Chapter 7
Cole
“We made Christmas pancakes for breakfast, too, Daddy. Look!”
Hollie's bright smile is infectious as I watch her on my laptop, chuckling when she holds up a plate of mush that resembles a flattened Elf on the Shelf, albeit one who's seen better days.
“They tasted better than they looked, I'll have you know, Nicolas Adams.”
A sing-song voice comes from somewhere to the right of my daughter, and I clear my throat before hastily replying, “I have no doubt they were truly magnificent, Mum. Some of your culinary creations are truly... Er—” I hesitate, grasping for a word that isn't “inedible.”
“Experimental,” she supplies helpfully, appearing in the corner of the frame with a festive apron that reads Queen of the Kitchen—a title that should be revoked immediately. “You can't create culinary masterpieces without taking risks.”
“Risks?” I echo. “Mother, the last time you 'took a risk,' the smoke alarm filed for early retirement.”
“That was artistic flair,” she insists, straightening her apron even as her lips twitch ever-so-slightly. “Besides, Hollie loved them.”
“I did, Daddy!” Hollie nods enthusiastically, syrup smeared across her chin like war paint. “Gran put sparkles in them. Ho-ho sparkles!”
“Sparkles?” I repeat slowly, eyes narrowing as they shift to my guilty-faced mother. “Please tell me that you didn't put glitter in her breakfast.”
“Edible glitter!” she protests as she clutches her chest in mock offence. “Well, I think it was edible. It came from the craft cupboard, but it said non-toxic—that's practically the same thing, right?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Mum—”
“I'm joking, my dear boy. Don't go getting all serious on me, Nicolas. You were far more fun before you became a responsible adult.” She waves a hand dismissively, then turns to Hollie. “Tell your daddy how you helped stir the batter.”
“I used the big spoon!” Hollie beams, lifting it proudly into view. It's coated in glittery batter remnants.
“Looks delicious, Hollie-Pop.” I try not to wince when I add, “Did you save Daddy some?”
“No,” she chirps gleefully. “We eated them all. Gran said we're making more tomorrow.”
Mum gasps dramatically. “Hollie! We don't tell Daddy everything!”
Hollie giggles so hard she nearly drops the spoon, and I can't help but laugh with her.
“Just promise me one thing,” I say, leaning closer to the screen. “Have fun, my little Hollie-Pop.”
“Oh, don't worry. We will!” Mum chimes in as she bustles about in the background. “Later, we're making Christmas spaghetti. With cranberries. It's going to be very avant-garde.”
“Avant-garde?” I repeat dryly. “That's one word for it. Dangerous would be more suitable.”
“Come on, Hollie, my love.” Mum utterly ignores me as she pours something suspiciously pink into a saucepan off-camera. “Daddy has work to do.”
She glances toward the screen, mischief twinkling in her eyes. “Though, you know what they say about all work and no play.”
“What, Gran?” Hollie gazes up at her, all innocent curiosity.
“That it turns perfectly good men into grumpy old sticks in the mud,” Mum declares with relish. “Your father used to laugh, once upon a time. Before spreadsheets stole his soul.”
I snort. “Spreadsheets pay for your holiday gin, Mum.”
“Barely worth the sacrifice,” she fires back, turning to stir her neon concoction. “Honestly, darling, when are you going to live a little? Take a day off. Go have a pint. Flirt with someone who isn't your accountant.”
“Mum,” I warn, half laughing. “You're corrupting your granddaughter.”
“She's four, Nicolas. The only thing I'm corrupting is her taste buds.”
Hollie giggles and waves her sticky spoon. “Bye, Daddy! I'll save you some sparkly spaghetti!”
“Please don't,” I deadpan, smiling despite myself. “Love you, Hols. Be good for Gran, and maybe avoid anything that glows.”
“I make no promises,” Mum announces with a delighted wink.
“Bye, love you both.” The screen freezes on Hollie's glittery grin before fading to black, and I lean back in my chair, the quiet of my office suddenly too sharp, too still.
My phone buzzes against the desk—a rapid succession of notifications that suggests the group chat has come alive.
I shouldn't look. I have reports to review, calls to make, and a mountain of work that needs my attention after yesterday's abbreviated day courtesy of the nanny interviews from Hell.
I look anyway.
REED: Survived the night. Mrs. Foster and baby both doing well. Gonna sleep for twelve hours straight.
REED: Also, WTF happened last night?
JACE: Don't get me started on last night. Fucking shitshow.
REED: Do I need to grab some popcorn for this?
JACE: Scandal my left ball sack. I was at a charity event with my SISTER. But apparently that's not as interesting as inventing a story about me and some married actress.
