Chapter Four

Mackenzie

What’s Will doing here?

I stop dead on the driveway and stare at his car. Did he come ’round to see me? Why didn’t he phone? How long has he been here?

It’s midafternoon on Sunday, and I’ve spent most of the day out with a group of girls I went to school with, catching up on gossip over brunch. Brooklyn couldn’t make it, but I’m meeting her later. Why didn’t I take Dad’s car today? The wind on the walk back from the bus stop has left my hair in a tangled mess.

My stomach free falls, even though I know I’m being completely illogical and dramatic. It doesn’t matter how I look. We’re just friends, nothing more. I repeat that mantra a couple of times as I unlock the front door and step inside. The house is quiet, and there’s no sign of Will or Dad in the sitting room, where everyone tends to hang out. Weird.

There’s no one in the kitchen, but the back door’s open. And standing in the middle of the garden, next to the lawn mower, are Dad and Will.

Is he actually cutting the grass?

That doesn’t make sense. Why would he be doing that? Right now, he’s drinking a bottle of water, his head tipped back, and it’s like his throat is a magnet because I can’t tear my fascinated gaze away.

Almost as though he knows I’m standing here, he lowers the bottle, slowly wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and gives me his sexy smile. Crap. It’s like I’ve been caught doing something disgusting, even though I’m totally not perving on him at all. Just because he’s wearing a pair of faded jeans that hug his muscled thighs in a way too distracting manner doesn’t mean I was checking him out.

Keep telling yourself that.

Dad turns, sees me, and raises his hand in greeting. There’s no escape now, and I take a deep breath and saunter across the garden toward them.

Stop hyperventilating. My hands are clammy, and I have the suicidal urge to grin at Will. The closer I get, the harder it is to keep my eyes off the white T-shirt that stretches across his chest like an illicit caress.

An unwanted flashback streaks across my mind, of how I once worshipped his breathtaking pecs in all their naked glory.

Stop right there. No way am I going to think about the night almost two years ago, when we took advantage of that hanging sprig of mistletoe. Especially when we’ve only just managed to put the past behind us.

Dad kisses me, and after he’s asked me how my day was, he turns back to Will. “I’ll get some of that Danish oil you suggested,” he says.

Huh?

“A couple of coats will do it before we pack them away for winter.” Will nods at our wooden garden furniture on the patio. “If you want, I can pop round in a couple of weeks and sort it out.”

I can’t stop myself. “What’re you doing?”

He shrugs and avoids my eyes. “Nothing.”

“Will’s been marvelous,” Dad says. “Popping round during the past year to look after the garden. I really do appreciate your help,” he adds, smiling at Will, who appears to find his battered boots the most fascinating thing ever.

I glance at Dad, before staring at Will. Again. It’s like I can’t tear my eyes from him. “You’ve…” I hesitate, sure I’m misunderstanding something. Except I know I’m not. “You’ve been doing the garden since Mr. Fletcher died?”

Mr. Fletcher, our neighbor who was elderly even when I was a little kid, loved gardening more than life itself and had kept our garden in check for as long as I can remember.

Whenever I came home from Uni why didn’t I realize the grass wasn’t overgrown and the flower beds weren’t turning into a jungle? I guess, in the back of my mind, I assumed Lucas and Harry were doing it.

Get real. I just didn’t think about it at all.

But why didn’t Dad tell me?

I know the answer already. Why would he? He wouldn’t tell me if one of my brothers were keeping the weeds under control, and as far as Dad’s concerned, Will is part of the family.

He grunts in response to my question and continues to scrutinize his boots. Is he embarrassed? At least I’m not the only one.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Dad says, before ambling back to the house, and I can’t keep my mouth shut any longer.

“But gardening?”

He screws the cap back on the bottle with enough concentration to man a rocket to Europa. “I like being outside.”

I’m practically speechless. I mean sure, I know he loves being outside. He’d have to, with all the different sports he’s played over the years. It’s hardly the same thing. “I’m kind of shocked, that’s all.”

Finally, he grins and catches my gaze. “Could’ve fooled me.”

I let out a disbelieving huff. I don’t know why I feel so wrong-footed. “Do Lucas and Harry know?”

He shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. “Don’t know. It’s no big deal. I’m just helping out your dad.”

For a whole year. Because underneath his wild party rep, that’s the kind of great guy he is. The one I fell for, and never quite got over.

It’s not his fault that for one incredible night I thought there could be more between us.

