Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Chase
Gabrielle Darnell has changed a lot in the thirty-five years I’ve known her.
Not so much physically, there hasn’t been a lot of change there—she’s still short, thin, and blonde—but her posture, the way she walks, talks, and what she expects for herself.
The daughter of a football star, she felt she had a lot to prove when she arrived at freshman orientation at Harvard.
She sure as shit hasn’t anything to prove nowadays.
Harry, on the other hand, acts exactly the same and looks very different.
He’s gotten bulkier with age—taking care of his body is as much a hobby as an obsession, since he’s determined to be the first Crawford man to live past fifty-five in the last two hundred years. His hair has gone completely white too, something I’ll mock him for for the rest of our lives.
I’m a silver fox; he’s an old man.
The gorgeous, younger man he’s dragging down the jet’s stairs is something I also used to tease him about—becoming a sugar daddy is good fodder for teasing even if it’s not true—but considering Noah is younger than Tristan, I won’t have a leg to stand on even if I never get to kiss him.
“Stop looking like a kicked puppy!” Gab shouts at me when she’s five feet away.
I straighten away from the car where I was leaning and smile—genuinely too—at her stern look.
“Thanks for coming,” I tell her, and I spread my arms, ready for the hug.
She runs the last few feet and jumps to wrap her legs around me, and kisses my cheeks noisily.
“Missed you, Chase.”
“Missed you too, Gab.”
Harry greets me with his usual big smile and back-slapping hug, and Tristan barely grunts at me.
“He hasn’t slept at all,” Harry explains for his husband.
I wave his non-verbal greeting away and then help put their bags in the back of my car.
“Let’s get going.”
Once we’re on the road, we all settle down and make quick work of getting fully out of the city.
Buckinghamshire, where Helvendon Castle is, is less than an hour away from the city but only thirty minutes away from the private airfield they flew into, and since they flew in so early, we make quick time and are driving through the big iron gates before Tristan can even fall asleep.
They came by for the first time last November, only a few weeks after the renovations were all done, but I kept them very informed during the whole restoration process, so they know the way to the rooms I’ve assigned as theirs, but I still walk up with them anyway.
I have to smile when Gab sucks hard on her straw and the last few drops of coffee make enough noise going up to have Tristan groaning two steps behind us.
He might be the youngest of us, but he’s serious about his sleep.
Gab wasn’t even like that when she had newborn twins, just like Harry was also pretty laid-back when his second child, Iris, was born and he was her single father.
Harry wasn’t super hands-on with his first son, Theo, but we don’t hold it against him—mostly—because we were all still kids when he got one of our hookups pregnant, and it’s not like he was a deadbeat dad.
I shudder at the reminder that I had sex with Mary Crawford—a truly terrible human being.
Tristan might be the newest member of our group—he only joined four years ago when he met Harry and made his life infinitely better—but he’s one of us all the same, which means Gab’s as much of an asshole to him as she’s always been to Harry and me.
Ever since we met on our first day at Harvard, it’s been the three of us against the world.
That changed over the years, of course, because of a few . . . situations.
I don’t know why I’m in such a melancholic state with them here, but I can’t help thinking about all those decisions that have led us here . . . to a place where we can’t really just hang out whenever we feel like it. There always has to be a plan, and secrecy.
First, Harry got Mary pregnant and she demanded he stop hanging out with me, a very hypocritical stance for her to take since she willingly took part in a threesome with both of us—and enjoyed it, thank you very much—and that’s not even close to the worst thing she’s done.
Second, my brother decided to become a villain, and I fell for his tricks like an idiot, so I fled the country.
Then, Harry and Gab both bought football franchises at the same time and didn’t tell each other until it was announced to the world—two very stupid decisions made by otherwise smart people.
To this day, Harry and Gab can’t really be seen hanging out because of the League rules for owners, and it doesn’t help that I live on the other side of the world.
Harry and I worked our shit out, and I haven’t found a reason to hunt down my brother and use him as a punching bag. Therefore, I make regular trips to visit them, and they come over here about twice a year for our secret retreats, but it’ll never be like it used to.
So, they have to hide their friendship from the public and the media, and in private the three of us get to be . . . us.