REED: The photo did look bad…
JACE: Because the paps literally cropped out the other 15 people in the conversation including her husband, mate!
REED: Fair point.
JACE: Fuck that. I’m sick of the wankers. What happened you, Adams?
I stare at the messages, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. What am I supposed to say? That I met a woman who made me forget every rule I've built my life around? That I spent the night with her and left like a fucking asshole? That I've spent every goddamn minute since thinking about her?
Fuck!
ME: Went to bed. Wasn't feeling it.
The dots blink for a split second.
REED: Something happen?
My jaw clenches. They know me too well. Two decades of friendship mean they can read between the lines of even my most carefully crafted deflections.
COLE: Just tired. Long week.
JACE: Bollocks.
REED: Complete bollocks.
JACE: You don't do “just tired.” You do “I'll sleep when I'm dead” and “fatigue is for the weak.”
REED: Spill, Adams.
I run a hand through my hair, staring at the screen. What can I say that won't invite more questions? Questions I'm not ready to answer because I don't know the answers myself.
COLE: Nothing to spill.
JACE: Now I KNOW something happened.
REED: Same. Mr. “I Don't Do Personal Conversations” is being EXTRA tight-lipped. Rookie error, mate.
JACE: You didn’t meet someone, did you?
My heart rate kicks up. I glance at the office door like they might somehow materialise there, able to see straight through me.
COLE: No. Absolutely not.
REED: That was too fast.
JACE: Way too fast. And defensive.
REED: Oh shit. You MET someone.
JACE: NICOLAS ADAMS MET SOMEONE. Are you feeling well, mate?
REED: Someone call a doctor…oh wait
JACE: Who is she? What's she like? Is she as boring and colour-coded as your calendar?
REED: Does she know about your psychotic need to alphabetise things?
JACE: Does she also enjoy long walks through spreadsheets and romantic evenings with tax documents?
COLE: You two are so fucking juvenile.
JACE: You didn't deny it.
REED: He DIDN'T deny it.
JACE: This is monumental. Earth-shattering. Someone alert the press—oh wait, they're busy making up lies about me.
REED: Seriously though, mate. Good for you.
JACE: Yeah. About fucking time.
As I stare at their messages, something warm and uncomfortable lodges in my chest. They're happy for me. Even through the ribbing and the jokes, they're genuinely happy.
Which makes what I did this morning—leaving her with nothing but a cop-out note—feel even worse.
COLE: There's nothing to be happy about. It was one night.
REED: Was?
JACE: Past tense. Interesting…
REED: You planning to see her again?
I glance at the time, suddenly desperate for an out. I should order lunch. Should stay focused on work. Should absolutely not be thinking about going to Pret myself just because there's a chance—however fucking slim—that I might run into her.
So you’re delusional now, as well as an asshole, Adams?
COLE: No.
JACE: Why the fuck not?
COLE: Because I'm not looking for anything. I have Hollie. I have work. I have friends…ish. I don't need complications.
REED: Cole. Mate. Life IS complications.
JACE: And you're already the most complicated bastard I know. What's one more complication? At least this one has tits.
REED: Real talk, though… When's the last time you did something just because you wanted to? Not for Hollie, not for work. Just for YOU?
I stare at the screen, unable to answer. Because he's right. I can't remember the last time I wanted something—someone—just for myself.
COLE: I should get back to work.
JACE: Classic deflection.
REED: He's running scared.
JACE: He's absolutely running scared.
COLE: I'm not scared. I'm being practical.
REED: Same thing for you.
JACE: If she was just “one night,” why are you still thinking about her?
I don't respond. I can't respond. Because he's right.
Prick!
I fucking hate that he's right.
REED: Look, I'm going to say this once and then I'm going to sleep for twelve hours.
REED: You've been sleepwalking through your life since Charity left. Work, Hollie, sleep, repeat. That's not living, mate. That's just... existing.
JACE: What he said. And I'm saying this as someone who just had his face plastered on every tabloid in the fucking country: life's too short for regrets.
JACE: If she made you feel something, don't let that go because you're scared of getting hurt again.
REED: Okay, I'm out. Someone page me if anything interesting happens. Like Cole growing a pair and calling this mystery woman.
REED: I'm joking. Sort of. Not really.
JACE: I'm out too. Gotta call my publicist and figure out how to spin “man talks to married woman at charity event” into something less scandalous.
JACE: But seriously, Adams. Don't be a twat.
The chat goes quiet, and I'm left staring at the screen, their words echoing in my head.
Don't let that go because you're scared of getting hurt again.
You've been sleepwalking through your life.
Live a little.