18. KATE
18
KATE
I ’m still dripping wet from the shower when I sink onto the bed in my childhood room. It’s mine in name only. When I left for university, the year after Dad died, Mum redecorated, and now my bedroom is a soulless spare room.
It’s like she erased me.
I try to shrug it off, which I’ve found to be the best way of dealing with Mum’s underhand attacks. Does it really matter if my bedroom isn’t really mine anymore? I’m not here that often. But Jack’s room is untouched, a shrine to his perfect childhood, which makes the whole ‘shrugging it off’ thing a little harder.
I shove it out of my mind and get ready for dinner. I don’t want to look like I’ve made too much effort, especially not with sleazy Curtis around, but the last time Nico saw me dressed up I was wearing hot pants and couldn’t see straight.
I put on a pale blue dress and slide into the silver heels Nico bought me. Absolutely identical to the ones I lost. I vaguely recall articles linking Erica Lefroy and Nico. Did he ask her directly for them? The idea of them being that close unsettles me. Perhaps his PA sourced them. She must be brilliant if she found them at short notice.
But either way, Nico had to give the instructions. He had to explain what they looked like. What size they were. What brand. He didn’t just get any sparkly pair of shoes; these are the exact same shade: a cross between silver and rose gold. He noticed all those things… My heart constricts. These shoes are the most thoughtful thing someone has bought me… well, in longer than I can remember.
Is it possible that Nico Hawkston actually cares about me?
I don’t know where I stand with him, but something between us has shifted. There’s a safety to his presence that I didn’t feel before, or at least I haven’t felt in a long time. I’m eager to be near him again, and no matter how hard I try to deny it, I like him. No, it’s more than like . Whenever he’s in the vicinity, my body tingles with delicious awareness, heat pooling in secret places.
With thoughts of Nico circling my mind, I head down to the kitchen.
I pour myself a glass of chilled white wine and make my way to the dining room, where everyone is already sitting and eating.
“You’re late,” Mum snaps, her fork paused halfway to her mouth. “You know we always eat at eight.”
I glance at my watch. It’s only five past. I swallow down the urge to protest or make excuses. It’s not worth it. “Sorry,” I offer.
Mum nods, satisfied, and slips her forkful into her mouth.
Enormous platters of barbecued meats rest on a warming plate on the sideboard, with potato salads and grilled vegetables in separate bowls. I grab a plate and help myself, then take a seat between Mum and Curtis at the table. I’d rather not sit next to Curtis, but there’s no other place set. He busies himself with his food, sawing aggressively at a piece of meat rather than acknowledging me. Nico sits opposite us, but I don’t look at him as I settle in my seat.
“This is delicious,” he says, taking a bite of what looks like a chicken skewer.
“Isn’t it?” agrees Mum. “I got it from the local butcher, then Jessie marinated it all.” She nods back towards the kitchen as if Jessie, the catering woman, is still there. “She’s back tomorrow with a team for the party. Jack cooked it beautifully, don’t you think?”
There are murmurs of agreement from around the table.
“Meat on fire I can do,” Jack says, deflecting the compliment with a chuckle.
“I won’t have you doing yourself down. This is perfect,” Mum says, eyeing the meat on her plate thoughtfully before turning a sharp gaze on me. “How’s that flat of yours, Kate? Still renting like a student?”
A jerk goes through my body as I prepare to ward off an attack. “No student could afford that rent, Mum.”
“It’s a great house,” Jack adds. It’s one of his many residential holdings, which he rents to me and my friends. I love living there so much I don’t care that it desperately needs renovating. “Good bones. When Kate moves out, I’ll knock the flats together. It’ll be a prime family home in South London.”
“Hmm.” Mum dabs the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin without taking her eyes off me. “I really don’t understand why you insist on staying there, and with that barmaid.”
“Elly’s a musician. She’s not a barmaid, but even if she was, what difference would it make?”
Mum gives an elaborate shrug. “Oh, there’s no judgment here, darling. It’s just… isn’t Jack paying you well enough? Lansen has been making so much, and you’re barely away from your desk since you started there. And now you’re under the Hawkston umbrella—”
“I have enough.”
“Kate earns a lot of money, Mum,” Jack defends me, his wary glance darting between the two of us.
Mum raises her wine glass. “That’s what I thought. But that’s half the problem, isn’t it? It’s intimidating for a woman to earn as much as Kate does. No man wants that. It’s emasculating. That’s why you’re always single.”
I bristle. “You think I’m too successful to attract a man?”
“Absolutely. You only need to look at you. Beautiful, intelligent, and haven’t had a decent boyfriend since you got your first period.”
