CHAPTER 3
MYLES
“Trust it to be the girls late turning up. Honestly. Women.”
Suppressing a sigh, I make that to be the sixth stupid thing Stavros has said in the ten minutes I’ve been around him. We’re waiting at Beau’s house ready to leave for our week away in the woods. I just pray to whoever I have to that I don’t have to share a bed with that idiot.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Emma, a cousin of the Bennett siblings demands. It’s the first time I’ve heard her speak all morning.
“Ignore him, Em.” Beau slings an arm around her shoulders and gives her a little shake. “Steven here just hasn’t had a woman in his bed for a while and it’s turning him into a sexist pig.”
“Don’t call me that.” Stavros snaps. I always forget that the idiot chose the name Stavros because there are too many Stevens in his lineage, and it was ‘starting to get ridiculous’. As if choosing a name like Stavros isn’t ridiculous at all when you have no Greek heritage whatsoever.
“Oops, sorry Steven,” Beau taunts, then smacks a hand over his mouth. It’s that little glittering in his eyes that gives him away. “I mean Stavros.”
I lower my gaze to the floor and shake my head.
We are waiting for the twins I’ve yet to meet, but I wouldn’t say they’re late. I was already here with Beau—I’d gone to watch him at the game and ended up crashing in his spare room after a rather tough win. I wasn’t surprised when I woke up in the morning to see an unfamiliar woman leaving the house. Nash turned up with Stavros in time for breakfast, and JP not long after him. Then the three girls—Emma, Bailey, and another I haven’t caught the name of yet—had turned up only about five minutes ago, all together.
“Stop causing fights, Beau.” Nash grumbles from where he stands by the boot of my car.
We’ve already decided on who’s travelling in what car—except for the twins yet to arrive—and unfortunately, I’ve been lumped with the men. Hopefully whichever of the twins that decide to ride with me will behave as a kind of buffer if Stavros starts saying anything stupid, which is likely since he seems to be on a roll this morning with his idiocy. I’m regretting offering to drive, but Nash refused to have anyone in his car, Stavros drives like he’s in Grand Theft Auto, and JP is currently banned after being caught drink driving back in June after the last football season ended and he went on a bit of a bender. Beau absolutely refuses to let any of the girls drive—for chivalry, not because he thinks they can’t—although I heard that the twins especially put up a good fight about it.
“Tell your friend to not say stupid shit, then,” Beau shrugs, leaning back against his car.
If we’re in for a week of bickering, I might just dump them all in the forest and come back home. Brian and Shirley definitely won’t tolerate it. At least I remembered to pack my earphones.
“Fuck off, Beau,” Stavros practically hisses. “I mean, talk about an overreaction.”
“If anyone’s overreacting, it’s you,” Bailey says without a lick of interest in the faux-Greek.
Beau warned me last night, while drunk, that she can get a little close for comfort but that she’s really just a harmless flirt. Apparently, she’s not shy when it comes to men, but she’s been relatively quiet so far. It is still quite early.
“This coming from the queen of gobshites.”
I drag a hand down my face. A truly great start to a holiday when we’re fighting before we’ve even started travelling.
“Just shut. Up,” Bailey hisses, and then proceeds to throw an empty water bottle at him. The cap end smacks Stavros right in the middle of his forehead, and I have to hold back a snort.
Thankfully, the last of our convoy pulls up in a little green Austin Mini, racing stripes and all.
“Hallelujah,” Bailey sighs, skipping over to the Bennett sister’s car. Emma, and the other girl I still can’t remember the name of, follow suit with just as much eagerness.
I push away from the side of my car and walk to the boot, opening it ready for whichever twin’s luggage I’ll be carrying.
“Doggy!” Nash squeals, and I’ve never heard him sound more girly than in that very moment.
Following his delighted path, sure enough there’s a little ball of pure white fluff on the ground, shaking like a goddamn leaf. It yaps once at Nash, who scoops it up and cradles it like a baby.
JP, a known dog lover, is immediately at Nash’s side petting the small pup, who still looks like it is about to combust with how violently it’s shaking.
“Please don’t overwhelm him.”
My gaze tracks that voice, finding two figures side by side, one with her hands on her hips and one clutching a dog bed to her chest like it’s a lifeline. No need to guess who the dog’s mother is.
“He’s fine, Shez,” Beau says, patting the head of the sister hugging the bed.
The Bennett sisters have exactly the same face, and yet everything else about them is so very different. Brinsley is somehow an inch taller, the slimmer of the two—not that it matters—with straight blonde hair practically down to her waist, and big blue eyes. She screams school teacher, from the dusty blue linen dress that just brushes her ankles, the straight-backed posture, all the way to the pinched smile.
