Something Borrowed

CONFETTI HITCHED

BOOK TWO

LILY MORTON

Copyright © 2024 by Lily Morton

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Editing by Edie Danford

Proofreading by Lori Parks

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

References to real people, events, organisations, establishments or locations are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organisations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Please purchase only authorised editions.

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following products mentioned in this work of fiction: Mackintosh, Harvey Nichols, Kouros, Ray-Bans, KitKat, Selfridges, Kentucky Fried Chicken, Hoover, Budweiser, L’Oréal, Davidoff, HMV, Clarks, Uber, Lotus, WH Smiths, BBC, Converse, Tripadvisor, John Lewis, Bentley, Coco perfume, Opium perfume, Harrods, Play-Doh, CBeebies, Nobu, Spearmint Rhino, IKEA, Rennie, Initio, Byredo, Netflix, Fortnum & Mason, Baccarat Rouge, McDonalds, YouTube, Etsy, Fila, Adidas Gazelle, Disney, Starbucks.

All songs, song titles and lyrics mentioned in the novel are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

Warning

This book contains material that is intended for a mature, adult audience. It contains graphic language, explicit sexual content, and adult situations.

Something Borrowed

Stan has never let his blindness hold him back, but he’s beginning to realise his love life is keeping him from moving forward.

He can’t remember a time when he wasn’t in love with his best friend. Rafferty is everything to him—his partner in crime, his confidante, and the person who understands him best. But Rafferty is incapable of reciprocating Stan’s feelings.

As a successful wedding planner, Rafferty is passionately committed to helping newlyweds begin their happily-ever-afters, but after a rootless childhood he’s equally determined not to seek his own. How can he trust in love and marriage when so many of his brides and grooms are repeat customers?

Stan is the glue that keeps the pieces of Rafferty’s life together, and as such Rafferty has always kept Stan safely in the friend box where he can’t lose him. However, lately that conviction has wavered and now Rafferty is bursting with complicated feelings for his best friend. The timing couldn’t be worse because Rafferty has realised he’s in love with Stan just as Stan is moving on.

From bestselling author Lily Morton comes a friends-to-lovers story about realising you have the perfect man when you’re on the brink of losing him.

This is the second book in the bestselling Confetti Hitched series, but it can be read as a standalone.

For Nat.

I’m sorry I couldn’t manage to work Sir Clifford Clemency the Third into the story for you, but I think you’ll be happy with Stan instead.

Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.

—Lord Byron

Chapter

One

Rafferty

I come awake slowly to three realisations. First, my head is pulsing like a tiny goblin is trying to bang its way out of my skull. Second, if I move, I might very well vomit. Third, someone’s long body is hot against my back and an arm is resting over my waist.

I freeze. Has someone broken into my flat to cuddle me?

I’m pondering the fact that I’ve had weirder things happen over the years, when a deep snore ruffles my hair.

I force my eyes open and immediately throw up my arm as a shield against the nuclear blast currently detonating outside the window. After a moment, when I feel more capable of dealing with the sun, I drop my arm and look over my shoulder.

There’s a man behind me. I don’t panic, because this is a regular occurrence. I examine his face, trying to remember who he is.

He’s slim with red hair that falls over his eyes, and I vaguely remember dancing at a club last night and drinking shots. So many shots.

I swallow hard to relieve my nausea and taste tequila on my tongue.

“Fuck,” I whisper plaintively.

When no one comes to help me, I lie still for a minute or so, waiting bravely for death. It’s quiet here and seems like a good enough place to pop my clogs. And that’s when I have a fourth realisation. It slams into my brain like a tennis racket in the face—a tennis racket wielded by Venus Williams.

“Oh shit,” I shout, jumping out of bed. I catch my foot in the duvet and nearly faceplant but manage to steady myself on the dresser. “Bollocks,” I hiss.

The man in the bed stirs. He opens his eyes, blinks, and then gives me a lazy smile. “Hey, babe. You’re still here.”

I’m equally surprised, but I don’t have time to express it as I search wildly for my clothes. “Oh, god,” I whisper. “I’m so fucked. Fucked, I tell you.”

He rises to a sitting position. “What are you doing, babe?”

Again, with the babe. I’m unsure what I’ve done to earn that endearment, so it makes me rather nervous.