She’s referencing my menstrual cycle at the dinner table? My cheeks flare. But if I call her out on how inappropriate it is, she’ll gaslight me. She’s the queen of insults that can be passed off as compliments. I can hear her defense now, “ I said you’re beautiful and intelligent, didn’t I? You’re being oversensitive .”
“Maybe I’m not looking for a man, Mum.”
“Oh, you don’t need to pretend, darling. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?” She gestures around the table and titters. Curtis clears his throat and hacks at another piece of meat without lifting his eyes from his plate. And thank goodness, because if that creep thinks he’s entitled to voice an opinion about me, I’ll lose my shit.
Jack tucks his jaw so deep into his neck he gives himself a double chin. I'm pretty sure he mutters ' fuck ' under his breath. Nico watches me intently.
“Mark my words, Kate.” Mum sips her wine, making a little tutting noise when she finishes. “You’ll end up alone with all your cash in the bank and nothing to show for it. And then you’ll have to watch those flatmates of yours getting married and having babies, and you’ll be their single middle-aged friend. Trust me, I’ve seen it among my girlfriends. That’s always how it works out for ambitious women like you.”
The warning prickle of tears hits me unexpectedly. I hate that Mum can so easily destroy my self-esteem. It’s her superpower. And even though I know what she’s doing, my thoughts spiral. What if she’s right ?
I swallow, and there’s an audible gulping noise. They must all know I have a lump in my throat the size of a peach stone.
“Mum," Jack cuts in, his tone stern. "Give her a break. She's fine."
Mum ignores him entirely, her expression all false sympathy as she keeps her gaze locked on mine. “Don’t worry, darling, I’ve told all my friends how difficult it’s been for you to find a boyfriend. I put feelers out and asked them if they know anyone. I’ve got a few leads too. Sue from book club—”
“Stop! I don’t want to go on a blind date with some guy Sue from book club has unearthed from God knows where.”
Mum huffs and places her hands on the tabletop. “I’m only trying to help.”
“Why don’t you fixate on Jack instead?” I say. “He’s single.”
Jack opens his mouth to object when Mum flicks her hand at him and laughs. “Oh, but Jack’s a catch. He doesn’t need any help. The ladies are lining up for him. But you… who’s going to go out with you?”
Mum’s words strangle my insides, crushing my organs. A few seconds of awkward silence pass.
“I would.” Nico’s low drawl is almost sensual.
Fuck me .
He leans back in his chair, wineglass in hand, and takes a sip, cool as anything, like what he just said is no big deal, and the suggestive way he said it hasn’t stunned us all into silence.
Jack’s eyes look like marbles that are about to roll out of his head and Curtis is dabbing his napkin over his forehead.
Mum flaps her hand. “Oh, my—”
“With all due respect, Mrs. Lansen,” Nico continues, cutting across whatever Mum was about to say. “Kate’s an incredible woman. Any man, regardless of his income, would be lucky to have her. If she’s single, then I’m sure it’s because she’s choosing to be. Focusing elsewhere. Like on the Knightsbridge spa project. The dedication she’s shown to Gerard’s final project is inspiring. We should be praising everything she’s doing well, rather than criticizing her because there’s one area of her life that might not look the way you think it should. And on that note, you’re wrong that no one would take her on a date. Like I said, I would.”
Silence blankets the table. Surely they can all hear the racing of my heart? Does Nico really mean any of it, or is he saying it for effect?
The word he used earlier— Hypothetical —booms through my consciousness. Of course, he’s not serious. He doesn’t want to actually date me. He’s saying it to make a point. How could it be anything other than that? But even if it is just to shield me from Mum’s interminable criticism, isn’t that… something ?
Mum waves her napkin at Nico. “What a joker you are. You’d get bored with Kate in a flash.” She cackles, then taps her wineglass with her fork. “Now, who’s ready for pudding?”
My chest crumples. I can’t take any more. Not even Nico’s kind words are enough to make up for the way my mother views me. She completely ignored everything Nico said about my dedication to the spa project, instead choosing to stick her claws into the idea that Nico might want me and ripping it apart.
You’d get bored with Kate in a flash .
I push my chair back and stand up. “I’m not hungry.”
“Oh, Kate. Don’t be such a sourpuss. You’re overreacting.” And there it is, each word a piercing pain like I’m being stuck through with needles. “I only say these things so you’ll sort your life out. I’m trying to help. It pains me to see you floundering—”
“I said, I’m not hungry. Eat without me.”
