CHAPTER 8
SHERIDAN
“So…” Bailey flops down onto the bed Brin and I are sharing later that night. After polishing off our cake and opening a bottle of fizz—or five—and opening presents—I don’t want to talk about it—we settled in the lounge and watched Step Brothers. I can’t remember who chose it, but I wasn’t surprised to learn that Stavros knew all the words and the idiot douchebag brother played by Adam Scott was his favourite character. “Can we talk about Myles?”
“What about him?” Gemma asks as she perches at the foot of the bed, legs crossed.
“Well, he’s delicious,” Bailey says simply.
The boys are all still in the living room and our parents have gone to bed. The girls weren’t tired enough to go to sleep yet but also wanted to gossip a little, so we’ve locked ourselves away in our bedroom with another two bottles of white wine and a selection of snacks.
“He’s not a piece of meat, Bailey.” Gemma frowns.
“I don’t know,” Brin snuggles up next to me and rests her head on my shoulder, “his pecs say otherwise.”
“Exactly!” Bailey exclaims with a click of her fingers. “And he can cook? Oof. I think I’m in love.”
“Hey, I helped with dinner too,” I retort with a scowl.
“No offence, Shez, but peeling some potatoes isn’t that significant a contribution,” Gemma tells me.
I give her my middle finger. Contrarian bitch. I struggle with Gemma the most out of our little group, and it’s not because she’s notoriously contradictory to everyone’s statements. It’s because she’s fucking boring, and that’s saying something considering I struggle to leave the house on a regular basis.
“I thought your potatoes were delicious,” Emma finally speaks, quiet as a mouse, and I know she purposefully used the same word that Bailey did. If there’s anything I’ve learned about our cousin Emma, it’s that while she doesn’t say much, when she does choose to speak it’s usually with a reason.
“Thank you, Emma.” I grin smugly.
“I agree with Em. Sheridan’s potatoes were the best part of dinner,” Brinsley says, always defensive of me.
“We’re getting off track, here,” Bailey complains. “I would like to call dibs on the twins’ sexy friend.”
“B, this isn’t Year 9 and Myles isn’t the shiny new kid. You can just call dibs on people.” Brin frowns.
“But he’s so pretty,” she pouts. “And he gives off proper nerdy vibes and you know I love me a hot nerd.”
I can’t hold back my snort, because she’s right. He does seem kind of nerdy.
“He’s going to be an art teacher, right?” Gemma seems sceptical. “If anything, he’s trying too hard to be cool.”
The urge to sigh is overwhelming, but I don’t. I’m not a combative person and I’m not about to start being that way with one of my oldest friends just because she’s being more difficult than usual. It must be the wine.
“Who cares?” Brinsley brushes her off. “Besides, let’s not discount the fact that Myles is Sheridan’s type to a T.”
I take a big gulp of my wine so that I don’t have to respond.
“Oh fuck, you’re so right.” Bailey sighs. “And she’s got baby Hector.” We all look at the pup curled up on his bed. His head is down but his brown eyes are watching us. “Major dick magnet.”
Emma does something completely out of character and giggles. Gemma, the prude, just grimaces.
“Would you go there, Shez?” Emma nudges my foot with the tip of her index finger.
I decide to play dumb, “Go where?”
The four of them groan at me. “With Myles!” Bailey shouts, and Gemma slaps a hand to her mouth to shut her up.
“Oh, no, I don’t think so.” I can’t believe how calm I sound.
Never mind the fact that I got to spend an hour in the kitchen with him earlier because I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to be in his orbit somehow, even if we were practically silent and I still struggled to look at him after Pissgate. But watching him bowl from afar in the dark had fucked with my head—the way his forearms rippled when he swung; the way his neck muscles tensed when he cheered yet another strike; the way he showed support for me, who wasn’t even on his team and had been fully resigned from the game from the very first swing. Yeah, I’d placed last just like I thought, but it didn’t feel quite so significant a loss knowing that I’d had his support.
So yes, I’d looked for an excuse to be in the kitchen with him before eating, because he seemed just as comfortable at the oven as I would’ve been had I been the one cooking, and I find a man that knows his way around the kitchen to be a major turn on. It hasn’t even been a full day yet, but I haven’t found a single thing I don’t like about Myles Wilson.
“Why not?”