“I'm looking for my clothes,” I mutter and then exclaim triumphantly when I find my jeans. I debate searching for my underwear, but this is a Category One emergency, so commando it is. At this stage in my life, I’ve been commando more than a member of His Majesty’s special armed services.

“Oh no, don’t go.” The man gives me a pretty smile. “I was going to make you breakfast.”

I pause and put my hand to my stomach, swallowing hard. “No breakfast, thank you,” I whisper.

He pouts and settles back in the bed. “Still, there’s no rush. We can have a lazy morning and maybe go out for breakfast later. What are you doing now?”

I glance back. “Looking for my shirt.”

“In my rubbish bin?”

“It’s been in a lot wilder places.”

He snorts. “I bet it has, naughty boy.”

I exclaim in triumph when I finally find the shirt. For some reason, it’s in his window box. I gingerly pull the now-damp item of clothing back into the room. It smells of rain, tequila, and poor decisions.

“You can wear one of mine, silly,” the man says, jumping out of bed. He rummages in a drawer and pulls out a T-shirt. “Here,” he says, tossing it to me.

“Thank you.” I pull it on distractedly. “Have you seen my phone?”

“I think it’s in the lounge,” he offers, leaning naked against the dresser. “I like seeing you in my clothes.”

I ignore this statement and his rather alarming tone of voice and race into the living room with him following me. I nearly fall over an empty wine bottle that’s lying on the carpet. “Ouch,” I say, rubbing my foot and watching the bottle roll across the floor to join two more. “Did we have a visit from James Hetfield last night?”

I jump when a hand slides across my arse.

“Not likely,” he purrs. “I don’t share what’s mine.”

I gulp. “You don’t?”

“No. I keep precious things very, very close.”

“And by precious things, you probably mean your food,” I say nervously. “I know I hate to share my marmite cashews. They’re precious, and Stan can call me Gollum all he likes, but he knows if he reaches for the bag, his fingers will get rapped.”

The seeking hand freezes. “Who is Stan?”

“My best friend. There it is!” I exclaim in triumph and leap for the phone. I pick it up with shaking fingers and then moan despairingly when I see the time. “It’s ten o’clock. Oh god.”

“Is there a problem?”

Instead of answering, I tap a familiar number on my phone’s screen. “Come on, come on,” I mutter, pacing as I listen to it ring. “Climb off Lachlan’s dick and answer the phone.”

“Who are you talking to, sweetheart?”

The call connects. “What?” Joe says cautiously into my ear. I can’t begrudge him his air of worry.

“I need a favour.”

He groans. “Last time you said that we got fined for causing a public disturbance.”

“No, this time it’s really bad,” I whisper. “I need you, Joe.”

“Joe?” the man asks from behind me. “Who the fuck is Joe?”

“Who’s that?” Joe asks.

“No one,” I say over the insistent voice of the man who is now frowning at me—the man who appears to think we’re married.

“It doesn’t sound like no one,” Joe says, his voice rich with amusement as my bedmate paces the room and shouts about people who cheat.

“Well, it is,” I say in a quelling voice. “Joe, I’ve got the Hollis wedding today.”

“Yeah, I know. You’ll be fine.”

“That might be true if I’d gone to bed at an early hour in my own bed. Sober,” I add with emphasis.

“Oh god,” Joe says.

I walk back into the bedroom. “I know,” I whisper. “I woke up naked, and apparently, I’m now in some sort of a relationship I have no memory of agreeing to. I leave that sort of behaviour to you, mate.” Joe laughs. “This is serious,” I hiss. I look at my watch and groan. “The bride will arrive at the church in an hour.”

I look over at my bedmate, who’s joined me in the bedroom and is still frowning. I ask him, “I don’t suppose you have a spare morning suit hanging around?”

“I don’t know any dead people,” he snaps.

Joe snorts in my ear.

“That’s not what I meant—” I start to explain and then give up. “Well, you know me,” I say briskly. “And I’m about to enter a corpse state if I don’t make this wedding on time, because my boss will fucking kill me.”

“Oh my god, you’re getting married.”

“This is going well,” Joe murmurs in my ear.

“I’m a wedding planner,” I try to say to the man, but he’s talking over me. I grip the phone and tell Joe, “Don’t pay any attention.”

