Chapter 2
Day One
This is the thing I love about dogs: they don’t give a shit. They don’t care if you’re the rock star getting paid the big bucks or the guy driving a delivery van around Dagenham for minimum wage.
The fact I stink from layers of grime and sweat is of no concern to them. I may as well have just leapt out of the shower, newly-washed and bearing a splash of the expensive aftershave I’m a brand ambassador for (apparently dark and brooding is considered edgy). They sniff at my bare wrists so hard they practically bruise me. Their long tongues taste me like I’m Christmas candy.
The dogs don’t give my tattooed hands a second glance any more than they notice the small neat ones planted firmly on Haley Templeton’s hips as she glares at me—well, as much as Haley can give a death stare, although she’s doing well enough. It unnerves me to see that expression on the face of an angel.
After the fucking nightmare of the last two days of my life, I need the blind adoration and total lack of judgment these two crazy old dogs offer me in a generous yelping, licking, nose-nudging whirl of unconditional canine love. Buried beneath them, I’m safe to ignore the question she’s thrown at me.
What am I doing here? It’s a long story and not one I’m free to tell. Not unless I want my arse sued for an amount of money sufficient to make a dent in even my obscenely healthy bank balance, and I can’t afford that to happen, not with my responsibilities.
“Tully. Mularkey.”
Her voice is firm, and the dogs respond automatically. Weird names, but kind of cool. In an instant, they are sitting, bums planted on the floor, one on either side of her, eyes bright, tongues still lolling, but completely in her thrall. I can relate to that. I’ve only met up with Haley a few times in the last year, but I still know how easy it is to submit to her charms. I’m already falling, falling, drowning in the quiet magic she weaves simply by her presence.
Back when I first met Ollie Templeton three years ago, the pair of us battling it out with thirty others trying to make it to the final of Star Power , I noticed his sister straight away. With a curtain of mahogany hair, surprising gold-flecked green eyes framed with determined dark brows and luscious full lips begging to be kissed—especially when she worries at them with her teeth, like she’s doing this minute, undecided about her next move—she’s always going to stand out.
Tiny but perfectly formed, her doll-like figure draws my eyes. I jerk them back towards her face. Keep it together Christian. Don’t piss her off any more than you’ve already done. Obvious perving will definitely do that.
Faced with her mouth, even turned downwards in disapproval, I barely suppress the urge to leap to my feet, close the gap between us and kiss her senseless.
It’s nothing new.
Haley would have been about twenty-two back when we first met, I think, but looked younger; like some sweet kid fresh out of high school, not yet tarnished by the woes of the world, all bright and shiny and hopeful. Hopeful for Ollie, and then as she saw his friendship with me grow, even a little hopeful for me, too. Her shy wishes of good luck before I went on stage, and slightly less restrained congratulations when the results kept me in for another week alongside her brother, became an addiction.
She even hugged me once or twice. I clearly remember the first time, although I tried not to make too much of it. It was a natural thing for our combined supporters to grab at Ollie and me in congratulations as we came offstage, after they’d announced who was going forward. I liked it. More than I should have. The memory of Haley’s velvety cheek against the bare v of my chest, and her perky breasts crushed against me, lingers now.
Back then, I couldn’t get her off my mind, try as I might. In frustration, I did what I always did and poured all my feelings into my music. You see, Haley Templeton is the sort of girl who inspires songs; for me anyway.
Ollie doesn’t know it, but ‘Untouchable’—the first song I wrote after the contest was over, the first thing I played trying to convince the other two guys in our fledgling band I had more to contribute than fancy guitar riffs—that song was about his sister. Although I could never tell him.
I was drawn to Haley like forbidden fruit, and I’m certain she’d taste sweet. But she’s still untouchable, unless I’m prepared to risk losing my only real friend in this fucked up world of fake smiles and false banter that cover up the true intentions of everyone who wants to ride on your coattails when you’re famous.
It’s soothing to travel in my mind back to before all that crap. Back to when I first laid eyes on her oozing honey sweetness and quiet decency, qualities I’ve rarely glimpsed in the endless parade of women who have thrown themselves at me since.
Like mine, Ollie’s family was there every day, waiting in the hotel lobby before we’d leave for the venue, nabbed for quick on-camera interviews like deer caught in the headlights. Later they’d follow us to the studio, sometimes allowed through to the side of the stage, and occasionally summoned forth on national television. The families are a welcome support in the pressure cooker environment of a talent show, but mostly encouraged to be there because they make good TV.
