CHAPTER 14
SHERIDAN
I wake up with a fuzzy head and a dry mouth. Then I open my eyes and realise I’m not at home. I’m not even in the room I’ve been sharing with Brin in this holiday cabin.
I’m on the sofa in the living room.
For the second night in a row, whisky has proven to be one hundred percent effective in knocking me out.
I grumble and roll over, burrowing back under the covers. But I catch a blur of dark blond hair, and I blink away the sleep in my eyes and try to focus. Sure enough, lying on his back with his phone screen angled at his face, Myles is stretched across the remaining couch space and reading an article on the Apex News site about our current holiday.
Of course we’ve been sold out to the papers. Two Premier League football players are with us.
“Myles?”
He shifts where he lays, rolling his head to look at me properly, “Mornin’, Birdie.”
My stomach flutters at the nickname. It’s such a stupid thing, but I’m obsessed with it. Well, the fact that he calls me it, anyway. The only nickname I’ve ever gone by is Shez. It’s nice to have a new one.
“Sorry for takin’ your bed,” I mumble. “You should’ve woken me up.”
He tosses his phone aside and turns onto his front, resting his chin in his palm. Being the sole focus of his attention up this close is a little unnerving, but I can’t bring myself to look away from his pretty green-gold gaze. “Why would I do that? There’s plenty of room for both of us.”
“You haven’t slept in a bed all week. You should’ve taken ours instead.”
“All your belongings are in there, it’d be inappropriate.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes, and yet he’s such a gentleman, I’d swoon if I weren’t already horizontal. “Did I snore?”
His face flickers with something akin to amusement, and I know the answer is yes, I did snore. But instead of admitting it, he says, “I don’t know what they taught you at school, Shez, but women are physically incapable of snoring. It’s been scientifically proven.”
I think I might be well and truly gone for this man, and the giggle I let out at his jesting just solidifies that I am. “Thank you for reminding me.”
He grins. “You’re welcome.”
“What time is it?”
“Early. Too early for the others, anyway.”
I nod to myself for a moment. “Why is it always me and you awake at stupid hours?”
“Apparently early risers have more lust for life.”
“That doesn’t sound like me.”
“No?” He tips his head, bed-head locks unmoving. “You’re always the first one up and seem to be the last one in bed—with the exception of last night.” The wink he gives me makes all my nerve endings tingle.
“I mean, I wouldn’t exactly say that carpe diem is my mantra, as much as my mum and dad want it to be.”
“Seizing the day is overrated anyway. Sounds pretty hostile if you ask me.”
There I go, giggling away again. “Aren’t teachers supposed to be more optimistic than that?”
“I’m a realist, Birdie. I’m not gonna go tellin’ a bunch of thirteen-year-olds to seize the day if it might land them in trouble. More like…proceed with caution but have fun while doing it.”
With a flat hum, I say, “Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, though, does it? It’s a bit wordy.”
Laughter rumbles out of him, and I feel it in my bones. And also, my unmentionables, but we’re not going to talk about that. Clue’s in the name.
His beard is scruffy from where he’s slept on it, and without thinking, I reach out to tame it. It’s not difficult, considering there’s maybe only five inches between us. He doesn’t move away when I touch him, either, which lessens my inner panic. “Do you always get this…fluffy?”
Myles gives me a soft smile. “Not normally, no. I like a bit of stubble, and I’ll have to neaten it up before the term starts.” He just studies me while I graze my fingertips through the coarse hair. “What do you think about it?”
“Me?” I blurt. “Why does it matter what I think?”
A second’s pause.
Two.
Three.
“Because you’re the one looking at me.”
I roll my lips together, then lick them. His gaze tracks the movement with no shame. “I think you’re just as handsome either way.”
He wraps his hand loosely around my wrist. “You think I’m handsome, Birdie?”
My cheeks flame again. I don’t know where this confidence has come from, but I guess it’s something to do with the knowledge that Myles is attracted to me, even if he hasn’t verbalised it. But I see it in the way he looks at me.
