Chapter Fourteen #2
Hating on Scotland’s most famous band has really brought out the Scot in Lachlan; he sounds more like Bashie than ever, and I love it. I needle him further. “Come on, I love that song. ‘Da-da-da-da!’ ” I scream the chorus.
“If you sing another note, I will forcibly remove you from my property.”
“Yeah, but I’ve got keys now.” I dangle them in front of my face.
He just rolls his eyes. “This is Biffy Clyro. Do you like it? And bear in mind that the fate of our friendship hinges on this answer.”
Though I haven’t thought about them in months, I’d recognize that terrible name anywhere, and I just have to laugh, because of course that’s his favorite band.
“What’s so funny?”
“Well, at the risk of you turning the Serial Killer Alarm on for me, I used one of their songs for a video montage of you that I made.”
He drops to the floor, one eyebrow raised. “You made a video montage of me?”
“Calm down, it was part of my job interview.”
“And you used a Biffy song?”
“Yeah, but I don’t remember what it was called.”
He grins. “Doesn’t matter. Just proves that this, right here?” He waves his finger back and forth between the two of us. “Meant to be.”
His words burn across my brain like a brand and my stomach swoops.
I know he means the two of us as friends, and obviously I agree that this friendship was somehow written in the stars.
Still, it’s very hard to stop my imagination from sprinting to an altogether different place, especially when he’s all topless and muscly and glistening in front of me.
Having hot friends is really difficult sometimes.
Luckily for me and the runaway train that is my brain, Lachlan starts belting the song at the top of his lungs, and while the man is gifted in many areas, singing is not one of them. He hops back up on the apparatus and continues his workout.
“Why are you even working your arms?” I ask over his wailing. “You famously can’t use them in your silly little sport.”
“Because I like the way it makes you look at me, of course.” He presses all the way up and locks his arms, bringing his legs up so they’re parallel to the ground. He’s right: I can’t look away. “Chuck us a grape.”
I lob one underhand and hit my mark—he juts his chin out and snatches the grape from the air, smiling as he chews it. Then he swings his legs back down to the floor and dismounts, arching his back and throwing his arms up like Simone Biles sticking her landing.
I wave my hand. “Yeah, yeah. Tens across the board, you’re very impressive.”
“Your enthusiastic support is appreciated, as ever.” He grabs a towel from a rack and wipes down his chest. “Now, how late are we going to be if I take a quick shower?”
“Take as much time as you want: I intentionally told you to be ready thirty minutes earlier than necessary, knowing this is the exact situation we’d find ourselves in.”
He narrows his eyes and taps his finger on my forehead. “The brains on you, McIntyre.”
I smile at him and blow some air straight up so my bangs whirl around his hand; he twists them around his finger and pulls it out, leaving a little curl on my forehead.
Together, we walk out to the main room. “Moira’s weekly treat was biscuits, by the way. In the little tin there on the table. See you in five.”
I’ve been in the U.K. long enough to know that biscuit means cookie, which is also long enough to be inevitably disappointed by what passes for cookies here. My kingdom for a Mrs. Fields…Still, I pop open the tin and nibble on the shortbread, which is, admittedly, pretty damn tasty.
The tin is next to a big pile of mail. I’m relieved to see no copies of LOOK!
, but I do spot a newspaper at the bottom of the heap.
I pull it out and it dislodges the whole pile.
A manila envelope slides onto the table, its contents spilling out of its open flap.
Before I can look away, I see what’s written on the top of the page:
Minute of Agreement
between
Lachlan Andrew Cameron Ramsay
and
Claire Davina Walker
Fuck. Oh, fuck. I glance over my shoulder to see if Lachlan has returned, but the room is empty and I can hear his toneless singing from the shower. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself: I have to know what the hell a “Minute of Agreement” is. I slide the papers out an inch further:
Whereas:
Mr Ramsay and Ms Walker have agreed to separate and wish to formalise their agreement in writing.
They have reached an understanding on financial matters, property division, and other relevant issues.
Now Therefore It Is Agreed as Follows:
Separation
The rest of the text is covered by a large purple Post-it that just says “Draft agreement for review,” and it feels far too invasive to lift it up to see the terms of the split.
The note is scribbled in a hand that’s not Lachlan’s, but I can glean no other information from it.
I slip the papers back in the folder and turn it over, but there’s no address on the front.
Another dead end. So here are two things I know to be true: One, Lachlan and Claire are moving toward a formal separation, and two, I would be a terrible detective.
I rearrange the stack of mail, shoving the newspaper at the bottom of the stack and slipping the manila folder somewhere in the middle.
I’m pretty sure that’s what it looked like before I mangled it with my clumsiness, but just to be safe, I walk all the way to the other side of the room, sit down, and take out my phone.
I was nowhere near the stack of mail, Your Honor, I swear.
When he emerges from the shower, Lachlan is the picture of cheeriness.
He grabs his keys and ushers us out of the flat without so much as a glance at the table.
And even though I keep up a decent stream of chatter, my thoughts for the rest of the day are devoted to the manila folder and what it contains.