Chapter 38
Chapter thirty-eight
Matty pushed open the door to Art’s back entrance and stepped inside. She came face to face with a tall, tanned woman.
“Hey.” She smiled, blue eyes bright, shorter blonde hair falling forward as she held out her hand. “You must be Matty,” she said, a slight twang to her accent—British, but with something else running through it. “I’m Cam. Cam Thomas.”
“Oh, you’re the owner.” Matty glanced at the designer jeans and shirt, then at the skates still on her own feet. “Hi.”
Cam laughed. “Yep, that’s me. But I prefer ‘colleague’.”
“Right.” Matty smiled back. “So, I just need to get changed and into—”
“I’ll get out of your way.” Cam stepped aside. “I’ll be in the bar. I’m hoping you can show me how things really work around here.”
“Sure. I’d be happy to.” Matty nodded and watched her go.
It took less than five minutes to tug her skates off, slip her Vans on, and change into the Art uniform T-shirt she was supposed to wear.
When she walked into the bar, the rest of the staff were already gathered around a table, drinks in hand or set in front of them, listening while Cam Thomas talked. As heads turned towards Matty, Cam paused, then grinned.
“Matty—grab a drink and come and join us. I was just talking everyone through what’s changing.”
“Okay.” Matty stepped behind the bar and found a glass, filling it with lemonade and a couple of cubes of ice. The room was quiet but for the music playing low in the background and the clink of ice as she set the glass down.
Greta shifted up and made space for Matty to squeeze in. Matty gave her a look—the one that asked, ‘What’s happening?’’ and Greta shrugged.
“So, sorry again for dragging you all in at short notice,” Cam said, starting again. “A bit of background—I grew up around here—Woodington, Bath Street. So this place has always been personal to me. Even when I was living in California, I came back and opened this as my second bar in the UK.”
So that was the twang, Matty thought.
“I met my wife there. We built a life there, had the kids, and now…” Cam’s smile tightened for a moment. “Now things are different, and we’ve decided to come back to the UK. Which means I’ll be more hands-on here at Art.”
No one spoke. Cam didn’t seem to mind.
“The day-to-day running of the place will still be in the hands of my management team, but I’ll be joining the shift pattern and working a few nights a week.
I’ll be getting involved in creating events that’ll hopefully bring in more customers.
” She glanced around the table. “And if anyone’s got ideas, I want to hear them.
Don’t be shy about saying what you think. ” She paused. “Any questions?”
Nobody said anything.
Then a nervous hand went up and Dean said, “So…will your wife be popping in?”
Cam laughed. “More than likely, yes. And I should say on her behalf, she’s not acting anymore. She’s just trying to live her life like the rest of us.”
“But she’s still Michelle Hamilton!” Dean gushed.
“She’s Michelle Thomas now.” Cam’s grin turned fond. “And I get it—people are excited about her. Trust me, that’s half the reason I married her.”
A few people chuckled, and the tension in the room eased.
“But we’re coming home to escape that circus,” Cam added. “To settle here and bring our kids up around people who understand us and want us here.”
There was a knock on the glass door.
Matty got up and moved quickly, already reaching for the handle. She pulled it open, ready to head them off. “We’re not open yet—”
She stopped.
Her eyes flicked to Cam, then back to the woman outside. “Uh…”
Cam looked up, and her smile widened. “Speak of the devil.” She glanced at Matty, amusement in her eyes, as if to say, ‘Good luck with this.’ “Go on.”
Matty stepped back and opened the door properly.
Michelle Hamilton swept in, all expensive perfume and easy elegance, and Dean looked like he might actually faint.
“Might as well get it over with.” Cam chuckled, as the room erupted into excitement.
“Oh, okay, this is—” Michelle grinned. “I just wanted to stop by and say hi.”
Matty shut the door, and through the glass she caught sight of someone outside lifting a camera, the lens already pointed their way.
Cam carried on, voice steady over the noise, “So, yeah… I know things might get a bit lively with us around, but we’d really appreciate the chance to make Bath Street and Woodington our home again.”
***
As soon as the doors opened, the place was already different—phones out, people craning their necks, strangers ordering drinks they didn’t even want, just to have an excuse to linger. Word had got around fast that a Hollywood film star had been in Art.
