Chapter 2
“You sure you’ll be all right, Bee?” I ask, catching a worrying tremor in my sister’s voice tonight.
“Yeah, yeah, of course I will. Anyway, gotta go. I’m on stage in ten. You know how it is—the show must go on.”
“Sure, but call me later if you need. You know I’m here.”
“Thanks. You know you’re my best brother, Dory.”
She always says that. I’m her only brother.
“And you’re my best sister, okay, but don’t tell the others.”
When she hangs up, I see the time—8:15—and I’m late for dinner, thanks to Briar’s call. Tonight she’s got more man-drama going on, and somehow she always thinks I’m a better sounding board than the women in my family.
No surprise, really. My other two older sisters, Juniper and Rowan, are, despite our unconventional upbringing, playing conservative games of happy families with their safe jobs and boring husbands.
Don’t get me wrong; I love them to bits, but their choices have me scratching my head sometimes.
So it leaves me, the only boy and baby of them all, as Briar’s best option for help navigating the shit-storm that is her love life.
I gave her my advice, but as I bolt from my bedroom, I’m not sure if it was the message she wanted to hear.
I hurry through the maze of corridors from my bedroom in the east wing. The clatter of cutlery and raucous conversation drifts from the formal dining room. There’s a seat at the table with my name on it right next to a certain lanky blonde that I’m determined no one else will fill.
I’ve seen Rachel MacDonald before, and she’s fit as hell, but every time I’ve had another girl on my arm.
Despite the reputation, I’m not the kind of bloke who hits on a woman when I’m with someone else.
Right now, though, there isn’t a someone else.
Hasn’t been for two whole months—a fact the tabloids can’t shut up about.
They hate it when you don’t feed them scandal, but I’m totally good with it.
For the first time, I don’t mind the quiet; it leaves space to wonder what something real—someone real—might feel like.
After four years of lapping up the benefits of riding the fame roller coaster—and enjoying the steady queue of beautiful girls keen to jump on board with me—I’m tired.
Weary of the ever-changing rotation of women in my bed.
Questioning why with each new one, I seem to fall a little less in love, and fall out of it more quickly.
What would the journos say if I came right out and admitted it?
Maybe Teddy Hargrove is ready to give up his crown as king of heartbreakers.
As I round the final corner, sidestepping yet another hallway table with yet another massive Christmas flower arrangement, I’m forced to brake heavily.
My feet almost plough furrows in the thick carpet as I narrowly avoid a head-on collision.
Rachel MacDonald and I stand face-to-face, her luscious lips curling into a sultry smile.
It’s not the smile that stops me—it’s the flash of unmistakable mischief, the sense she’s fully present in her own skin.
“Running away already?” I tease, slipping straight back into our earlier banter. “Can I come too?”
“Planning to follow me around all week like a puppy, are you, Teddy?”
I’m mesmerised by the husky purr, the soft Scottish vowels rolling around in her beautiful mouth.
But it’s the unexpected invitation in those bold blue eyes that has me rooted to the spot; a glimmer that hints she might see through the swagger to the bloke beneath.
Maybe it’s her height too—long lines, legs that go on forever, and the confidence of a woman who doesn’t have to tilt her head back to meet my eyes.
I’m no stranger to tall women. Nothing I like better than some long-limbed model wrapping slender legs around my waist while I fuck her against a wall.
And I’ve had plenty of those. There’s something hot about watching a woman’s pleasure rise in her gaze with every stroke of my cock.
But I’ve never had a woman look me straight in the eye like this one does.
The combination of blatant interest and challenge I see there is an absolute turn-on.
I stiffen, my erection going from zero to full throttle in seconds, uncomfortable in my jeans.
For once, I’m unable to muster a cheeky retort. Me, smooth-talking Teddy, dumbstruck before this stunning woman.
“Maybe.” It’s the best I can stutter out, although I accompany it with what I hope is an enigmatic grin.
Normal Teddy would turn around and follow her to see what’s on offer, but Rachel’s got me so flustered with only a few words I keep moving in the opposite direction. Normal Teddy wouldn’t be wasting time on conversation, too keen to get her into bed.
Immediate regret at a lost opportunity nips at my heels.
