Chapter 17 #3
I wait for it to hit me—relief, joy—but all I feel is a cautious happiness unfurling inside me, fragile as a baby bird’s wings. I reach for my phone. There’s only one person with whom I want to share this news.
I did it. First-class degree
A bubble immediately appears. There’s a ping, and his message is there.
Baby, I never had any doubt.
I’m so fucking proud of you.
The words are small on my phone’s screen, but the emotion they elicit from me is massive. I don’t remember the last time anyone said that to me. It was probably my mother because Tyler isn’t given to praise like that. I read them again and again, and then I let them settle inside me.
Cormac Reilly, the billionaire, is proud of me. I laugh, and the sound is loud in the quiet shop. I tap on my phone.
Thank you.
Thank you for sharing it with me, Wes.
The door pings, and I type quickly. Got to go. Customers.
I hesitate and then type again. For petrol. Not me.
My phone beeps a second later, but I can’t read it, as there’s a spate of customers. When I finally manage to check my messages again, an hour has passed, and the only customer is Andy, who’s perusing the new copy of Hot Girl. He should be an editor for the publisher, such is his concentration.
I look down at my messages.
I don’t want you on the market.
“What?” I read it again and then start to smile. “Well, that’s a gauntlet thrown down.”
“Did you say a gauntlet?”
I look up at Andy’s question. “Erm, yes.”
“Did you know that gauntlets were armoured gloves and that in Sweden, an old tradition was that a man would give his betrothed his glove as a symbol of fidelity?” He shrugs. “It was in an article in last month’s Hot Girl .”
“Of course it was.”
He winks. “You can find all sorts of things in the pages of Hot Girl .”
“I’ll take your word for it.” The door chimes, and I look up to see a hedgerow walk in. I blink, and the hedgerow becomes a man. A man carrying the most enormous bunch of red roses I’ve ever seen. They’re fucking huge. There must be about sixty flowers.
“Someone’s been good,” I say, smiling at the delivery man.
“Wes Archer?”
“Yes,” I say cautiously.
“Are you Wes Archer?” the man says patiently. He checks his phone with one hand, the other clutching the flowers tightly. “It says deliver to Wes Archer behind the Quick Break petrol station counter.”
“They’re for me ?” I breathe.
He nods, depositing the flowers on the counter. I see that they’re in a beautiful crystal vase. “God, it’s a relief to put them down. Here’s your card.”
I take the cream card from him, dumbly looking down. In Mac’s elegant scrawl is written the words, You did it. I’m so proud of you.
I swallow hard and look up at the man, who grins. “Sign this, please.”
I take his tablet and sign it, watching as he puts it in his bag. He nods at the vase. “Word of warning. Be careful with that.”
“Why?”
“It’s a Lalique.”
“Bless you.”
He snorts. “They’re worth thousands.”
I’d just put my hand out to touch the vase, but at his words I withdraw my fingers super quickly. “Oh my god , and you sell them in the florist shop?”
“Good grief, no. The customer sent that in himself. It’s an antique.” He nods at me. “Night, then.”
I watch him walk away and then turn to the flowers. I reach out and touch the petals of a bloom. It’s a dark red, almost black, and the scent already reaches me, cutting through the odours of petrol and car exhaust with a heady sweetness.
“Someone likes you.”
I turn to see Andy at the counter. I’ve actually drawn him away from Hot Girl . I should note this moment down, but I’m too involved in stroking the flower. I’ve never been given flowers before and could never have predicted the startled pleasure I feel.
I realise he’s waiting for a reply. “It’s just to say congratulations.”
We look up as the door opens, and a man in a waiter’s uniform enters. He’s carrying a large canvas satchel with a logo on it. “Wes Archer?”
“Yes,” I say warily.
He brightens. “Excellent. I have a delivery for you.”
“Have you?”
He hesitates for a second and then rallies.
“Yes. Here we are.” He opens the bag and takes out items, setting them neatly on the counter.
I blink as a china plate, a roll of cutlery in a heavy- looking linen napkin, and crystal salt and pepper pots appear.
Andy is now leaning so far over that I can feel his breath on me.
The man unloads a bottle of water with a label saying Fillico and a cut glass tumbler filled with ice and slices of lemon.
“Water because you’re working,” he says.
I nod, unable to speak, and he returns to his bag.
He pulls out a small cardboard box with the design of a tree printed on it.
“Chef’s Tres Leches cake for dessert,” he says.
I nod and watch as he pulls out a big container and opens the lid.
The heavenly scent of cheese billows out, and my stomach rumbles as if I’ve never been fed before.
“Oh my god,” I say as he sets the container neatly before me. “It’s a toastie .”
He clears his throat. “Not just any toastie. A cheese and baked bean toastie.”
“That’s my favourite.”
He winks. “I know. I have to say it took the chef back a bit. It’s not exactly the sort of food he usually prepares.”
I recognise the logo on his satchel now. It’s a famous restaurant in the west end with several Michelin stars. “I bet,” I say faintly. I wonder how often he has to deliver to a petrol station. I’m betting never.
“But he took a phone call from Mr Reilly and immediately set to making your dinner. Mr Reilly said you were working. Do you want it dished up?” he asks chattily.
We both stare down at the humble toastie. “Erm, no. I think I can manage it, but thank you anyway.”
Once the toastie has been served, he gathers the containers together. “Enjoy your meal, sir.”
“Wait,” I say as he goes to move away. “What should I do about the plates and everything?”
He waves a careless hand. “Someone will pick them up later. Enjoy your meal.”
He’s gone in seconds, the door closing silently behind him, leaving Andy and me staring at the counter now covered in expensive food and flowers.
Andy clears his throat. “Yeah, I stand by what I said. Someone likes you.”
He says something else, but I’m eating too hungrily to pay attention.
A few hours later, I shoulder my rucksack and walk onto the forecourt clutching my vase of roses like they’re the crown jewels.
The SUV is there, and I walk quickly to it, my heart racing.
I slump when the door opens, and I realise it’s just Robert.
For some reason, I thought Mac would be here.
I realise Robert is watching me, his eyes twinkling.
“Hey,” I say.
He looks at the roses and gives a small smile. “Let me help you with those.”
“Thank you,” I say fervently. He comes around the car to me and I lean in to whisper, “This vase is worth a bloody fortune .”
His lip twitches. “Of course it is.”
He takes the vase from me until I’m settled in the back seat and then hands it back to me. I cradle it carefully, watching as he shuts the door behind me and then moves around the front of the car.
After climbing in, he starts the car and turns slightly in his seat. “Mr Reilly sent you a hot chocolate,” he says, handing me a tall Starbucks cup. I take it from him, and he winks. “Congratulations on your degree.”
“How did you—?” I stop and shake my head. “Mac.”
“He’s that pleased, Wes. Almost beside himself. He told a whole table full of business colleagues about it.”
I stare at him, feeling a welling of emotion inside me that is so strong that I’m surprised I don’t burst. “He told them about me?”
He nods. “Pleased as punch. Not that they quite got his celebratory mood, but they need his business, so you were toasted many times.”
“Many times?”
He winks. “ Many times. Mr Reilly believes in getting value for his money.”
We start to laugh, and when I sober, I sit back, sipping my hot chocolate and staring at my phone.
I bring up his messages and gently run my fingertip over his contact picture, tracing the arching eyebrows and thin lips. Then I type.
Would you like to come to my graduation ceremony?
The reply is instant—almost as if he’s been waiting for me.
Darling, I’d be honoured.