From then on, Matty barely had time to think about anything but what to pour next.
By the time she made it home it was almost three in the morning, and she was buzzing, brain in overdrive.
“Alright?” Sarah asked. She was sat at the kitchen table, bleary-eyed, ciggie in hand, an empty bottle in front of her.
“Yeah, just a bit…” Matty fluttered her hands, as if she could physically shake the night off. “It was all go tonight. You only just got in?”
“Not that long ago,” Sarah said. “Thought I’d make a cuppa and some toast before I attempted sleep, then Brandon came back with someone, and they’ve been going at it for an hour. So I gave up on the idea of sleep and had another beer instead.” She tapped the empty bottle. “How was your night?”
“Busy. The owner’s moving back and she’s going to be working there from time to time, and her wife came in.”
“Oh, right—fit, is she?”
“She’s Michelle Hamilton.”
Sarah sat upright. “Fuck off—the film star?”
“Yep. We had paps outside. Dean almost fainted when she showed up.”
“So, you met her?”
“I said hello. That was about it. She’s nice, though.” Matty’s mouth quirked. “And yes, she’s hot. Cam Thomas has done alright for herself.”
“Maybe it’s Michelle Hamilton who’s done alright,” Sarah said, taking a drag on her cigarette. “Anyway, how’s things going with that boss of yours?”
Matty couldn’t hide it. “Pretty good.”
“Oh yeah?”
Matty nodded. “She’s… I really like her.”
The thought of Sloan hit hard and immediate.
The kiss, the conversation around it, the flirting—all of it came back in one rush, low and hard and impossible to ignore.
A familiar throb started—the kind that would usually be dealt with, only now it had to sit there and ache, because she already knew it was going untouched.
“Jesus,” Sarah said. “Your face just lit up. I’d say you more than like her.” She chuckled and stubbed the ciggie out in the ashtray.
“She’s…” Matty paused, trying to find the words without making it sound ridiculous. “You know when you meet someone and you just feel comfortable—straight away—even though everything about them sends you into a tailspin?”
Sarah laughed. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”
“That’s Sloan.” Matty pulled out a chair and sat down.
“She’s direct. Doesn’t suffer fools. Intimidating, even.
” She swallowed, heat still pooling, still insistent.
“And then she’ll go and be the most open person I’ve ever met, even when you can tell she hates how exposed it leaves her.
It’s not an act. It’s her. And she doesn’t apologise for any of it. ”
Matty’s mouth curved, and she shifted in her seat, trying not to make it obvious what the thought of Sloan was doing to her. “And it’s sexy as fuck.”
The door down the hallway to Brandon’s room opened and a girl stumbled out, giggling, holding on to him as they made their way towards the front door.
“Alright?” Brandon said as they paused in the doorway. “This is Cheryl. We’re going back to hers.”
“Oh, okay.” Sarah stood up. “I guess we can get some sleep now.”
Brandon blinked, then blushed. “Uh, sorry.”
Matty and Sarah laughed.
“Right, I’m hitting the hay,” Sarah said once Brandon and Cheryl headed out. “Want me to wake you in the morning?”
Matty nodded. “If I’m not up by eleven, yeah—give me a shout.”
With Sarah heading down the hall, Matty pulled her phone out of her pocket. She’d had no chance to look at it all night.
There were two texts.
Sloan: I hope your night isn’t too busy.
Sloan: And remember…no touching. That’s my job.
Just reading it sent another jolt through her. It was the tease, yes, but also the quiet claim inside it. Sloan was plainly telling her that this was going somewhere—that Matty was not imagining it, and neither of them was pretending otherwise anymore.
“Jesus, Sloan.” The words came out rough. She rocked forward, chasing friction, the seam of her jeans pressing exactly where she needed it. The urge to keep going—to rock until she came—pushed hard at her self-control.
She stood up and made her way towards her bedroom, forcing her mind anywhere other than Sloan Slater’s mouth between her thighs.
She shut her bedroom door and leaned back against it, eyes closed, breathing through the sensation urging her to touch herself, letting the need crest and pass without giving in.
She hated how much she loved it.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered, the word landing somewhere between promise and threat. “Maybe tomorrow.”