Chapter 10
Monday morning’s rehearsal is a dose of a drug I never knew I needed.
I haven’t picked up my sticks for two whole days.
While spending hours of my time with Rachel on these challenges has been the best, I still needed this.
Maybe it’s the relief of satisfying a physical need, in place of that other, pent-up craving—the one I keep trying to shove down every time she presses herself against me.
Inside the makeshift studio, we’ve been at this for two hours, though it feels like minutes. Eyes closed, cans on, and I’m totally in the zone. My shoulders are alive, my arms energised by the sweet ache of muscles reawakened, and my whole body is down deep in conversation with my drum kit.
A trickle of sweat inches down my spine. I should be freezing in just a T-shirt—it seems to be the only room in the house without a gas fire—but the solid workout and the pleasant burn in my forearms are a buffer against the cold.
Beyond the windows, a heavy ceiling of low cloud makes it feel more night than day. Rain slashes against the panes, and I’m glad to drown out its unwelcome clatter with my instrument.
Rachel’s 7am text woke me before my alarm this morning. Too wet. No riding today.
My heart sank even as my sex-crazed brain plunged to another low. I blame my Irish mate Fitzy’s overuse of that particular slang for the image that blasts across my brain every time I think of the word ‘riding’ and Rachel in the same sentence.
I sent her back a crying emoji and the words Tomorrow then? She could probably hear my pathetic hopefulness in that lone question mark.
When she responded, See you at whatever painful challenge Haley’s plotted for us today with a laughing emoji, I sent her back a thumbs up and then spent an hour second-guessing my reply. I really need Briar to give me lessons in the subtleties of talking in emojis.
Now she’s invaded my thoughts again, it’s hard to shake Rachel off, but I pull myself away and focus on the job.
We’re halfway through ‘December Promise’, the Christmas single due out in two weeks.
We’ll be totally sick of hearing it on every fucking radio station and playing it at every damn appearance by the time December twenty-fifth rolls around, but it’s a smart financial move for sure.
Christian wrote it for Haley last year, part of their Christmas fairytale love story. Sending it onto the charts at the same time as the photos of their wedding hit the headlines will trigger thousands of pounds pouring into our record company’s coffers—and ours, too.
We’re just a few bars into the second chorus when, abruptly, Christian’s vocals falter. The guitars fade, and my eyes fly open. The reason for this sudden interruption stands in the doorway.
“They’re ready for you now,” Haley singsongs, eyes sparkling with excitement while inwardly I groan. “In the library.”
One session of trying on monkey suits in London wasn’t enough. We’re scheduled for another round, and it looks like it’s time. I set down my drumsticks and trudge after the other guys.
As we pass one of the downstairs lounges, I catch a flash of green through an open door. I swivel and—bam—there she is. Rachel, in a long dress of emerald satin, her golden hair cascading in waves down her back like she’s just stepped out of her own fairytale.
I’m frozen by the sight of her glowing under the blaze of a chandelier. Her head’s tipped back, laughing in that totally unapologetic way she lives her life, like a breath of summer on a winter day.
She’s standing on a small step-stool, a queen towering above the servant kneeling at her feet. The woman crouched beside her has a mouth full of pins, intensely focused on the hem of the dress. What I’d give to take her place.
I’d kneel at Rachel’s feet, worship her—but my eyes wouldn’t be on the dress.
Like now, they’d follow the long line of her leg peeking through a slit that runs almost all the way to her thigh.
Her skin is creamy, gently sun-kissed, and I long to let my hand rove across it.
I know it would be soft and smooth, like the feel of her stomach under my splayed fingers last night.
I want to let my lips taste it, inching up the length of that leg, slowly and delicately making a path to her hidden places while she shivers with want beneath me.
Her eyes meet mine, and her mouth tips up in a small smile. Like a dick, I lift one hand and flex my fingers in a small wave.
Maybe she doesn’t think I’m a total idiot—she waves back. I’m not sure what plans Haley has for us today beyond wedding fittings, but honestly, I’m hoping for some more of her Christmas-themed mayhem. Another chance to spend time up close with this woman who’s totally bewitched me.
I’m frozen to the spot, staring at Rachel while last night in the stable replays in my head. Kissing her, touching her, tracing the curves of her body…
Then, with a jolt, I’m back in reality. Sam appears, blocking my view of heaven. She glowers at me, and I raise my hands in surrender. I try to fix an innocent expression on my face, but I doubt it’s convincing.