My palm flattens against his cheek, thumb still stroking over his ginger-blond hairs. “Yeah, Myles. I do.”
“That’s good, ‘cause—”
He’s cut off by Hector barking. Loudly.
I sit up instantly, dragging my hand away from Myles’s cheek. Hector leaps off the sofa, barking as he bolts down the cabin corridor.
“Bloody hell,” I mutter, hauling ass off the sofa and following him. “Hector!” I hiss. “What are you doing?”
It’s only now, as I stumble down the hall after my spooked pooch, that I realise I’m still in last night’s clothes.
When I find the dog, he’s scratching at one of the bathroom doors. I scoop him up and give his nose a light smack.
“What are you doing? Hey? It’s too early for you to be making all this noise, mister.”
The dog whines at me, and then the toilet flushes in the bathroom. Before I embarrass anyone, including myself, I march back down the hall.
“Shez?”
I whirl around to find Beau emerging from the en-suite. “Sorry. Don’t know what’s got into him.”
“That’s alright,” he says, rubbing his hands vigorously across his face. “How come you’re up so early?”
“I fell asleep on the sofa, and I woke up when the sun did.”
Something unusual—something I instantly don’t like—passes across Beau’s face when I say it. He holds his hands out for the still whining Hector, so I wordlessly hand him over.
“You fell asleep on the sofa?”
“Yeah, I had a nightcap with Gem, Myles and Stavros. I passed out about five minutes after I sat down.”
“So, nothing happened?”
My gaze instinctively narrows on him. “I woke up with my duvet and still fully clothed.” I tell him, and when he doesn’t respond to me, I ask, “Is something going on with you and Myles?”
Beau looks away. “No.”
“So why haven’t you spoken to each other since you got here?” I fold my arms across my chest.
Even though he’s not looking and is quite clearly sulking, he manages to absently pet Hector’s head. Hector, who is now practically purring like a kitten in Beau’s arms. “We just had a disagreement. It’s nothing.”
I narrow my eyes on him again. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you to get your head out your arse, but get your head out your arse, Beau.”
“Why do you assume it’s my fault?” He scowls, hitching Hector under his arm.
“Because it usually is. He’s awake if you want to talk to him—I’m going to shower and change.”
“Can I take the puppy for a walk?”
Assuming he wants it as an excuse to not talk to Myles, I frown. “Fine. Be on the lookout for paps. We’re in the papers.”
“I know. My publicist called—it’s why I’m up so early.”
I can’t help but soften. Beau has always been a hot topic in the media, right from his practical crash into the professional footballing world. I didn’t manage to read any of the article that Myles had up on his phone, but I’m almost certain it’ll paint Beau the way they always do—to be a slacking, spoiled, self-obsessed striker with the inability to play on a team—with absolutely no mention of JP who plays on the same fucking team. Although, that boy gets into trouble all by himself.
“How dare we have a holiday, right?” I hedge.
“Yeah, right.” My brother huffs. “I’ll make sure Hector looks handsome if I see them.”
I’m reminded of Myles then, and the fact that we’d just shared a moment that Hector had promptly ruined. “Thanks, Beau. His left side is better.”
He snorts, and heads on his way.
I make my shower quick, and dress in the easiest clothes I can find—a white eyelet tunic dress and my Converse.
When I head back into the main room, Myles is still by himself, sitting at the rattan dining table on the patio outside. I notice that he’s tidied the bedding away and changed into fresh clothes, too. There’s a second mug of coffee in the empty place beside him. I make my way out and sit in that very spot.
“Hey,”
Myles meets my gaze with a warm smile. Good, he doesn’t think I just ran off. “Hey.”
“This for me?”
He nods, resting his chin in his palm again. “Did you manage to convince Beau to take Hector for his morning walk?”
“No, he made that offer all by himself. He’s gone pap hunting.”
“So, he knows about the Apex piece, then?”
“Yep. No rest for the wicked.”