“Well, thanks.” I smile. I’m so glad we had that friends-again talk yesterday. Otherwise I’d have no clue how to handle this right now.

You still don’t.

“I don’t need thanks.” His grin is hypnotic, and I have the scary urge to move closer to him. Don’t you dare. “There’s no garden with my flat. I miss getting my hands dirty.”

“Aha.” I cross my arms so I’m not tempted to give him a friendly prod on the shoulder. Or think about what else his hands could do. “This is therapy for you, is it?”

“Cheaper than a shrink.”

I don’t want to go back into the house. I want to stay out here while he works, trade mocking insults the way we used to, and secretly drool over the sexy splendor of his biceps.

We’re friends again now. I could do that. Except friends don’t fantasize over perfectly structured musculature. Guess I need to work on that.

“See you, then.” I sound nonchalant, which is a huge relief, and I stroll back to the house. But my skin prickles with awareness, and I just know he’s watching me.

It doesn’t mean anything. And even if it does, it’s not like we’re going to jump over that line again. It takes all my self-control not to give in to the clawing need to glance over my shoulder. Just because I discovered a different side to him today doesn’t change the facts. But the scent of freshly mown grass drifting in the breeze is always going to remind me of today.

Brooklyn’s already at The Swan when I arrive, perched on a barstool by one of the artistically crumbling brick walls, and greets me by dramatically pointing at the two enormous cocktails on the table.

I sit on the stool opposite her, lean my elbows on the high bar table between us, and take a long suck of the blush pink drink, which is topped off with a couple of chocolate sticks and greenery.

“Uhh.” I blink to stop my eyes watering. “Okay, that’s pretty foul.”

“Undrinkable?”

“I’ll suffer.” I take another suck of the straw. We’ve been coming to the historic mid-eighteenth-century bar, right on the Portobello Road, ever since we turned eighteen, and somehow started a ritual where we’d find the most revolting cocktails ever. If either of us couldn’t drain the glass, the other won.

Since neither of us are quitters, we’ve never had to figure out what the loser needs to forfeit, but along the way, we’ve found some unexpected gems.

Tonight is not a gem night.

“What’s happening with Atomic Fire, then?” Brooklyn tucks wayward strands of her platinum blond hair behind her ear. Although she isn’t directly involved in the Foundation, she always helps whenever we need an extra pair of hands. “Do you need to find a new act?”

“I’m trying not to focus on the worst-case scenario.”

“Hey.” She reaches across the table and gives my fingers a quick squeeze. “If Jake bails, it’s not your fault.”

Her support means everything, but she knows how deep in the shit we’ll be if Atomic Fire pulls out at this late stage. And since I’m in charge, the buck stops with me. Sure, insurance covers the monetary loss, but it doesn’t help find another A-list act or fix excited kids’ disappointment.

Failure is not an option.

“I think everything’s fine.” I give her a brief recap of the visit. “Hopefully that’s the end of it.”

“I hate to say it, but keep hoping.” She takes a long sip of her drink and gives a delicate shudder.

“Positive vibes, Brook. I already have the zero rating from Will.”

Her head jerks up, lips still clamped around her straw, and a loud slurping noise erupts from her glass. She coughs out her straw and pins me to my seat with her steely gray gaze. “Will?”

Even though the potential disaster of Atomic Fire backing out haunts me, I haven’t been able to get Will out of my head. “We went to the hospital together.”

She narrows her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was in a rush when I texted. It’s no big deal.” Why did I even say that? It’s a good job she knows me so well.

“Oh. My. God.” Brooklyn sucks in a breath, flattens her hand over her heart, and addresses the dark timber ceiling. “You had lunch with him.”

Just because I didn’t tell her why I couldn’t meet her for lunch yesterday doesn’t mean I wasn’t going to. Truth is, I’m desperate to discuss the whole thing with her, as then I might be able to stop obsessing about it.

“It was a last-minute thing. We only went to the Park Café.”

“With Will Hamilton. The guy you avoid like an outbreak of Ebola.”

“Lucas decided I needed protection from Jake and asked him to pick me up. I’m going to tell my brother what I think of that, but it was hardly Will’s fault. It would’ve been rude not to have lunch with him afterward.”

Brooklyn looks supremely underwhelmed by my explanation. “What happened? Did you push him into the Serpentine?”

“No. It was all very…civilized.”

“Civilized.” She rolls the word around as though tasting every syllable. “We’re talking about the same Will, aren’t we?”

