Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
“Where are you going, anyway?” James peers at me on Friday morning two weeks later in the mist that has descended over London. It’s a chilly day. Water droplets bead on his wool jacket. “You do know there are car rental services, don’t you?”
“I like your SUV. Also, you told me you’re not using it this weekend.”
“Fine.”
We’re behind his parked Mercedes SUV in the private car park at St James’s Palace, which he loves to say is named after him rather than one of his esteemed ancestors.
I’ve just put my bag in the back. James tosses me the keys a moment later, and I pluck them out of the air with a jangle.
The air smells like spring rain, a light drizzle falling.
“And to answer your question, I’m going to Edinburgh.”
“I say. Why Edinburgh?” James looks startled. “Isn’t that a bit far for a weekend trip?”
“Reasons. Don’t worry, I’ll return your ride with a full tank of petrol and everything. I’m an excellent driver. I haven’t sunk a single SUV either. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Yet.” James shakes his head, seeing through me in an instant. He frowns. “You’re not going to see Stefanos, are you? Please tell me you aren’t.”
“There are many wonderful things to see in Scotland,” I protest immediately, gesturing broadly towards the north in a sweeping motion. “Why wouldn’t I want to go there? We should all want to go there, in fact. It’s gorgeous.”
“Name one wonderful thing,” James challenges immediately, frowning slightly, his gaze rapt on mine like he sees through my bullshit with X-ray vision, “that you’ll see this weekend.”
I open my mouth and shut it. Of course he’s going to be difficult. I suppose he senses—rightly—a threat to his plan. Which, admittedly, is a plan to help me. “The Highlands?”
James snorts, decidedly unimpressed. “You’ll need to lie harder, I’m afraid. The Highlands are not in Edinburgh.”
“Well…” I think furiously. Thoughts of Stef creep in, and they aren’t helping me in this moment to recall remarkable places in Scotland. “The, um, palace?”
“You mean Edinburgh Castle.”
“Right. The castle. I’m going to see the castle.” I gesture broadly again in what must be a castle-shaped movement. “Very castle-y. Really, it’s a go-to for any royal. Great ambience. A little draughty, as all castles are.”
“You’re such a terrible liar.”
“I’m deeply, deeply offended.”
James shakes his head and grips my shoulder, giving me a slight shake. He holds my gaze and speaks sternly. “The plan isn’t going to work if you go off script. Have you forgotten you asked us all for your help a while ago because, as the kids say, you’re royally fucked?”
I squawk. My face warms. “Now, James—”
“Theo, really. I can’t help you if you can’t help yourself. Eddie likes you a lot, by the way. Don’t forget him in all of this.”
That tidbit of information suddenly makes me feel like a terrible person. The worst sort of person. I chew my lip. “Fuck. Why would he like me? That’s terrible news. He shouldn’t like me at all.”
James lowers his voice. “He gets it if it’s not a love thing, but remember: strategy, old boy. Optics. You have something to prove here, and do remember the end goal. These aren’t small stakes.”
“Please don’t remind me. I might be sick.” I maintain his unyielding gaze, my own turning sharp. “How’s Frankie?”
James’ expression shifts from stern to dejected in a nanosecond. He glances away, the corners of his lips tugging down. Then, I feel rotten for bringing Frankie up when I see his reaction. “Fine. Last I heard.”
“You’re not talking?” I lift my eyebrows. Now, that’s a true shock. They were fairly inseparable.
“Not much. Clean break, as it were. I, too, need to work on organizing my affairs.” James attempts to hide behind dignity, which definitely doesn’t fool me, no matter how much he postures and blusters.
“Affairs, huh. Right. Like cashing in your trust fund?” I tease him.
James shakes his head impatiently at me. He smirks. “We’ll talk about that another time. Go. It’s a long drive. Say hi to Stef, you arsehole. Bye.”
“Bye.” I wave cheerfully and slip into the driver’s seat. Soon, I’m off into London traffic. Even so, I can’t wait to see Stef. I’ll face any number of traffic snarls to get to see him again.
Weaving out of London is always a mission, dodging construction and traffic accidents and inevitably getting caught up in something.
In hindsight, I should’ve left before morning rush hour, but here we are.
I could have flown or braved the train, but the appeal of the road was the strongest. The change of scene would do me good, getting out of London and the usual, and the time alone doing something unfamiliar.
To give myself time and space to let everything settle.
Once I pass Luton on the M1, I start to relax more, turn up the music, and enjoy the journey.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve been on a road trip off the top of my head.
Aside from getting to Windsor Castle recently, it was probably when I went with Aidan to meet his family last autumn.
I shake my head to clear it. This is infinitely better.
I’m on my own with nothing but hours of driving ahead of me.
It’s March, so the days are longer, even with the cloudy skies.
Not to say the M1 is exactly the most scenic route, but it’s efficient enough.
When I roll into Edinburgh in the late afternoon, I get caught up in its Friday rush hour and a little turned around, ironically enough, on Princes Street. Turns out I got the wrong address somewhere off Royal Circle. Amateur hour in Edinburgh.
Stuck in gridlock, I impatiently drum my fingers on the wheel, then stretch.
Everything had been going so smoothly till now.
I send a voice message to Stef to let him know I’ve reached the city.
By the time I drive down his leafy street with its imposing, curving Georgian buildings at last, it’s pushing 6:00 p.m. I park where I find a spot.
Stef emerges from behind a glossy black door and waves.
I grab my weekender duffel bag and jacket.
I make my way along the damp pavement, the air heavy with the scent of spring, to the short run of stairs leading to his front door, which is flanked by two large potted plants.
He’s in a royal blue fitted T-shirt, showing excellent biceps, and faded jeans.
He stands on the top step, and I stop a step down before him. The air is cold, and the wind ruffles Stef’s hair. Stef folds his arms tight across his chest. There’s a hint of a frown on his face. God, he’s hot.
“Hey,” I murmur, my gaze riveted on his. “Thought I might stop in since I was in the neighborhood.”
Stef does the one-eyebrow thing, which somehow manages to make me feel a little reckless. His eyes sparkle.
“Maybe I’m busy,” he retorts.
“Maybe I’ll leave, then. Hate to interrupt,” I tell him. “Being as disruptive as I am.”
He just shakes his head, rolling his eyes, but not before I catch a flicker of a smile. Goose bumps cover me in response. “Get yourself inside already.”