My throat is so swollen I only just manage to get the words out. I stare at the table, not wanting to look up, but Nico’s attention draws mine. He’s tilting his head at me, his brown eyes serious and so full of care that a fresh wave of sadness pulls at my heart.
“Kate,” he whispers.
The compassion in his voice nearly breaks me, but I refuse to cry in front of everyone. I rush into the hall. Footsteps follow behind, and my heart leaps because maybe it’s Nico.
Jack is suddenly beside me, leather loafers shifting on the stone floor. “You can’t walk out in the middle of dinner.”
“I just did. I’m not sitting in there with her.”
“Ignore her. She doesn’t do it deliberately. If we went back in there”—he nods back to the dining room—“and asked her what she said to you, she wouldn’t even remember. It means nothing.”
“Exactly.”
Jack blows air out over his bottom lip. “So let it go.”
All of a sudden, my brother ceases to be the comfort he’s always been. There he is, awkwardly trying to get me to do the right thing. To keep the peace. A small voice rises in the back of my mind that maybe he’s right, but the frustration bubbling to the surface wins out. “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it? You’re the perfect son. She fucking worships you.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” We stare at one another for a few seconds, my jaw clamped shut, Jack’s head shaking slowly.
When I turn away, Jack doesn’t follow and I hear his footsteps retreat to the dining room. I head straight for the sanctuary of Dad’s study, but the sight that greets me isn’t as comforting as I’d hoped. A thick layer of dust coats everything: a cruel reminder that he’s gone, and no one cares enough to keep the room clean.
I shut the door and sink onto the small velvet sofa nestled in the bay window, hugging my knees up to my chest, wishing he was still here.
I shouldn’t have come this weekend. I thought I could bear Mum and her comments, but today I wasn’t ready. Maybe it’s because I was out late last night and drank too much. Maybe it’s the draining heat of summer. Maybe it’s the fact that Dad’s memory is being cleared away like old food. Or maybe it’s Nico and the caring way he looked at me, like if my heart broke, his might too.
All I know is that it’s too fucking much.
Tears prickle behind my eyes, but I swipe them away, furious that Mum makes me feel like this. I focus on my breathing until the wave of emotion that drove me from the dining room subsides. I stare around the study. My artwork litters the room, paintings and pencil drawings propped against the walls. In my teens, I was an avid artist. Black A3 folders that bulge with content teeter on dad’s desk.
I get up and open the first folder. Sketches of my father topple out, along with various still lifes and landscapes in oil, pastel, and watercolour.
I crouch down, flicking through them. Seeing it all spread out around me is like stepping into the past, reliving each moment of creation. A documentation of my life, captured in coloured strokes. Images created out of nothing.
“These are good.” Nico’s deep voice sets my heart racing and I freeze, hunched on the floor, surrounded by sheets of paper.
I look up to see him leaning against the door frame, one hand in the pocket of dark linen trousers. His casual elegance is breathtaking.
“What are you doing here?” The question sounds so harsh, even to my ear, that I immediately wish I could take it back.
He straightens a little. “Do you want me to leave?”
God, no.
I don’t say the words aloud, but he seems to hear them anyway, and tension seeps from him to me—or the other way around—I can’t tell.
He exhales slowly, eyes trailing the room, eventually landing on the desk where there is an array of silver-framed photos of the family. There’s one of Dad with me and Jack at Disneyland ; another of Mum and Dad on their wedding day. There’s one of Nico and Jack, Dad between them with an arm around them. They’re all dressed in fishing gear and grinning as though they’re having the time of their lives, even though it’s raining and they’re bedraggled and soaking.
Nico clears his throat. “I haven’t been in here since—”
“Since Daddy was alive?”
Daddy . I want to stuff the word back in my mouth. I can’t believe I called my dead father Daddy in front of Nico. I’m a grown woman. If he didn’t still think of me as a child, I’m sure he does now.
Nico’s brows pull together, and there’s a hesitation in his eyes as if he wants to say something but isn’t sure he should. I see no judgment in his gaze, and it gives me a surge of confidence.
“Did you mean what you said in there?” I tilt my head towards the dining room.
The muscles along Nico’s jaw stand out briefly before he speaks. “Yes. I meant all of it. You are incredible. You always have been.”
My blood turns to warm syrup. He makes the admission so freely, like it’s nothing at all to compliment me that way, but it affects me as much as if he just confessed his undying love.
A smile threatens to break through my sadness. “Thank you.”
He gives me a slow, sexy smile in response, and part of me melts. “Anytime.”
He paces across the room and crouches beside me, amidst all my pictures.
“I still can’t stand you,” I tell him, but there’s a warmth to it.