The master bedroom of the castle really was made for royalty, and I didn’t change it much during the restoration.
The big sitting room is inviting, and makes me feel like I’ve got people coming over rather than being lonely. The bed is as big as the one I have at home, and the bathrooms have all the amenities available.
It’s truly become my sanctuary, this castle I bought on a whim.
It could’ve turned out to be a very stupid investment, but I took the restoration seriously, as did every person I hired to work on it.
As I get into bed to get a couple more hours of sleep—since I couldn’t stop thinking about everything last night and didn’t get much sleep then—I smile at the thought that maybe someday this could be my forever home.
One where all my friends can come and be safe, be themselves.
As I close my eyes, the shapeless shadow that always stands next to me in my dreams takes shape for the first time.
I startle awake, and I don’t know exactly why until my head clears.
I was dreaming about something . . .
Something to do with the castle?
There was a party, I think. Everyone was here, even the twins. They looked at me like they liked me in the dream, like they actually knew me.
In a good way, not in a terrifying way.
It was a . . . Fuck!
A wedding, Jesus, I need to get a grip.
The email.
Holy shit, I never answered.
I bolt upright and start patting the duvet around me, looking for my phone. Not feeling it, I toss the covers away and sprint to my discarded pants on the bench at the foot of the bed.
I yank it out of the limp pocket and scroll down to find it, tapping it open before I can think about it any further.
Dear Mr Knightly,
I wanted to update you on the availability of the ghostwriters you were considering.
Samantha Faith has now become available and would be free for the timescale that will suit your project. That is if you’re still wanting to work on it in the autumn?
I am willing to progress any of the discussed options if this is still something you would like to proceed with.
Kind regards,
Noah Ellington
It’s so annoyingly formal, I seriously hate it.
I have to breathe in deep through my nose and exhale through my mouth for a minute, because this is what I was most afraid of.
I’m a client to Noah, nothing more.
Gab makes me talk about it during our early lunch.
It’s not my favorite activity, but at least it’s all out in the open and they can hopefully offer me some helpful advice.
I should’ve known better.
“Is he younger than me?” Tristan asks, batting his eyelashes teasingly.
I grit my teeth and answer only with a clipped nod.
“Oh, shit,” Gab whispers, stupidly awed.
“I’ll never let you live it down,” Harry says with his stupid smug smirk.
“Whatever. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”
“Well,” Gab starts, sitting back and clearly getting comfortable. “Do you actually want to write the book? Do you still want Noah to be your agent? Do you even need an agent?”
Those are all good, valid questions, but I . . .
Hell, I do have one answer.
“I don’t have time to look for another agent, and besides that, I trust Nate to have good taste in friends. Noah has a small client list, but I believe he’s done right by his authors. I think this could be good for both of us.”
And the thought of never having a reason to seek him out maybe terrifies me a little, but I’m not going to say that out loud.
I’d like to retain some of my dignity.
“I don’t know,” I add lamely. “There’s not a lot I’m willing to tell the world about my personal life, and hiding it just seems like a lot of work.”
“You can focus the whole book only on your business,” Tristan says with an authoritative nod.
“There are plenty of books that only focus on the business side of successful men’s lives.
I doubt anyone’s going to force you to air out any dirty laundry, and if they try you can send them to hell, man.
You’re Chase fucking Knightly, you don’t need publishing houses if you don’t want them. ”
Strangely, it’s that reassurance that pushes me off the angry ledge.
I don’t have to write about anything in particular.
I don’t have to do anything, really.
So what do I want to do, really?
That night, after hours of not talking about myself and catching up on my friends’ lives, I find at least one answer to that question.
Despite the rejection, the humiliation, the doubt and guilt I still feel over my actions, I want to keep talking to Noah.
So I take one picture of the library where we were having our evening whiskey, then walk up to my room and get my laptop to finally write him back.
Dear Mr Ellington,
Thank you for the update. I will make sure to check Samantha Faith’s work.
To ensure I have the time and space to give this project the consideration it deserves, I’ve decided to go away from the city for some time.
I will start my research on ghostwriters and other autobiographies in the coming days.
In the meantime, enjoy this picture of my library . . . it’s full of ancient things.
Kind regards,
Chase