Chapter 2
Darius
“Don’t bite me, you little shit.” I shake my leg and the black cat, intent on making me its next meal, flops onto his side like he’s given up on life now that his dinner is twenty minutes late.
“Cade fed you this morning before he left, Ford,” I grumble, opening a pouch of cat food and depositing it into a clean bowl.
I throw away the packaging, then place the full bowl onto the rubber mat in the corner of the kitchen.
Ford saunters over, his stubby tail raised, his nose in the air like some posh twat circling a charcuterie board before sniffing the meager offering and walking off again.
I smile. Cats are such assholes. I fucking love them.
Ford especially. If I could steal him and claim him as mine, I would. But sadly, he belongs to my best friend, Caiden, and I am neither a bad friend nor a criminal.
Once I’ve topped up Ford’s water and fed Caiden’s hamster, I wash my hands, pull out my phone and order a takeaway, charging it to one of the credit cards my father pays for. When I open the fridge for a drink, I find only one can of supermarket-brand lemonade, which I take with me to the sofa.
Ford jumps onto my lap, circles three times, then rolls into a ball, his purr starting up as soon as I run my hand over his silky fur.
Kicking my feet up onto the table in front of me, I flick the television on and scroll to one of Caiden’s streaming services, find the true crime documentary that I started last night, and hit play.
“It’s the husband,” I state matter-of-factly, nudging Ford with my arm. He looks at me, licks his lips, then settles back down. He is riveting company this evening.
My phone pings, and I unlock it to see a message from my friend and colleague, Florence. We work together at a coffee shop not far from my place in Battersea. I could guess without opening the message what she wants.
Flo: Can you take my early shift tomorrow? I'll be in a little later. Something’s come up. Pretty please.
I chuckle. I knew it. Girl has something come up at least once a week.
Me: It’ll cost you.
Flo: Five hugs and a vodka cranberry?
Me: Deal. See you tomorrow.
She knows me far too well. She also knows I never say no to covering her shift or anyone else’s, for that matter.
I decided a long time ago that I wouldn’t rely solely on my father’s wealth. Solely being the important word here. Because, yeah, he covers my mortgage and my groceries and my holidays and, well, pretty much everything else. But I contribute. And not everything is about money.
What I get working at the coffee shop is more than that. I love that I get to see so many people every day. I like that I can make them smile and that they return the gesture while chit chatting over chai lattes.
I like the hustle and bustle of the before-work crowd who come in with bleary eyes, tired expressions and perfectly pressed suits, and the mums who stop by after school drop-off and rope me into their circle of gossip.
I like the people I work with and hours that mean I have time to volunteer at the local animal rescue shelter and walk my neighbour’s dogs – Ludo and Lenny – after her hip operation.
It all makes my sociable little heart happy.
I know my father – the great Ralph Thorne-Sutton, millionaire business executive and entrepreneur – expects more from me.
He’s told me countless times before. Always without pushing, but with enough of an edge to make it clear.
That’s why I went to uni. I got a degree.
And now a copy of my Bachelor of Science in Physiotherapy sits propped up on my father’s desk.
I like to think that he’s proud of me, though he never says as much.
He’s not one for affection and platitudes.
He was once, but now he talks in business deals and acquisitions and focuses on what people can do for him.
I don’t like to think of myself as another commodity in his empire, but fuck if sometimes it’s hard to feel like anything but.
I reply to Florence and add the six am shift to my diary.
My show ends, and I’m reading the summary of another documentary – this one set in a remote coastal town somewhere in Devon – when there’s a knock on the door.
As if on cue, my stomach rumbles, and I rush to open up, frowning at the guy standing on Caiden’s coir welcome mat.
He’s dressed in gym shorts and a sweat-drenched sleeveless tee.
His bleach-blond hair is a mess of curls, some of which stick to his forehead, and his eyes are red-rimmed.
There’s a flush high on his chiselled cheek bones and had he not been covered in sweat, I’d think he was blushing with just how deep the colour is against his otherwise fair skin.
Most noticeable, though, is that he is not carrying my dinner.
“You’re not Caiden,” he states, bracing one hand on the door frame.
“And you’re not here to deliver my butter chicken and coconut rice,” I reply. He’s taller than me – probably just over six feet compared to my five-seven frame – so I tilt my head to meet his gaze.
“What?” Blondie asks, brows drawn as he drops his hand to his side and takes a step back. He looks at the number next to the door, likely to double-check he has the right address, before he turns his eyes back on me.
