Chapter 23
Day Eight
I’m dragged into the new day, as on most days, by the sound of dog feet scrabbling on the floor, tap dancers warming up for their routine. I fight against facing it for a moment, allowing myself a little longer to luxuriate in our cosy nest. Christian is twined around me, his soft snores comforting, the safety of his arm thrown across me, his large hand gently cupping one breast, a reminder of this new territory we’ve crossed into. There’s no regret. I could get used to waking up like this. Even if it is on the couch in the lounge.
I reach carefully to lift his arm off me, trying not to disturb him. The sliver of grey half-light spilling in from the edge of the bay window, finding its way around the bulk of the Christmas tree, tells me it’s morning. Saturday morning. My still sleep-fogged brain registers other sounds. The rattle of a key in a lock, the click of the door opening.
The dog dance becomes a flurry, an Irish jig, excited feet flying. By the time Rachel steps into the lounge, they’ve gone full-on Riverdance, while I’m struggling to swing my legs onto the floor, still heavy from sleep. She flicks on the light, and my eyes scrunch against the painful glare. So much for keeping this secret.
“What the fuck?” she says. I’ve never worked out how Rachel keeps a filter on her foul mouth in a courtroom. You’d swear she picked up her vocabulary from graffitied bathroom walls. She scans the scene, me in pyjamas, barely upright, a sleepy Christian rousing behind me. “Still, I’m not surprised.” Her mouth tilts up in a sly grin.
“What do you mean?”
“That’s what happens when you let the wolf into the house.”
“Actually, I find that comparison rather flattering,” his voice drawls from behind me, amusement dancing in his words.
“He just wants to eat you all up,” she announces. “And it looks like he has.”
His breath is warm at my nape. He smiles against my skin. “No, but I’d like to.”
I can’t help but grin at the words just for me, but I squash it back, composing my face in what I hope is an innocent expression.
“No, Rachel, it’s not what you think.”
I make my hands into fists, rubbing at my eyes, then stretch my arms, trying to iron out the kinks. Damn, I’m stiff. The couch is wide, but not exactly designed for sleeping on. Especially not confined against a large, although rather comfortable, body for an entire night .
“Look. Pyjamas,” I say, pointing at myself. “Clothes.” I jerk a thumb towards Christian, whose chin rests on my shoulder.
I wince a little at the thought—if it wasn’t for him being such a gentleman, if he’d taken advantage of my little flash of lust—there may well have not been clothes.
“That doesn’t mean much,” Rachel says, weighing my evidence and finding it unconvincing. It’s as if she knows a few hours earlier her friend teetered on the edge of doing something very rash. “But hell, why not?” She stands, hands on hips, ignoring the dogs who’ve settled at her feet. “About time you had some fun. It’s also about time you got your lazy arses out of bed. We’ve got work to do. Besides, I don’t see why you should get to linger in your little love nest when I’ve had to drag myself out of mine. Pierre is not happy.”
Beyond her friends, Pierre is the only person whose opinion truly matters to Rachel. Which is good, since she’s agreed to marry him. As he’s arrived back on a late flight from New York last night, where he’s been busy doing the mysterious but very important work hedge-fund managers do, I can imagine he’s unhappy with her working a Saturday morning. Probably very unhappy if she’s confessed it’s working for free.
“Tell him I’ll shout him a drink,” I offer.
“Buy you both dinner?” Christian adds.
She ignores us. “Get in the shower, Haley. And, you—” She stabs a finger Christian’s way. “Make yourself useful and make me a coffee. I brought breakfast.”
She tosses a box onto the coffee table. I recognise the bold lettering on the lid: Bread Ahead, my favourite doughnut place next to the tube station. If anyone wanted to kidnap me, all they’d have to do is wave one of those boxes out the door of the van, and I’d jump right in.
“Maple bacon?” I breathe.
“Of course.” She knows me so well.
“Wasn’t sure what he’d eat, so I threw in a few other flavours.”
“More maple bacon?” Christian asks, hopefully.
“You don’t even get to fight me for that one,” I inform him. “It’s mine. I don’t share maple bacon doughnuts.”
“Not even just a little bite?” He’s giving me those damn puppy eyes.
“Maybe just a little bite.” I press a playful kiss to his lips and drag myself onto my feet.
I catch Rachel’s eye, and she gives me a grin, half-approval, half-disgust. Even though she claims it’s not unexpected, I can see her finding us together like this is a surprise.
“Not another word,” I warn.