Sam knows—Haley, too. I’m totally gone for Rachel, and they’re determined to prevent me from acting on it. She closes the door with a warning clunk, and I catch up to the others making their way behind Haley down a long hallway.
Little do any of them know how hard I’m trying not to go too far too soon, or how Rachel wants me as bad as I want her.
They have no idea I’m the one riding the brake while, day by day, she drags me closer to driving off the edge of the cliff.
Us hooking up before the end of this week is as inevitable as day follows night.
When it happens, her friends will say I’m predictable.
Teddy Hargrove never turns down a pretty girl with the hots for him.
They’re wrong. No one could have predicted how I feel when it comes to Rachel MacDonald.
No one could have guessed how it’s not just how gorgeous she is that captivates me.
She’s like a hurricane—her quick mind, her sense of fun, her comfort in her own skin—and I’m caught in the gale.
One minute I’m spiralling around her; the next, she flings me into the calm centre where it’s just the two of us and the rest of the world falls away.
She’s like no one else, and I won’t cheapen what’s growing between us by taking her into my bed without a thought, the way I’ve done with every girl before. I like her too much. I respect her too much. I see too much potential for something different with Rachel, and I’m not going to blow it.
In the library, there’s a familiar face waiting for us.
We met this guy a month ago in some upmarket tailor’s shop in Mayfair.
Declan, or Deacon—no, Donovan—that’s his name.
You’d think it would be hard to forget, given the dude’s had his hands on my inner thigh.
I’ve never felt so far out of my comfort zone, and not just because of the unexpected hands-on nature of the clothes fittings.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Donovan gushes. “Good to see you again. Shall we get started? I’m sure you have lots to do five days out from the big day.”
“Groom and best man first,” I say, grabbing any opportunity to delay the torture ahead of me. Christian has got us into this, so it’s only fair he takes the lead. I think Ollie actually enjoys all the fancy clothes so he can step up, too.
Donovan ushers them over to a table stacked with piles of boxes and suit bags. Our wedding finery, and god do I hate it.
One of the best things about being a rock star, you can pretty much turn up at anything wearing jeans and a T-shirt and no-one bats an eyelid. Unfortunately, that won’t cut it for a wedding, especially not when Haley Templeton is the bride.
Still, I should be grateful for Christian’s sway.
We’ll be in waistcoats, not full jackets or morning coats.
Rather than ties like nooses round our necks, we have bow ties—Christian’s red, the rest of us green—and although I’ve never worn one before, they seem the lesser evil.
I’ll only be happy on Saturday night when the drama’s over and I can ditch the lot and slide back into my favourite jeans and hoodie.
I take a seat on one of the sprawling leather couches that seem to dominate every room in this house.
Garrett sinks his bulk alongside me. From the look in his eyes, I know—now he’s cornered me—we’re about to have a ‘talk’.
I sigh, resigned to the inevitable: whatever he has to say, he’ll probably be right.
Don’t get me wrong—I really like Garrett, even though we’re total opposites. He’s the rich boy with a family estate that I imagine looks pretty much like this one. Posh schools, posh sports—his burly frame lent itself to rugby—and a trace of a posh accent. Yet he’s so down-to-earth.
I think part of that is because he’s been married to Liv, whom he met in high school, for more than a decade. She’s more like me, an ordinary girl. One who just happened to win a scholarship to a flash public school, and fell in love with the youngest son of some Honourable-something-or-other.
At thirty-three, Garrett’s the oldest and wisest of us, and though I drive him nuts, he’s taken me under his wing like a grumpy older brother.
He doesn’t judge my lifestyle, mostly comments on my latest lady with a wry smile, but he loves to dispense wisdom to keep me from getting too far in the shit. It seems I’m about to hear some now.
“How’s it going with Rachel?” Typical Garrett, he doesn’t mess about; he dives straight into what’s on his mind.
“Good,” I say. “Good.”
“This one’s different,” he says.
“Yeah, she is. So damn smart. Knows what she wants in life. Not sure what she sees in me.”
“You’re different too. With her.”
“Nah,” I shrug. “Still the same old Teddy.” As always, he’s hit the mark, but I don’t want to admit it. I am different and it rattles me.