“Indeed. He’s not done anything wrong, so I don’t know why everyone’s got their knickers in a twist. Well, not wrong for taking a holiday, anyway.”
“Will the club say anything?”
“Doubtful. The manager might, but only if it gets seriously out of hand.”
I sit back in my chair with a sigh. “I don’t envy this part of his life.”
“Me neither.”
We sit in silence for a while, just soaking up the morning sun and our first coffees of the day. It’s so domestic I almost feel winded when the others start to appear.
Beau doesn’t come back until everyone is up and eating.
* * *
Our last night at Camp Bennett, we decide to get royally pissed. We eat dinner around the table on the terrace—which consists of basically anything we can find in the fridge as we need to get rid of it—and then start on the stash of alcohol we still have. I avoid the whisky knowing it has the potential to wipe me clean out.
There’s a speaker system built into the cabin, and Nash manages to connect his phone to it. So, we have music. We have booze. And a bunch of twenty-somethings have been left to their own devices in a fancy cabin on a fancy holiday park with photographers lurking.
Am I worried?
Only a bit…
I spend the first half of the night observing everyone else from my favourite corner of the sofa while nursing a glass of wine. I think I’ve drank more alcohol this week alone than I did the year we turned eighteen. I’m not a massive drinker anyway, which surely explains my poor tolerance. I realise I should probably pace myself a little better if I want to last the night.
I talk with the girls for a little while, which mostly consists of Bailey showing us the social accounts her sister, Brandy, runs for the Crusaders, Coventry’s ice hockey team. While ice hockey is nowhere near as big in the UK as it is in the States, they’re having their best year yet and building a decent fanbase. I can only imagine Brandy’s talent to garner attention on the internet is helping that.
After a while we split off. Someone finds a Twister game, which I decide to sit out on because my balance is horrendous on a normal day, without the aid of wine and boisterous men.
When that gets tired—in that Nash throws one of his infamous drunken tantrums because he keeps falling and losing—we start dancing. We put a queue of music on, although Beau promptly ruins it by forgetting, and we end up listening to Girls Aloud, followed by Westlife, followed by Take That, much to Stavros’s dismay. Beau is drinking more than his usual limit and is getting clumsier by the minute. I can only assume it’s to do with the article in the Apex this morning, but he’s never usually this bothered by it. I still haven’t read it, and I probably won’t.
Beau is not what everyone thinks he is. He was once pegged as the ‘Bad Boy of the Premier League’, and I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. Never mind that he’s the most organised sibling out of the four of us to a military degree, he’s financially responsible, owns multiple businesses, launched his own charity last year, and regularly donates to others.
Yes, a real stain on the footballing world.
Somehow, reckless, philandering and squandering aren’t adjectives that particularly fit right to the brother I know.
I dance with him for a little bit at his request, and he lasts three songs before he starts using me as something to physically lean on.
“Do you need to sit down, Beau?”
He responds with something that is completely incoherent. His eyes are glassy and drooping, and his posture is slumped. Something tells me he needs sleep.
When I suggest going to bed, he doesn’t argue. With help from Nash, we manage to walk him to his room and get him into bed. It’s not too late, so hopefully he’ll be able to sleep off his hangover before we leave tomorrow.
Nash and I rejoin the party where dancing and singing still ensues.
“Is he okay?” Myles asks when I sink back into the sofa.
“He’ll be fine. I think he just drank too much too fast.”
Myles nods. It looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t.
Ten minutes later a pack of playing cards appears, and we wind up playing three or four rounds—I lose count—of gin rummy. Stavros throws a fit when he continually loses every single game to me—yes, me—and stalks off to bed like a petulant child. He doesn’t come back.
Gemma, who I think might be more drunk than I’ve ever seen her, smartly follows suit, with Brin right behind her. Emma starts tidying up and forces Nash to help her. JP heads to bed under the guise of checking on Beau, which leaves me and Myles. Again.
I start a game of solitaire because Emma refuses to let me help clean up. Apparently cooking six nights out of seven exempts me from any other household chores.