Sheridan, on the other hand, looks something of a wet dream. Now that Beau has taken that dog bed away from her and the other girls have moved out of the way, I can see every glorious inch of her. She’s short, her hair bounces with tight blonde curls, dip-dyed a vibrant pink at the ends. The eyes are the same blue as her sister’s—big, and a vivid denim blue—with plump, heart-shaped lips. But she’s curvier than Brinsley; an hourglass personified. The freckles on her nose and cheeks are more obvious than her sister’s. Her paper bag-waist shorts are black cotton, and her form-fitting strappy vest shows her cleavage nicely, but not overly. And yet, the thing that gets me the most is her tattoos. She’s covered in them—her left arm a sea of bright colours like splashes of ink or paint that make up images of birds. So many different birds. And then her right side is almost bare. Almost, if not for the twisting illustration of ivy, building up her leg, disappearing under her shorts and then reappearing over the back of her shoulder and twirling again all the way down her right arm to one of her fingers.
I realise I’m staring and promptly turn away, busying myself with making space in the boot again, even though there’s plenty. Anything to keep my gaze away from that gorgeous woman.
“You know Hector isn’t coming in my car, right?” Beau says, but it doesn’t register with me who he’s referring to until a moment later.
“Beau,” someone hisses.
“What?”
The next time I turn around, the four Bennett’s are huddled together having a hushed discussion, and everyone else has dispersed, splitting between the relevant cars.
“Myles!” Beau suddenly shouts across the car park, gesturing me over.
Trying not to look like a pathetic, tongue-wagging schoolboy, I wander over to the quadruplets with my hands shoved into my pockets.
“Myles,” he gestures to me, then to the girls in turn, “Sheridan and Brinsley. Girls, this is Myles.”
Brinsley sticks her hand out with a beaming smile. “Finally. Not sure how we’ve managed to go this long without meeting before.”
I return her smile and her handshake but can’t quite help but feel it’s nowhere near as big. “You’ll be fed up of me by October.”
“Not if our mother’s got anything to do with it.”
“You mean especially if she does,” Nash scoffs.
“That’s true,” Brinsley laughs.
I turn my attention on Sheridan, who manages to force a smile and a quiet, “Hi,” before dropping my gaze again.
I clear my throat, “Hey.”
Everything in her posture tells me that she’s uncomfortable, and I remember that one of the twins has social anxiety, and that it clearly isn’t Brinsley. I’ll need to remember that—Sheridan isn’t rude, she’s just shy.
“So, we were just having a discussion,” Beau starts, arms folded across his chest. “I’m not letting Hector in my car.”
I’m confused. “Is that… like, a weird nickname for one of the twins?”
Sheridan snorts and quickly covers her mouth, cheeks dusting pink. Brinsley giggles, and Nash barks out a laugh.
“No, mate,” he slaps my shoulder, “it’s the dog.”
“Oh. Well, that’s okay. I don’t mind taking the dog.”
The four of them look at me as if I’m some kind of Martian.
“Hector is…” Brinsley starts, and then struggles to finish the sentence.
Sheridan’s cheeks have gone even more pink, and I don’t know how it’s possible, but I swear her freckles are darker.
“Hector is what?” I ask.
“Nervous?” Beau offers.
“Is…that a big problem? Why do you all look so worried?”
“He’s probably going to piss in your car.” Nash supplies with no preamble. “Maybe even shit. Definitely fart a lot. And whine.”
“You know what, I’ll just drive myself,” Sheridan blurts, complexion now that of a beetroot as she turns away.
“No,” Her brothers all but shout, halting her.
Brinsley rolls her eyes.
“Beau, you should really take Hector in your car.”
“No. I love the boy, but no. Not in the Range Rover.”
“Seriously? The whole thing’s decked out in leather.”
“Absolutely not. It’s brand new and probably worth more than your new yearly teaching salary.”
“Don’t be a prick.”
My gaze bounces between the siblings as they start bickering amongst themselves, and finally snap when I start getting a headache. I’m not a loud snapper, though—I learned to control my temper years ago. I just pick the dog bed up off the floor and carry it to the car, where I put it in the footwell of the front passenger side.
“What are you doing?” Stavros asks, drawing the attention of everyone else, including the bickering Bennetts.
I state the obvious, “Putting Hector’s bed in the car.”
“You can’t be serious—that nervous wreck is not riding with us. Especially not shotgun.”
“Please let me drive myself,” I hear Sheridan plead behind me.
“Nope,” Beau says.
Suddenly, a white ball of fluff appears at my feet, still shaking, but those brown doe eyes gaze up at me as if I’m the one who’s been feeding and loving him all his life.
“You gonna ride with the lads, Hector?” I ask him, pointing at his bed.
He barks, a yappy sound, and then jumps into the car. Someone behind me gasps.
“I’m not riding shotgun with that thing,” Stavros says, scowls, and folds his arms.
I’d like to say I’m not a violent person—not anymore, at least—but my fist is itching for a punch in this dickhead’s mouth. “No, you’re not.”
“Thank you,” He huffs.
“You’re riding in the back.” I give him a flat smile.
When I turn around, all the girls are staring at me. Bailey, of course, is the one to open her mouth:
“Damn. I think I just came.”