I’ll be a prisoner in the car with her on the way to the meeting. Plenty of time for her to interrogate me then, with no chance of my escape, unless I jump from a moving vehicle.
In the shower, I turn the water up as hot as I can bear. Standing under the flow, I slather on my new body wash, its delicious citrus scent with a subtle underlying dash of cinnamon drifting in the steamy air. It makes me think of Christian’s kisses, the taste of the spicy cookies I baked for him sweet on his lips. But there’s no time to linger. Rachel doesn’t tolerate lateness, and I owe her not to be, when she’s giving up her Saturday for us. I push those thoughts aside, squeeze out a blob of cleanser and massage the foam onto my face. It’s still sensitive, grazed from bearded kisses in the dark .
Twenty minutes and I’m unrecognisable from the dreamy, mussed up girl who woke up with Christian wrapped around her, flushed with the heat of his body; hair tangled from his twining fingers; lips swollen from his molten kisses. I need to be a different sort of girl for him today. Hair scraped up into a ponytail, make-up done, and dressed in navy pants, with a crisp white blouse underneath a smart jacket of muted navy and beige plaid, I feel almost business like. Not the sharp-edged lines of one of Rachel’s designer suits, or her expensive Jimmy Choo heels, that scream she’s a capable and well-paid lawyer; but smart enough to suggest I’m someone who might be able to afford a lawyer like her.
The voices from the kitchen sound reasonably civil. Maybe they’ve declared a truce. That would be good, given she’s one of my best friends and he’s the man I’ve spent the night with. The man I’ve let peek through a crack in that wall around my fragile heart. Although I dare not let myself consider whether this is anything more than my need for comfort meeting his unrequited longing.
But now my two best friends have both met Christian, I’d like to think they see some of what I see in him, the person he really is, behind the man the world sees. I’m not sure why, but I want them to like the idea of us together, even if it is only some temporary thing.
Hearing my name in the conversation, I pause outside, leaning against the wall.
“I promise you, if you hurt her…” Rachel’s voice is lethal. “I’ll kill you. I might be a corporate lawyer, but believe me, I have good friends in criminal law who would see me walk free.”
“I won’t.” His words are as adamant as Rachel’s threat. “There is no way. I’d never hurt Haley. ”
“You better not. Not when she’s only just clawed her way back after that fuck-up broke her heart. If he ever shows his face anywhere near me, I swear—”
“What?” he asks. “Who?” This time, Christian’s voice is threatening. “Who hurt her?” he demands. There’s a pause, Rachel’s hesitation hanging between them. Christian doesn’t need her answer. “Oh, Jack. Of course,” he sneers.
“Yes,” she confirms. “None other than Jack fucking Maplethorpe.”
“I met the bastard down at Ollie’s country house one time.” Now it’s Christian’s words that threaten murder. “The way he treated her. Fuck, I wanted to smack him. But I figured it wasn’t my place. After all, she’s Ollie’s sister. But you know Ollie. Did nothing. Doesn’t like to make waves.”
“Yes, well, that douche-bag Jack happened to be shagging one of Haley’s friends behind her back. Paige Walker, the sneaky little bitch. She still has the audacity to claim she’s Haley’s friend after seducing her boyfriend.” Rachel lets out an angry huff. “Would you believe they even sent Haley an invitation to their wedding?”
“What the fuck?” Christian growls.
“Of course, Haley had the sense not to go. They got married last Saturday. Pissed down with rain all day, I hear.” There’s an ugly satisfaction in her voice. “It’s only a fraction of the shit those two deserve to rain down on them. They seem to think because they ended up married, it exonerates the pair of them from what they did to her.”
“She hasn’t said a word,” he says. “Ollie neither. Wish I’d known. Not that there’s much I can do. ”
“Not really anything any of us can do.” Rachel lets out an exasperated sigh. “Apart from keeping her busy—and off socials. I don’t think she’s seen it, thank god, but they’ve been posting all over. Makes me want to puke seeing their smarmy faces. If I knew how to hack their fucking accounts, I would. Tear it all down.”
I slide my phone from the pocket of my pants. Why? I have no idea. I promised myself I wouldn’t. Not after it triggered my bender last Thursday. Told myself I was done. No more stalking Jack and Paige on socials. No more torturing myself.
But it’s too late. I stare at the little square on my phone, its sunset colours drawing my finger. With one tap, Instagram floods the screen. I search for Paige’s account and the universe punishes me for my weakness.