I blink at Bailey’s question, because I can’t remember what I’d said. “Er,”
Brin chuckles, squeezing me in a hug. “I know why. It’s because no girl wants to be a cliche that falls in love with her brother’s best friend.”
“Who said anything about falling in love? You could just bang him. I bet he’s great in bed.” Bailey lifts her eyebrows suggestively.
“How can you tell just by looking at him that he’s good in bed?” Gemma scoffs.
“Do I look like someone who could ever manage casual sex?” I demand. It takes me a week to recover after going to a bloody pub. Casual sex would likely put me in the grave.
“This is why I called dibs.” Bailey punctuates each word with a thump on the mattress with her fist. “Myles, the sexy soon-to-be art teacher, needs to be appreciated as often as possible as soon as possible.”
Gemma rolls her eyes. “You are incorrigible.”
“I take that as a compliment.” Bailey grins. “My sister calls me a slut all the time, so I think incorrigible is much better.”
“You are a slut,” Brin says with a shrug. “It’s just not slander.”
“Amen,” I agree.
“Myles isn’t the only man here, you know,” Emma reminds her.
“Yeah, but I don’t wanna sleep with either of the Beckett boys ‘cause we’ve known them since they were prepubescent and that’s a bit weird. I’d rather fuck a dead horse before I let Stavros touch me—”
“Ew.”
“Gross.”
“—And JP avoids me like the plague. I think I scare him a bit, to be honest.”
“You scare me,” I tell her, and she beams at me.
“I think sex should be heavily avoided on this holiday,” Brin says, ever the diplomat. “We’re here to celebrate our birthdays and have fun, not partake in any coital marathons or orgies.”
The four of us look at my sister, taken aback by her statement.
“Did you just seriously utter the phrase partake in coital marathons and orgies?”
“She is an English Lit teacher now,” I say proudly. “Words and classic literature are Brin’s specialty.”
“Or, as I like to call it,” Bailey’s smirk is positively mischievous, “cliterature.”
Gemma practically chokes on her Pinot Grigio.
* * *
I don’t remember whose idea it was to sneak into the kitchen after 1am while the boys were passed out in the lounge to steal another bottle of wine, but my head is certainly giving me grief about it this morning. I’m also not sure whose genius idea it was to hire pedalos at the ripe hour of 10am the next morning, but I want to throw up just looking at the way they all rock from side to side where they’re lined up on the dockside.
“I feel sick,” Bailey groans as we stand shoulder to shoulder, and she looks especially green.
“Maybe you should sit this one out, B,” Beau suggests as he gives her a once over.
“I think I might have to. Can someone stay with me?” She gives her best sad pout and throws it in Myles’s direction, but he isn’t paying attention to her.
He’s gazing out over the lake, hands shoved in the pockets of his board shorts, life jacket covering a plain white T-shirt. He’s been quiet this morning, ever since he saw me coming out of the bedroom looking like death warmed up to take Hector for his morning walk. He’s got a tennis player’s frame, and it’s doing all sorts to my body temperature, in all areas. He’s not hugely muscular like Beau and Nash, but I definitely spotted some definition on his abs. It makes my mouth water, and I don’t even like tennis.
“I’ll stay with you,” Stavros offers, and Bailey looks enraged. But she keeps quiet. Of all the men, Stavros easily had the most to drink. I also get the distinct impression he doesn’t want to go in a pedalo because he can’t swim, and he’s scared of falling in. This is just an assumption, though, and I could be wrong. But I doubt it.
There are smaller families dotted all along the beach waiting to get into their own pedalos. The dads, and some of the sons too, all seem to be taking notice of us—or rather, Beau and JP. The mums are all looking at Myles. I feel a kinship forming.
My mother, like a typical teacher, takes it upon herself to split our group in half now that we don’t have two extra people, which is how I end up on a pedalo with Nash, Emma, my mother and Myles.
“I think the boys should pedal,” Shirley says with a wink as we hover around the floating vessel.
Nash sighs, but his subtle smirk says he saw it coming. Myles, who appears to want to do anything to please her, says, “I think I was born to chauffeur you in a pedalo, Shirley.”
“Stop flirting, or Brian might get suspicious,” she replies with another wink.
I throw her a baffled look, while Nash grumbles under his breath. I am aware that Myles has spent a significant amount of time at my parents’ house after multiple invites from Beau turned into an expectation of him to just be there any time some kind of gathering took place. How I managed to avoid him for so long—completely unintentionally, I might add—is beyond me.