Although Brooklyn and Will have known each other for years—we were all at the same school, after all—she hasn’t seen much of him lately. Everything she knows about how things are between us has come from me.

And I might not have been quite straight with her. Because the truth is, Will’s attitude toward me never really changed after that night. It was me, twisted up with embarrassment at my naiveté thinking that maybe we’d had a special connection, and then the ridiculous sense of disillusionment the following day when he broke his whispered, midnight promise to me.

I haven’t even told Brooklyn about that promise, which just goes to prove how completely stupid I was to get so hurt over it. Of course he didn’t want to spend Boxing Day at an exhibition of my artwork. Even my parents never took my art seriously, so why would Will?

He could’ve called to let me know he wasn’t coming. Not just left me standing there in the freezing cold while snowflakes blurred my vision.

I take another sip of the disgustingly sweet nightmare in front of me. There’s no point discussing the past when I have a far worse problem hanging over my head.

“It’s not that I still fancy him.” If I say that out loud to my best friend, I might start to believe it myself. But instead of agreeing with me, she gives a disbelieving snort.

“Babe, this is me you’re talking to.”

“What?” It’s all I can manage, since I’ve never given her any hint that a secret, infuriating part of me has never got over him. But she knew?

“Even when you were dating Jon, and what’s his name before him, it was still Will you talked about most of the time. You don’t need to be a brain surgeon to figure that one out.”

“I didn’t talk about him that much.” My protest sounds hollow because I have the terrible feeling she’s right. Horror skates through me. “You don’t think anyone else knows, do you?”

By anyone else I mean, obviously, Will. Because that would just be beyond mortifying.

“No. But then they don’t know about that night, do they?”

True. But I’m not talking about my family, because I’ve been super careful about keeping my hookup a secret. My brothers always turned a bit Neanderthal whenever they met any of my boyfriends. Although it was more of a running joke than anything else, I don’t think they would’ve found me being with Will funny. The last thing I needed was them giving me grief over it.

Panic claws through me as I trawl through everything that happened yesterday. And today. I don’t think I betrayed myself. “I’d seriously die if Will knew.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it.” Brooklyn gives my clenched fingers another comforting squeeze. “Unless you jumped his bones while you were having lunch,” she puts totally unnecessary emphasis on those words, “he won’t have a clue.”

“It’s not as though I intend to do anything about it.”

“Why would you? You’re not seeing him again. Are you?”

I tap the straw against the rim of my glass. “I saw him again today. You’ll never guess. He’s been doing the gardening for my dad.”

“That’s weird.”

“He enjoys it.”

“Whatever.” She shakes her head. “That’s not what I meant.”

“We might be getting together again next week.” And this is what I need to talk to you about.

“He asked you out on a date?” She sounds enthralled.

“What? No.” Why did she jump to that conclusion? “It’s really stupid. He paid for my lunch, and instead of just letting it go, I told him I owed him one.”

“So, you asked him out on a date.”

That word might’ve crossed my mind at the time, but that doesn’t make it true. What am I thinking?

“Haven’t you forgotten something? I’m not dating anyone until after I graduate.”

She makes a scoffing sound. “There’s dating, and there’s dating. I’m not suggesting you get serious or anything. Just a bit of fun before you go back to Uni.”

“With Will?’ I double check, because I doubt there’s a definition of dating that could cover that.

“Why not?”

“I can’t believe you’re even asking me that. Just because I still think he’s hot doesn’t mean I want to get burned again.”

“You won’t get burned.”

I must admit, it’s kind of tempting.

Are you completely losing it? That’s the worst idea I’ve had since kissing him under the mistletoe.

“Not going to happen.”

“The thing is”—she points her straw at me—“you might want to think about getting him out of your system once and for all.”

She can’t be serious. “Are you saying we should be fuck buddies?”

“Why not? I bet you anything he’d be up for it. And the important thing is, then you’d get more than one night’s memory of him. Not being funny, but you know, he was your first. I think it kind of warped things for you.”

There’s no way I’d ever sleep with him again, no matter how badly my body wants to. It’d be a disaster. I’m supposed to be getting over him, not on top of him.

Graphic memories of when I did just that flood my traitorous mind, and I swallow a groan. As first times go, mine was pretty damn spectacular. If he’d been a selfish prick and not given me three orgasms that night, it would’ve been a lot easier to relegate him to a below average, never-to-be-repeated one-night stand.

My logical brain knows this.

It’s a shame my primitive instincts don’t.