They’re in Venice. The secret honeymoon location Paige has been gushing about for weeks, now revealed in sickly sweet post after post. I can’t be happy for their happiness—posing on a bridge, cuddled up in a gondola, clasped together outside the towering church in San Marco square—especially not when it’s Venice. Jack’s walked those cobbled streets before, done all those romantic things before—with me. When I recognise they’re seated in the same little restaurant tucked beneath the Rialto Bridge, where he and I had dinner one night, it’s too much.
My hand drops, my arm useless, as I’m confronted with the reality of what they did to me. I crumple against the wall, paralysed by tears. I stuff a fist against my mouth, uncaring of the damage to my carefully applied lipstick, as I stifle a sob.
They’ve been married a whole week. And, for a week now, I’ve pushed back the pain. Christian’s arrival, Tully getting sick, my uncertain work situation, the drama of the show; these things have consumed my days, a convenient distraction. I’ve been proud of myself, not allowing Jack and Paige to enter my thoughts, at first for a few hours, but slowly longer, not thinking about them for days. Until overhearing Rachel giving Christian the sordid details; and now this, seeing their new happy life laid out for the world to see, brings it all tumbling back, sadness crushing my heart, while a cold rage floods my veins.
I don’t love Jack. I did, but I definitely don’t anymore. I don’t want him back. Paige is welcome to him. But the damage he did lingers. The parade of men I’ve worked my way through since has done nothing to repair it.
“Shit.” Christian’s voice is a low hiss.
I hear footsteps, and he appears in the hallway. His angry eyes sweep across my face, taking in my tears, narrowing at the sight of the phone in my hand. It’s not anger at me, but for me. And, in the tender brush of his hand, the arms that wrap around me, the whisper of my name, his breath on my hair, there’s a seed of hope. I can move on from Jack; and this man wants to be the one to help me.
He places a finger under my chin, tilts my head up, and brushes his large thumb across my tears. Then, lowering his head, his gentle lips settle on mine in a delicate kiss. As I give over my mouth to his he responds, one hand at my neck, pressing me closer, deepening the kiss. Warm reassurance floods my chest, pulling me back up from despair.
In Christian’s arms, I decide I’m going to give this a chance. For the next few days, inside our protected little bubble, we can explore without the eyes of the world upon us. It’s selfish, I know. Because I might not have much to lose, but he does. If I lead him along and then slam the door on this, I’m ending the possibility of something he’s wanted for a long time. It’s not me that could get hurt the most here. It’s him.
“You going to be OK?” He pulls back, scanning my face.
I nod; brave a smile. “Yeah, I am. I will be.”
When his eyes meet mine, they’re troubled, as if an unspoken question lurks there, one he’s afraid to ask. And then I understand. He deserves to know the answer.
“I don’t love him, Christian,” I reassure. “He can’t hurt me that way anymore. But I am hurt. And angry. That he could just insert her into places we went and do things we did that I thought were special to us. It just makes me feel so replaceable.”
He cups a large hand behind my head, pressing his forehead to mine. “He’s an idiot,” he whispers. “He doesn’t know what he gave away.”
There’s a click of heels and an exaggerated sigh.
“Really? Wasn’t a whole night snogging on the couch enough?”
We jerk apart. Rachel leans a head around the corner. She’s joking in her usual flippant way, although there’s still a faint undercurrent of concern. But despite the theatrical eye roll, her lips curve up in quiet approval. Knowing my friend backs my decision reassures me. I need that. After the mess of my one serious relationship, I doubt my ability to be a good judge of men. Rachel is brutal in her criticism. If she’s eased up on Christian enough to smile at his arms wrapped around me, he’s passed her initial assessment, at least.
He releases me gently, and we head for the kitchen. I gulp down the waiting coffee. The caffeine works its magic, and I immediately feel better. As if with coffee, food and Christian, I can put all the bad stuff behind me and face the day .
“Come on. Get your things.” Rachel bustles around, wiping icing sugar from her fingers with a dainty swipe of a napkin. She slides on her black suit jacket, which immediately renders her even more formidable, and scoops up her hefty briefcase. “And grab your doughnut before the wolfman eats it,” she orders. She gives Christian a smirk, and he returns it with a lopsided grin. They’ve definitely made a truce. Perhaps even an alliance. “We’ve got work to do,” she says, scooping the keys to her Mercedes from the counter.
Christian reaches for my one hand that’s not currently grasped around a doughnut and squeezes it. “Thank you,” he says, searching my eyes.
As if seeing permission there, he leans in and kisses me again. After relishing the attention of his mouth more than even my first hurried mouthful of doughnut, I pull away, reluctant to leave, but knowing it’s necessary as we head into battle for him.