“Uh, is Caiden here?” He looks over my shoulder into the flat, and I open my mouth to reply before a second, smaller figure appears beside him.
She’s wearing a blue cap with the delivery company’s name on it, and she’s holding a large brown paper bag.
The aromatic scent of the curry I ordered fills the air, and my stomach grumbles loudly.
I haven’t eaten since the blueberry muffin I ate while ducked behind the counter at the coffee shop this morning.
“Delivery for Thorne-Sutton?” she asks, looking between me and the guy on the doorstep.
“Yep, that’s me. Thank you.” I take the paper bag from her, pull a tenner from my pocket and hand it over. I tipped on the app earlier, but I never know how much reaches the drivers, so always top up on delivery too.
“What kind of name is Thorne-Sutton?” Blondie asks.
“A good one,” I reply, giving him a very obvious once-over. He’s objectively hot. With a scar slicing through one eyebrow, a gentle five o’clock shadow, broad shoulders and lean, well-defined arms.
“Sorry, did you need something?” I ask when it becomes clear he’s neither going to leave nor talk. I’m not usually this curt with people. Most would say I’m a bloody delight, but he’s standing here looking like a lost puppy and I’m really fucking hungry.
I actually adore puppies. But I am also easily led by my stomach, and hangry is very much one of my main states of being.
“I wanted to see Caiden. He here?” He looks over my shoulder again, but his focus darts down when Ford appears between my legs, hisses at him and then turns and walks back into the flat. I guess that’s his way of telling whoever the fuck this is to piss off.
“Ah, no, he’s not.”
“But you’re in his place?” He raises the scarred eyebrow.
“Yep. And I’m going to go all the way inside it now and eat my dinner.” I lift the bag just to make my next steps super clear.
“Oh. Okay.” His shoulders hunch and fuck me. Now he looks like a puppy that not only can’t find his owner but has lost his favourite ball, too.
“Look,” I say, “Caiden’s away. I don’t know when he’ll be back. He had a family thing to take care of.” I don’t go into more detail since it’s not my story to share, but the guy nods.
“Ah yes, his knight in shining armour.” It’s not a question, but it’s enough that I’m starting to get an idea of who this guy is standing in the hallway of Caiden’s apartment building.
I’ll admit that if this is who I think it is, I’m surprised he’s here after Caiden told him yesterday that they were over.
“Maybe,” I offer, narrowing my eyes. “Did you need him for something?”
The guy runs a hand through his curls, and I can’t help following the movement before focusing on his eyes. They’re a deep, dark brown. Pretty and so incredibly sad. He bites his bottom lip, seeming to contemplate my question before shaking his head.
“Nah, it’s fine. Just wanted to see him, is all. We’re ah…friends.”
Liar. Caiden has one friend, and right now he’s holding a rapidly cooling curry while the man-puppy shifts from foot to foot.
“Oliver, right?” His eyes widen, a small smirk playing on his lips.
“He told you about me?”
My chest squeezes at the look of hope on his face. The one I’m about to trample. It would be cruel not to.
“Yes. But not in the way you’re thinking. I know he told you not to contact him again. So why are you here?”
He looks at the ceiling, blowing out a deep breath. “My dad died.” His voice echoes through the empty hallway, and my heart skips a beat.
Jesus.
Was not expecting that.
“I’m sorry.”
Oliver shrugs. “It’s whatever.” He looks down at his Nike trainers, scuffing the toe of his left foot on the tiled floor.
He’s quiet for a moment until he suddenly straightens, squaring his shoulders with a resolve that wasn’t there a second ago.
“Don’t tell him I was here, okay?” Oliver waves over his shoulder. “I’ll just go.”
Bloody hell, damn my incessant need to take care of people. I can’t let the guy leave, not now, not with those sad fucking eyes.
I turn my body to the side, an opening between me and entry into Caiden’s flat. “Do you want to come in? Talk about it? Watch me eat the best butter chicken this side of the Thames?”
Oliver rubs the back of his neck, looks at his feet again, and then at me. Caiden once told me this guy bleeds confidence. Called him a self-assured asshole. I don’t see it. But then again, he just lost his father. That would dampen my spirit, too.
“I don’t want to talk about it. Not with you.” I can accept that – we don’t know each other and I know I’m not who he came here to see. “But I would like to come in,” Oliver adds before I have a chance to reply.