23. Sloane
Sloane
A few hours later, I’m walking through the beautiful neighbourhood of Shad Thames with its iconic metalwork and bridges that connect the old converted warehouses.
I managed to fit in an everything shower at home, and I’ve pulled out a little black dress that’s partially made of sheer panelling.
It’s the right level of sexy and classy, but crucially, it’s also comfy enough for lounging on a sofa.
I’ve thrown my DMs back on – I feel most myself in a chunky boot, and these have little flowers embroidered on them. I like that they make me feel feminine while giving me the confidence I could rearrange a man’s genitals with them should I ever be attacked.
I ring the bell of Freddie’s flat and he buzzes me up straight away. As I arrive in the lift, he pulls open his front door and gives me a beaming smile that makes my stomach flip.
He’s dressed in a navy Henley, with blue jeans and bare feet. His hair is deliciously mussed and he’s got a hint of stubble today. Christ, I’d forgotten how pretty he is.
“There she is!” He pulls me into a bear hug, hands sliding down over my coat to cup my ass shamelessly, giving me a generous squeeze that makes me squeak.
I whack him affectionately on the shoulder and he releases me, but not before letting out a happy little groan.
“I missed you,” he says, pulling back a little and meeting my eyes. For some reason, I believe him.
“Ha, it’s only been a few days,” I reply, shrugging off my coat. But I know how he feels. I’ve hardly stopped thinking about them, despite my best efforts.
He grabs my hand and tugs me into the apartment. Cole emerges from the kitchen and gives me a warm smile.
“Hey, Sloane,” he says, kissing me on the cheek. Such a gentleman. “You look beautiful.”
“So do you,” I reply, in earnest. Cole’s wearing a black cable-knit sweater that’s really doing it for me.
His dirty blond hair is a bit all over the place, as if no amount of product can keep it from doing its own thing.
His warm brown eyes are crinkled at the edges, as if the smile he’s trying to contain can’t not manifest on his face.
And tonight he’s wearing his slutty little glasses.
I’m done for . Might as well take all my clothes off immediately.
We stand there for a beat in Freddie’s hallway, the atmosphere charged as we all just look at each other. Then Freddie breaks the spell with a slightly too loud: “Drinks?”
“What are you offering?”
“I’ve got alcohol-free beer, normal beer, red, white, or I can whip up a cocktail.”
I raise my eyebrows at that.
“Cocktails, you say?”
“I’m an excellent mixologist,” he replies. I look to Cole for confirmation.
“He does make a mean cocktail, it’s true,” he concedes, which only makes Freddie grin proudly.
“Have you got tequila?”
“Is the Pope a Catholic! Of course I have tequila. Margarita?”
“Can you make it spicy?” I waggle my eyebrows.
“For you, I can make anything spicy.” He gives me a wink and I can’t help but laugh. “A round of margs for everyone?”
Cole smiles. “Sounds good. Come on through, firecracker.”
The way he says my nickname makes a lick of heat roll through me. I thought I’d become immune to the British accent, but it seems that Cole’s particular twang has my panties in a bunch.
He’s just the right side of posh – well-spoken but not a snob or an asshole – whereas Freddie’s charm has an inherently more London swerve to it. Most Americans think British men are either all Bridgerton boys or cockney lads, but there’s a lighter London accent that really charms the pants off me.
“How was your walk over? I remember you said you live in Bermondsey – can’t be far from here, right?”
“No, literally took me ten minutes. Nice to have friendly neighbours. Now I know where to come if I need a cup of sugar.” We exchange a smile as we arrive in Freddie’s living room.
He’s got an enormous TV mounted on the wall, and a huge collection of vinyl sitting off to one side next to a record player.
The large room is covered with evidence of his hobbies – from a stack of weights in one corner to a huge bookshelf in the other.
I can’t help but be drawn to the bookshelves, which are adorned with photographs in frames. A petite blonde woman is in several of them, including one where she’s sandwiched between Freddie and Cole. Cole follows my line of sight.
“Freddie’s mum, Carol,” he explains. “She’s a nurse at St Thomas’ Hospital.”
“She’s beautiful,” I reply, picking up the photo of the three of them.
They’re standing together in woolly hats, big beaming smiles on their faces, a bottle of champagne in Cole’s hand.
There’s so much joy in her eyes. My mom was a single mom too, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen this much lightness in her.
Not compared to this one photo of Carol Lane.
“She is. That was taken at New Year’s a couple of years back. We were on the banks of the Thames, right opposite the London Eye. It’s all ticketed now, but we managed to sneak into a prime spot because Carol had just come off shift. The hospital is just up from where we were.”
“You all look so happy,” I muse, feeling a pang of something I can’t name. I miss my mom a lot, but sometimes I wonder if my dad broke her. She’s fun, but she’s had sharp edges since as long as I can remember.
“It was a fun night.”
I spin around, banishing the thoughts of my mom.
“And how was your day today? Did you make anything beautiful? Jessie said the stuff you’re doing for Salt is stunning.”
He goes pink at that, and goddamn if it doesn’t make me want to kiss him just to see him blush a bit more.
He’s a walking contradiction, this man – soulful but unsure, sensitive and commanding all at once.
He rubs the back of his neck as the sound of a Freddie shaking cocktails reaches us from the kitchen.
“Ah, thanks,” he replies, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “It’s just early drafts. But I hope I can help them elevate some of their concepts a bit.”
A moment later, Freddie appears with a tray and three glasses, each garnished with a red chilli.
“Shall we?”