Once we’re all settled in our seats—the boys in the back pedalling and me, Mum and Emma in the front with me sandwiched in the middle—Nash and Myles start moving us into the lake, following the other group. Of course, Beau seems to have completely misunderstood the point of a pedalo, because he’s egging Dad and JP, who are pedalling, to go as fast as possible while he sits in the front seat like some sort of golden retriever dictator. We leave them to it and take it at our own leisure.
“Have you got much work coming up when you get back, baby?” Mum asks, patting my thigh.
“A bit, but nothing I can’t handle. It’s mostly site visits, and they’re mainly in London, so I’ve booked an Airbnb in Camden for a week.” I neglect to mention that I’m not looking forward to a week away from home or spending any time in London when I find it so suffocating.
“Oh, yes. We’re having Hector, aren’t we?”
I nod.
“What’s going on in London?” Emma asks.
“Er,” I try to think of the projects in chronological order, “a hotel in Mayfair going through a complete revamp. A restaurant refurb for a celebrity, but I’ve signed an NDA so I can’t say much on that one. And just a few residentials. They’re all in north London, and I’ve managed to get them in over two days, so I’m not traipsing around the city with all my stuff.”
“Oh, that’s good.” Emma nods.
“Will you drive?” Mum says.
“No, not in London.” I shake my head vehemently. “Too much hassle, I’ll probably get the tube. Or a taxi if it’s not convenient. The company will pay for everything anyway.”
“Alright for some.” Emma says playfully. “I need to get you over to my house—I need some ideas.”
People always say this to me. “Oh, I need some design tips—can you come see my house?” And I never go because they never follow up.
“Sure. I can come the week after London? Your place isn’t massive anyway, it won’t take long,” I say, just to placate her.
“That’d be cool.”
Mum suddenly shifts in her seat to face Myles, who sits directly behind her. “Sheridan is an interior designer and she’s amazing.”
I clamp my jaw tight. “I”m alright.”
“Shut up.” She scoffs. “She’s won awards, Myles. Actual, noteworthy accolades.”
“The company wins the awards,” I correct her.
“Yeah, for the projects you work on. Stop downplaying your talent.”
I always struggle with this type of praise, because it feels conceited. They can congratulate me openly on my awards from work because interior design is a serious, well-paying job that almost everyone has an interest in and an opinion on. But what if I told them about my other award nominations? Because I don’t think the excitement and the pride my mother shows now would be equal to those about my web show. But whatever. I’ll take what I can get.
“Is there anything I’d know if you said you’d done it?” Myles asks, probably to try and derail Shirley’s soapbox.
“My flat,” Nash offers.
“Yes, your man cave of a flat.” Emma scoffs, and I can’t help my smirk. “A truly revered location by the interior design gods.”
Mum snickers.
“Perhaps, but I have been there.” Myles chuckles.
“Oh!” Mum gasps. “The player lounge at the Rangers ground.”
I roll my eyes. “That hardly counts.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s private.”
“Oh, that fancy restaurant in town,” Emma supplies.
“You mean the only fancy restaurant in town?” Nash mutters.
“Yeah. The one by the shopping centre on the corner. All turquoise and grey and gold. Turkish place”
“I think I know…” Myles mumbles. “Did Beau take us there with Steven once?”
“Yes!” Nash claps.
“That place is really jazzy.”
“Jazzy,” Mum repeats. “You’re right, Myles. It is. And my baby girl designed the whole inside.”
I stifle a sigh. I just want to go back to bed. Being the centre of attention while hungover is no fun. “Can we talk about something else now? Literally anything but me and interior design?”
There’s a vacant pause, and then my mother cracks, “Your father and I want to buy a caravan.”
I twist in my seat to look at Nash, who is shaking his head with an unreadable look on his face. I turn back to my mother. “A static caravan?”
“No. One you hook to the back of your car.”
I blink at her, dumbfounded. “Why?”
“We thought it’d be fun.”
“Please don’t,” Nash begs. “I don’t think I could survive knowing my parents are the type of people to go on caravan holidays.”
“And Dad hates caravans,” I add.
“Well, he loves me more. And I want a caravan.”
My parents, ladies and gentlemen. The epitome of true love.