My cheer team was my slightly rough around the edges farming family: Mum, Dad, and my two older brothers, forced by my parents to be there. They still can’t understand why I prefer a guitar over a tractor, or why anyone would choose to make music rather than milk cows. Ungrateful bastards.
Meanwhile Ollie’s headmaster dad and head teacher mum flanked this often serious but always pretty young woman, who looked at her brother with the same loving adoration as those two creaky old dogs are giving her right this minute. Even back then, I decided it would be rather nice if Haley Templeton looked at me like that; which, at the moment, she’s definitely not.
Yes, screwing around with Ollie’s kid sister would not be a great idea. He’s one of the few true friends I’ve ever had—from the first time we met backstage, two scared guys trying to put on enough bravado so the judges and the public might see potential in our music and keep us coming back week after week, and maybe make it to the end.
In a way, not making the finals was a gift. I can’t imagine how it would have felt if either of us had been the last man standing. A weird mix of elation and devastation, I suppose. But while we fell short of making it to the lofty heights of finals night, we’ve reached far beyond that since. Commiserating over a few beers after our simultaneous elimination, Stellar Riot was born, and we never gave Star Power a single backward glance.
Ollie believes in me—me, the person—not only in my musical talent and my total commitment to our shared goals. I mustn’t do anything to tarnish that belief. It’s all I’ve got when things inevitably get tough. The only wobble we’ve ever had in our friendship of three years involved a woman, so for that reason I need to tread very carefully around this one, much as I’d love to abandon common sense.
I sit up from the jumble of dogs and summon a brave face.
“So, I’m guessing Ollie hasn’t told you,” I say, dragging a hand down my scruffy beard.
“Told me what?” she snaps.
“That I need to stay here for twelve days.”
“No.” Her frown deepens, her mouth tightening as she snatches up her phone, and begins scrolling .
It’s still playing some cheesy Christmas song, a harsh assault on my hungover ears. Please God, never let them suggest the band do a Christmas single. It might be good enough for Springsteen and U2, but the thought of a Stellar Riot Christmas release nauseates me.
“Well, I definitely ran this past him. I spoke to him yesterday, around midday.” I hope the earnest tone encourages her to see the truth in my eyes. “He’s somewhere in Botswana. Said he’d call you straight away.”
“Nope,” she says. “Nothing at all.”
This explains her greeting me with a slightly hostile air of surprise. I’m determined to damp that down a notch. I’m reluctant to ruin the next twelve days with accusations of lies from the start. Although, I am going to lie to her. I have no choice. Or at the least skirt around the truth. But hand on my heart, she’s getting the truth right now.
“The connection was pretty flaky. In some really remote place, apparently. Bumping along a dirt track in a four-wheel drive. He might be out of range. And you know him, Haley. He’s not exactly reliable, not when he’s off on one of his trips. If Ollie said he’d call, he would have tried. I can’t imagine him worrying too much if he couldn’t get through.”
“Guess we won’t know either way.” The thick suspicion in her voice is undisguisable. “OK,” she sighs, “so we’ve established Ollie said it’s fine for you to stay here.”
She believes me. That’s a good sign, because I’m going to need her to trust me, given what I can tell she’s going to ask next.
“But that still doesn’t answer the question of why you’re here, not on some island off the coast of Scotland, winning enough money so Canine Haven doesn’t implode by Christmas.”
“You’ve been watching? And you assumed I’d win?”
The thought ignites a small flutter of pride. Without reservation, Haley believes—scratch that, believed —in me too.
“Of course you were going to win,” she snorts, throwing me an incredulous look, as if anyone could doubt my ability to outplay and outlast seven other celebrities. Then she tears away my smug self-satisfaction in a heartbeat. “It’s not like you had much competition,” she huffs over a little laugh. “One washed up football player, two girls from a daytime soap no one’s ever heard of, one of the Real Wives Of Watford —who I’m surprised has the brain to make it to her front door let alone all the way to Scotland and back—and three losing contestants they’ve pulled from various reality series?”
“Four,” I say, miserably. “If you count a Star Power semi-finalist.”
I see it clearly now Haley puts it like that. I wasn’t chosen for the hard-earned success and fame I’ve created alongside my bandmates these past three years. The production company was scraping even deeper into the bottom of the barrel when they invited me. Channel Eight axed Star Power last year. It’s not even a current show. Struggling to fill all the spots on Wild For The Win— which is no surprise; after all who in their right mind would spend ten days in Scotland, during winter, on an island so far north it’s a wonder we didn’t bump into Santa Claus, for no actual reward except the warm fuzzy glow of helping a charity—somehow they landed on my name.
