Positive associations.”
“Yes, associations, not making out with a duke on main.”
“That’s not on me.” James lifts his hands. “That was all you. And Eddie.”
“People,” I complain loudly, “are going to see that.”
Specific people, in fact.
James looks mystified. “That, I believe, is the point?”
I groan, push the coffee aside, and bury my face in my arms on the table. “It’s like talking to a wall,” I mutter.
And all I can think of is how upset Stef will be when he sees this.
“Any chance you’ll take it down?” I ask, lifting my head for a moment.
“Of course not. Don’t you know how much engagement that post has? Took a bit of effort to put together and all, actually.”
With a groan, I drop my head on my arms. Think, I tell myself. Get in touch with Stef. Explain about James’ scheme. After all, Stef wished he could be the first fake date. He knows about the scheme. Except it doesn’t feel any better.
“Maybe you need a nap?” James pats my shoulder.
“Friends don’t let friends post drunk.” My voice is muffled by my arms.
“They encouraged me,” James offers. “And where were you? I can’t believe you left so early. Why, the sun hadn’t even risen yet.”
Another groan escapes my lips before I can stop it. “When are you going back to London?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Tonight, maybe tomorrow,” James offers. “Why?”
“I need to get back.”
“A driver can always take you if you really must leave. But don’t you want to eat some breakfast? Toast?” James entreats. “It’s the most important meal of the day, you know.”
At last, I sit up, looking at them all. “Sorry.”
James shoves a side plate with some dry toast over. “Here, have one piece, at least. It’ll do you a world of good, trust me.” He has the look of a man whose faith in the restorative qualities of bread has never ever let him down.
I retrieve a half slice of toast and eat it aggressively. “Right, cheers. Must dash.”
“Give my best to Eddie!” James calls after me. “Solid material, right there. Don’t forget the plan. That’s what you need.”
But Edward’s not who I want.