“Tag team?” Myles suggests as he perches beside me.
“Sure,” I chuckle.
So, we take it in turns tidying the cards up by way of solitaire. We do it the traditional way—drawing three cards off the pile rather than one, just to make it a bit more difficult. We’re still playing when Nash and Emma head to bed, stumbling on their way.
“I’m always surprised by how close they are,” Myles admits once they’re out of earshot.
I nod to myself, because I’ve had the same thought many times. “They’ve always been like that, even when we were little. It’s nice, I guess, ‘cause she’s our only cousin.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Dad doesn’t have any siblings, and Aunt Sara and Uncle Steve only had Emma. One was enough, apparently.”
“Nice that she’s your age, though.”
“Definitely. Mum and Sara were really close growing up and they always said they’d want to raise their kids together. I don’t think they were expecting to have quite so many.”
“Yeah, you don’t hear about quadruplets often. The house I was in when I was growing up, just down the road was a set of triplets—they were supposed to be quadruplets but one of them died during labour. That’s the only other time I’ve heard of it.”
“That’s sad. I don’t know if I’d cope knowing one of my siblings had died.” Knowing that, only ten years ago, it could’ve been me.
Myles turns to me with a funny look. “It is sad. Can we pretend I said something witty or intelligent instead of just downright morbid?”
I giggle a little. I hadn’t necessarily minded the conversation, morose as it was. “Sure, Einstein. I won’t hold your ability to lower the tone against you.”
He covers his chest with his hands. “Thank you so much.”
“Anytime,” I say as I pat the hands covering his chest.
Cards tidied up, I stack them in a pile and set them on the coffee table.
“What do you say…one more drink and a game of Snap?” Myles suggests.
“I’ve just tidied up!”
He grins. “So? Snap is fun. Drunk Snap is even better.”
“Snap gives me anxiety—I don’t cope well with the stress it causes. And I’m not that drunk.”
“Easily fixed.” He stands from his place and snatches my empty wine glass off the table and heads for the kitchen.
I stand too, but don’t make any attempt to move. I just watch him.
He returns with a newly topped up glass for me, and an open beer for himself. He sets them on the table, then takes the cards in his hand. Circling my wrist, he pulls me onto the sofa next to him.
“Numbers or shapes?”
“I don’t want to play,” I insist.
“Of course you do. Numbers or shapes?” He repeats.
“Shapes is too easy and there aren’t enough numbers—we’ll be here for hours.” I moan, frowning. I really don’t want to play Snap.
“Then I’ll slimline the pack and we’ll do numbers.”
He separates the pack into four, then removes the numbers 6-9 from each so we’ve still got seven ways to match. I watch his slender fingers shuffle the cards with ease, like he’s done it millions of times before. Then he starts splitting them between the two of us.
“Do you play card games a lot, Myles?”
“I did growing up.” He says, gaze cast down. “Wasn’t a lot to do at my house so we played cards to pass the time.”
“I thought you’d be better at Rummy, then.”
He smirks. “Rummy is a game of chance. Not a lot of strategy involved. I’m better at Poker.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” I huff. Men love to say they’re good at Poker. I’m sure it’s something to do with wanting to seem intelligent, but what really concerns me is men who are good at Poker, because it means they’re crap with their emotions—i.e. they don’t show any ever. Beau and Nash were always shit at Poker because they wear their emotions on their faces for everyone to see.
Myles’s grin widens, and he finishes splitting the cards between us. “I hoped I was less predictable than that.”
“Yeah…aren’t you supposed to be if you’re an alleged seasoned Poker player?”
“No alleging about it,” he says with a nonchalant sniff. “Ask Beau, we’ve played loads of times.”
“Beau is a sore loser—he’ll tell me you’re shit either way.”
Myles snorts. “True.” Then he holds my gaze with such a playful intensity, my resolve at not playing this children’s game completely crumbles. “Come on, Birdie. Play with me.”