He laughs, a deep sexy chuckle that caresses my skin. “You wouldn’t be worth winning over if it was that easy.”
My stomach hollows, heart fluttering over the emptiness. Is he trying to win me over? If he is, he’s already won. He won a long time ago.
Nico reaches for one of my pictures at the same moment I do. His hand grazes mine, sending a bolt of energy to the pit of my stomach, bringing to mind other moments we’ve touched: Jack’s party, the club, the penthouse, by the pool.
The same raw frisson fills the air. My breath hitches, and for an extended beat our hands remain there, touching in midair. My awareness shrinks to that one point of contact and his gaze flits to our hands too, before he moves away.
He picks up a few more sketches and flicks through them until he notices the framed charcoal of my father that’s propped against the sofa. “That one is fabulous. It reminds me of something. The style of it…”
“Stephen Condar; the artist. That was the intention, at least.” Heat rises to my cheeks. I haven’t spoken about my art to anyone for years.
“The famous recluse?”
I’m not surprised Nico knows who I mean. Some of the biggest art galleries in London have rooms where the Hawkston name is painted in gold letters over the door and Condar’s art hangs on the walls.
“Yeah,” I reply. “He was my dad’s favourite artist, so I did his portrait in the style. Dad loved it. That’s why it’s framed.” Grief pulls at my throat. The picture might be framed, but the glass is broken. No one cares enough to fix it now.
Nico notices my struggle, and his expression softens. “You really loved him, didn’t you?”
“He was my dad. Of course I did. He was the most wonderful, loving, kind man.”
Dark eyes meet my own, mirroring my emotion so perfectly that for a second I forget where I end and he begins. I’m consumed by him.
“I loved him too,” he says after a beat.
My body tightens as though his words are compressing me, forcing new, deeper emotions to the surface. The whispered confession is so close to one I’d dreamed of him making to me that a fierce choking heat rises up the column of my throat. I’m going to cry.
I shuffle sheets of paper into piles to keep my hands busy, to have something else to focus on other than Nico. But it doesn’t work. I’m painfully aware of him. His presence affects me like no one else’s, and an uncomfortable swelling sensation occurs within, as though his particular form of radiation is damaging my insides.
“Kate.” I keep moving the papers. “Look at me.”
I grip the sheet I’m holding so tight it crumples as I turn to face him.
“You’ve been crying.” Before I can move, his hand is on my cheek, his thumb stroking away the remains of a tear. It’s such a gentle gesture that it shocks me.
“No. I didn’t…”
“It’s all right.” He lets his fingers rest against my cheek, holding my gaze with those inescapable eyes. “I’d cry too if my mother said no one wanted to date me.”
His serious expression breaks into a smile and his eyes are so bright with mischief that, even though he’s mocking me, I laugh.
“Fuck you, Nico Hawkston,” I reply, shaking my head. “Your mother would never say that.”
His smile vanishes, plunging us into a moment that feels almost suffocating.
“Your mother is wrong.” His thumb slips down and skates across my lower lip, coming to rest right in the middle, tugging it down and exposing the underside.
What is he doing? My lip throbs, pulse beating right beneath his touch. It would be so easy to suck his thumb between my lips. And God, I want to. So much. I want to taste his skin again, and have some part of him inside me, in any way I can.
He stares at my mouth, his gaze so full of longing that I can almost see it surging across the small distance between us. His teeth rake over his full bottom lip, tugging on it. It’s sexy as hell.
“You tried to kiss me last night,” he rasps.
A prickling heat climbs up my legs, and a strangled affirmative sounds in my throat. Nico releases my lip so I can speak. “I was drunk.”
“Uh-huh,” he agrees, without looking away. “You asked me to sleep with you.”
“Again, drunk.”
He nods once. “So you don’t want those things?”
The question slides over my skin, trailing goosebumps in its wake. He leans closer, his breath warm against my cheek.
Please, kiss me .
Nico’s fingers press beneath my chin. His head tilts, his eyes fixed on mine, so dark and passionate I could drown in them. He’s going to kiss me . I know it in every part of my body. Nico Hawkston is going to kiss me.
I close my eyes and lean towards him, but his hand falls from my face, and I startle, opening my eyes to find him looking at me with concern.
“Do you want me to take you home?” he asks.
What? My insides tighten, my mind whirring to catch up to the shift in gear. “Now?”
With one word, I’ve exposed a host of emotion: disappointment, shock, outrage, disbelief.
Nico ignores all of it. “If you don’t want to stay, I can drive you back to London. It’ll be after midnight by the time we get home, though.”
“I can’t leave. Mum would never forgive me.”
“You’d stay for her, even after how she spoke to you?”