An hour ago, after our first encounter, I’d already decided I need more time with Rachel than what the wedding prep allows.
I left the seat on the sofa beside her, planning ways to make that happen.
Women usually chase me, not the other way around, but the instant our eyes locked across that room, an unexpected predatory urge overtook me.
The way she jerked away from me—after I checked she wasn’t about to choke to death before my eyes—I’d assumed a long pursuit, one that might take days, perhaps the whole week.
Yet now I think maybe I’ve got it wrong.
Maybe this woman wants to be caught. If I play it right, tonight might spark a fire that doesn’t fizzle out.
Even more reason to use the time over dinner to accelerate things between us.
Two steps inside the dining room and I know that’s not happening.
“Teddy.” Christian waves me over to a seat between him and Garrett, past the remaining empty space, which has to be Rachel’s.
Now I get it—everyone’s had the hard word from Haley.
She’s already engineered the seating arrangements, so I’ve got Garrett separating me from Rachel like the Berlin Wall, while Ollie’s settled in the place opposite her where he gets to gaze into those baby blues across the table.
Haley trusts her brother not to hit on her friend—but not me.
She is, of course, spot on with that assessment of the situation, but I’m not deterred. Haley may have thwarted my plans for now, but I doubt she can keep it up. Once she gets caught up in her wedding prep, cock-blocking me will be the last thing on her mind.
I slide into the seat consoling myself with the knowledge this is only the first night, only one dinner, and I have nine more days of opportunities to get close to Rachel MacDonald—and I think she might want to get close to me, too.
I’ve just poured myself a glass of wine when Rachel arrives back, slipping into her seat with a shake of her golden mane.
The movement wafts her perfume my way, the heady spiciness like an airborne drug.
I close my eyes and inhale the scent of her presence, drawing it deep into my lungs.
Not only can I smell her, I can feel her nearness.
It’s as if an electric current flows between us, undeterred by Garrett’s bulky form in between.
It prickles at me, causing goosebumps to rise on my forearms. I tug down my rolled-up shirtsleeves, covering the evidence of her effect.
“So, Teddy, who’re you backing in the match-up tomorrow—Arsenal or United?” The East End accent booms from the top of the table.
I turn to our host, Tommy Bunt. The unlikely lord of the manor grins at me expectantly, his face flushed with one too many whiskies before dinner. The Man U shirt stretched across his chest leaves no doubt where his loyalties lie.
“United all the way,” I reply tactfully, leaving it at that as the others chime in, predicting outcomes for the weekend’s football games.
Normally I’d be in the thick of the noisy conversation at this end of the table, the men all clustered down here talking football.
Keeping up with the national obsession is more of a learned skill than something that came naturally.
Growing up with an artist for a mum and a musician for a dad, the only clashes that mattered in our house were creative ones.
Individual expression was encouraged, praised even.
Team endeavours? Not so much. Choosing music made me the golden child—though I doubt banging on drums and running off with a rock band was quite what they had in mind.
These days I don’t mind tossing around football talk with the guys during breaks from a recording session.
None of us are huge fans, but it’s a pastime that oils the wheels of male conversation in this country.
I’m always up for a little friendly rivalry and trash talk about the teams we pretend to support.
Tonight, however, I’m mostly a spectator, only speaking when I have to answer a direct question, while keeping my ears tuned to the frequency of Rachel’s voice, hoping to grasp snippets of her words amongst the twittering laughter of the women gathered at the far end of the table.
They’re all a little drunk—too many cocktails before dinner—and it’s near impossible to separate Rachel’s conversation from their chatter.
“Teddy, please, you need to eat more than that. My husband spent the afternoon slaving over a hot stove for you all.”
A husky laugh brushes my ear. Loreena Bunt hovers at my shoulder, a platter in one hand, silver serving tongs clasping chunky slices of meat in the other. Without waiting for an answer, she loads up my plate.
“Thanks, Loreena,” I say, my best manners on show for the woman who’s invited us—and the circus that’s a rock star wedding—into her home. I gaze at the heap of food with no enthusiasm. How the hell can I avoid insulting both hospitable Loreena and her amiable husband?