“Yes, I suppose so,” she says, with an irritated shrug. “But Christian, you’re the only one of the whole eight with a brain in your head and an ounce of determination. I’ve only watched Episode 1, but it was obvious. The rest of them seem to think they’re at a holiday camp for grown-ups. I can’t understand why they’re still there and you’re here.” She scrunches her eyes, shaking her head .
Here we go. Now dodging the truth begins.
“Because they dumped me. On day five.”
“How can that be? It’s not like it’s a ‘vote people off’ situation. What did you do? It must have been bad for them to toss you out of there.”
The accusation stings. I know she’s hurting over this. My failure is personal to her. I’ve failed her, and all those people at Canine Haven and all the dogs like these two characters sitting here watching our conversation. If it wasn’t such a tense situation, I’d crack a smile at the way their heads swivel back and forth, first to her, then to me, like it’s a Wimbledon tennis final; and now the ball’s in my court. I lob it back as best I can. It’s not going to be easy to keep inside the lines and still make this an honest match.
“It wasn’t what I did, Haley. It’s what I wouldn’t do. I know my reputation suggests I’m not exactly a guy who would take a stand on his principles, but this time I had to.”
I can see doubt and mistrust in her narrowed eyes. She thinks I’m spinning her a lie. And I am—and I’m not. In her mind, my dodgy principles must seem like a flimsy excuse on which to gamble the future of the dog rescue.
“I can’t tell you anything,” I add, before she asks. “They slapped a ten page NDA on top of the original contract. Made me sign it before they’d let me leave. For the next twelve days, no one can know where I am. I had no choice. It was either that or the bastards really did abandon me in the wild. And then I’d have no chance to fix this.”
“So,” she says slowly, “what’s going to happen when it airs? When it’s Episode 6 and you’re not there?”
I close my eyes and sigh. I’m dreading to find out what nefarious plan those fuckers will hatch to explain my departure. Scandal is good for ratings. Who the hell knows what they’ll cobble together? Whatever it is, I know it will make me look bad. Nice guys who make a stand on principles don’t make for good television.
“They’ll have some plan. Stitch together footage. Tell the story whatever way they choose. And I’ll have to live with the fallout.” I grimace at the thought. It’s happening again. “It’s okay, I’ll survive. I’ve made a career out of weathering shit storms from the lies other people spin.”
I have a desperate need for her to know I’m not the guy the newspapers and entertainment channels say I am, and the click-bait headlines that inevitably accompany my name are untrue. I want her to understand I’m the sort of guy who has a line he won’t cross. But all she’s got is my word for it. I’m praying she’ll take it, even if she’s not totally convinced. On the strength of my friendship with her brother, I’m hoping she’ll believe me.
She pinches at her forehead, eyes half-closed, and the gesture is so damn cute. Even in the middle of this uncertain conversation, her every look, every movement, enchants me. Even though she’s standing there wearing an ugly Christmas jumper with a giant gingerbread man dancing across her delicious breasts. Even though her sleek dark hair is swept up in a ragged bun, with wisps falling across her face and sticking out at odd angles above her ears.
I remember the smell of her hair, so fresh and clean, when I inhaled a sneaky whiff as she offered a consoling hug on that last night of Star Power . Of course, the hug didn’t mean anything. Not to her. Everyone was hugging everybody as Ollie and I faced the fact we weren’t coming back for another night. But it meant something to me. I took my last chance to be near her, to imprint the soft warmth of her in my arms and imagine just for a moment what it would be like to have someone like her as mine.
I didn’t know that night it wouldn’t be the last time; that Ollie and I would put a band together, and because of it, she’d weave in and out of my life again and again over the next few years, each encounter only fanning the little ember of wanting in me. Wanting to know her more, to spend time with her; to let her get to know me. Now, just my luck, when the universe has delivered the opportunity to be with her in the most unexpected way, there’s a high chance she’s going to hate me.
“So, I still don’t understand—why did you come here ?” A little frown line creases between the downward slanting brows. She’s still not convinced. “The middle of London isn’t where I’d choose if I wanted to lie low. I would have thought Ollie’s Somerset house would be the perfect place to hide out.”
She really doesn’t want me here. I can see that. Why would she want me arriving unannounced on her doorstep, a blot on her happy Christmas-soaked Saturday, asking to spoil her life for twelve days? But I need her to let me.
“Apparently not. There’s some Christmas fundraiser thing going on? People paying to visit the house?”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot,” she sighs. “It starts today.”