I blow out a long-suffering sigh. “It’s not new. I’ve had much worse from her. It’s just how she is.”
“It’s how you let her be.”
I frown, not wanting to think too deeply about the point he’s making. “This party is the most important event of the year for her. I don’t want to ruin it.”
His slight nod is dismissive enough to make me feel like I’ve let him down somehow.
I stand quickly, but a sudden head rush renders me unsteady and I grab the side of the desk to keep myself up. My fingers glance against a tottering pile of my sketchbooks, which clatter to the ground. The top one falls open, spilling sheets of charcoal sketches to the floor.
“Oh, God,” I cry, seeing the face that stares back at me. Nico. Over and over again. At twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven. The beautiful features of his face in profile, three-quarter turn, looking up, looking away, looking straight out of the page.
Nico stares at the papers strewn around us. “Is that… me?”
I kneel, scrabbling to gather them. There are too many. I can’t hide them fast enough. I grab a few more, but in doing so expose the worst one.
Nico. Idealised. Perfect. And absolutely bollock-naked.
My body heats like a furnace. Shit. I went all in on the detail on this one. Really let loose with the imagination.
Nico clears his throat, but there’s laughter in the sound. “Wow. I don’t remember posing for that.”
I want to die . I let out a little squeak and shove the offending image into the pile, continuing my frantic attempts to conceal the lot.
Nico crouches beside me and grips my arm. “Stop.”
I wrench free of his hold. “God, no, this is… it’s… fuck .” I raise a sheet to my face, sheltering behind it. “Don’t say anything, please.”
He teases my hand away, forcing me to meet his eye. “I had no idea," he says, his voice gentle.
“I was a teenager,” I confess, as if that excuses what was clearly an unhealthy obsession. “Long time ago. Long, long time. Very long.”
I stand, but my legs are shaking. This is a nightmare come to life.
Nico rises to his feet too. “And now?” he asks, taking the sheet of paper out of my hand. He’s so close, he must be able to hear the gallop of my heartbeat. “What do you want right now?”
He’s staring at me as though his very existence depends on my answer; I can’t think straight.
“Now? Now, I hate you,” I mutter, but the phrase lacks any conviction.
“You do?” he confirms, leaning so close that his mouth grazes my ear, his breath sending a ripple of desire all the way down my body.
What the fuck is going on right now ?
“Yup,” I choke out.
“That’s a real shame, Kate.” His voice is so low that the words are little more than a vibration against my skin. “Just when we were starting to get along.”
One of his hands rests on my hip as his lips hover at my neck. He presses them gently, but deliberately, against my skin. I jerk like I’ve touched a live wire.
Did he just… kiss me?
Nico huffs a laugh against my throat and his lips continue to press up and down the side of my neck, trailing fire across my skin. Yup . Definite kissing happening. A pleasurable shiver scatters goosebumps down my arms; my body aches for more.
His hand slides around to the small of my back. Each movement drags a new swathe of desire through my body. A whimper escapes me, the sound unmistakably sexual.
Nico’s lips lift. “Shall I stop?”
Desperation claws within me. If I say yes, I might never get this chance again. But if I say no… if I let this continue, I’ll be betraying my father’s memory. I hesitate too long and he pulls back to look at me, but I can’t bear the scrutiny. I stare at the floor, where the pictures of his face lie scattered.
He presses his fingertips beneath my chin again, lifting it, forcing me to meet his gaze. Something dangerous simmers beneath the surface, and I know what I feel is mutual, returned with equal force. I could choose Nico .
Do I dare?
He steps back. The absence of his touch leaves me reeling. Of all the things I expected him to do, wanted him to do, moving away wasn’t it. Did I read him wrong?
My hand reaches to my neck, my fingers ghosting over the skin where his lips had been moments before. His eyes dart to where my hand rests, and his lips pull up at the corner.
The silence that falls between us is too loud, begging to be filled with the unspoken words that hover in the air. We stand like that for I don’t know how long, waves of arousal pulsing through me. I’m pretty sure I’m going to orgasm if he continues to stare like that. Finally, he lifts the picture he’s holding, which, thankfully, isn’t the nude. “Can I keep this?”
I shake my head, nod, shake it again. “If you want to.”
“Thanks. You’re very talented.”
We stand opposite one another for a few beats longer, then he turns to leave.
“Wait.”
He glances at me over his shoulder. “Yes?”
“I didn’t say I wanted you to stop.”
His smile doesn’t meet his eyes. “I know.”
Disappointment swirls in my gut as he leaves the room, and all I can think is, ‘ what does that mean? ’