“And although he swears his staff down there wouldn’t breathe a word, they can’t exactly help me either. That’s really why he sent me here.” I raise my eyes to hers, making a silent plea. “Because he knew you’d take care of the things I can’t do for myself.”
I hold my breath, those green eyes studying me. Either she’ll accept my explanation and agree to take on this unwelcome task. Or insist I call a cab and force me to trust my luck elsewhere.
Haley gives a little nod.
A rush of air hisses between my teeth and I relax a little for the first time in two days. She’s going to help me. It’s not only food and a hot shower at stake here. If I have any chance to fight back against those pricks at Unscripted Productions, I need an ally who can move outside in the real world, as well as let me loose on her laptop. I might be out, but I’m not down, and I’m going to fight for what I know is right. At this moment, I need to start by simply getting Haley to let me stay.
It seems I’ve won the first round. She turns and pads down the passage, dainty feet encased in the most ridiculous fluffy socks. The ring of reindeer heads around the edge of each sock bobs in time to the movement, fortunately distracting my eyes away from the sight of her neat little arse in a pair of candy-cane covered pyjama bottoms.
She returns, arms loaded with a stack of fluffy white towels. Is this a hint? I know I reek.
“Guest room is made up. The first on the left. You know where the bathroom is. Don’t hog it. I want a shower sometime today too,” she says.
So we’re sharing a bathroom? I thought she’d be upstairs. There have to be at least three bedrooms up there besides Ollie’s. She notices my raised brow.
“Yeah, I moved my room down here. With two dogs, running up and down the stairs to let them out in the back garden isn’t my idea of fun. Not when you’ve got oldies who can’t hang on all night like they used to.”
“Oh, yeah, right,” I say. “Makes sense.”
She sure is devoted to these dogs. I like that. Dogs have always been an important part of my life, from the time I was a little kid. It’s the memories of my childhood canine companion that got me to agree to this stupid reality TV show in the first place; and also what got me kicked off it.
“Thanks Haley,” I mumble, standing to take the towels from her. My hands brush hers and they’re so damn smooth; tiny and delicate. What I’d give for one of those hands to rest on my head as they do when offering an affectionate pat to the big pointy-eared dog. Or to run down my body, like when she slides one finger along the sleek length of the orange dog’s spine. If my brain keeps on this track, I might need that shower on cold. I grab my bag and get the hell out of there before she notices the prominent lump straining at my pants.
The shower not only removes two days of filth but induces a dragging tiredness. Once dried off, I don’t bother to dress, but fasten the towel around my hips and head straight for the bedroom. I fall naked but clean between crisp sheets and into a deep dreamless sleep, where not even thoughts of my delicious new roommate can intrude.
When I wake, a couple of hours later, it’s to the pleasant everyday sounds of the household. Even the muffled music playing—although it’s still recognisable as damn Christmas songs—is soothing. Hearing Haley moving around—it sounds like she’s in the kitchen—life feels normal. Realising this is what a normal life would be like, there’s a pang of regret. Fame and money have given me a lot of things, but perhaps not the very simple ones I truly want; the things I really need.
I tug on my one set of clean clothes and wander back down to the lounge. It’s like a Christmas volcano has erupted. Every surface is slathered with decorations: wreaths, garlands, door hangers. And then there’s that tree, the most-overdressed I’ve ever seen. It wouldn’t look out of place at Harrods. Its fresh outdoor tang blends with a sweet, spicy smell drifting from the kitchen. My stomach twists in an angry growl. I can’t remember when I last ate.
The dogs, now both in matching Christmas jumpers, are curled on the sofa, sleeping. Two tails thump in greeting as I sit between them. One raises a head, while the other welcomes me with an enthusiastic bark. I breathe in their smell, slightly pungent but warmly familiar. They both wiggle their soft bodies closer so we’re touching, and I revel in the contact. I’ve missed the easy companionship of dogs. I give each a scratch, my nails massaging their spines, and they whine with pleasure. When I stop, the noise escalates as they beg for more.
This summons Haley, who leans in the doorframe. She’s still dressed for the season, but this time in a more subdued snowflake jumper, the green of the background highlighting her emerald eyes. A pair of dark jeans hug her slender form and she’s replaced the silly reindeer socks with slouchy black suede boots.
My breath catches at the sight of her, and my body twitches with desire. I swallow hard, grateful for the dog now draped across my knees, its large body covering my inconvenient erection. It’s shaping up to be a very long twelve days.