“How can I help it when you appear to have set up home on the set of Hollyoaks?”

“I hope not.” I shudder. “Someone was wearing a tracksuit to a wedding the last time I looked at that show.” I shake myself. "Can you pop into my flat and grab my grey morning suit?” I spy my trainers by the bedside table, and step into them. “I’ll need my top hat and my emergency bag, which is on the dresser in my bedroom.”

“Your emergency bag? That makes it sound like you’re about to give birth rather than just being a chronic ho.”

“Grab that bag, too,” I continue in a repressive tone. “Get a taxi and meet me at—” I look at the pretty man glaring at me. “Where are we—?” I try again to recall his name. “Nick?” I venture.

He glares at me and slams out of the room.

“Not Nick, then. Never mind,” I say wildly to Joe. “I know you can track me down.”

“It feels like we’re on the set of Last of the Mohicans.”

“Use the app on your iPhone.”

“Isn’t that a bit stalkerish?”

“If you showed up now with a bunch of roses stuck up your bum, I would still kiss you.”

“That isn’t the reach you think it is. Didn’t one of your conquests du jour turn up wearing only daisies?”

“It wasn’t quite so erotic when it set off my hay fever.”

Joe laughs.

“Come and get me,” I hiss.

There’s a long pause. “What was the first thing you asked me to do? It’s such a long list I’ve forgotten already.”

“Joe.”

“Okay, but you owe me big time. By the look of my phone, you’re in Islington, so I won’t be long.”

“I am?” I dash to the window. “Oh, thank you, tiny Baby Jesus. I’m near St James church.”

“How apt. They can bury you there when Jed catches you. Isn’t he a friend of the bride’s father?”

“Stop talking.”

He laughs again and rings off.

Twenty minutes later, a taxi pulls up to the curb where I’m pacing. “Thank god,” I mutter, opening the door and sliding in.

“Where’s your new husband?” Joe asks, a thread of amusement running through his voice. I glare at him, and his lip twitches.

“I do not have a husband,” I say with dignity, which I promptly lose when the door to the house opens. “Oh Christ, step on it,” I call to the driver.

He turns rather ponderously. “This is not an episode of Dempsey and Makepeace, sir.”

“Dempsey and who?”

He shakes his head. “Bloody kids.”

My bedmate starts towards the car, mouthing something.

“Is that him?” Joe asks.

“What are you doing?” I ask him, panicked.

“Just waving,” my twat of a friend says happily. “It’d be rude not to.”

I grab his hand and force it down. “Well, don’t.” I lower the window cautiously. “Thanks for last night,” I call. “It was wonderful.”

“Wanker,” the man cries.

“Is that someone he knows?” the driver asks Joe while thankfully engaging the central locking system.

“I think so, Nigel,” Joe answers with a great deal of relish. “But it’s always so difficult to tell with Rafferty.”

“Ah, probably a pissed-off boyfriend, then.” He observes the redhead standing outside the car. “Takes a few years to build up that head of steam,” he adds knowledgeably.

“Oh no,” Joe says. “Raff’s only known him for a few hours, but I regard them as dog hours, where each minute lasts for a century.”

I glare at them. “Could we please get a move on?”

Finally, Nigel starts off. Joe leans toward me and scans my face. “Let’s have a look at you.” He blanches. “Oh fuck.”

“Is it bad?” I ask frantically, pulling my phone out and clicking on the camera.

He bats my hand away. “Well, your eyes look a teeny bit hungover. The last time I saw that particular shade of red, I was watching the creepy room scene in The Amityville Horror.”

“That house’s horrors will have nothing on my life if Jed finds out what’s happened.”

He hands me my bag, and I rummage frantically through it. “Aha,” I exclaim in triumph when I find my eye drops. I add a couple to each eye and another two for good luck. “How’s that now?” I ask.

Joe purses his lips. “You look like you’ve got myxomatosis.”

“Is that something I could offer as an excuse to Jed?”

“Not unless you’re a rabbit starring in Watership Down.”

“Shit.” I grab my toothbrush, squeeze out a line of toothpaste, and brush my teeth. “That’s bliss,” I garble through a mouthful of foam, and he hands me a bottle of water to rinse.

“You’ll have to swallow the foam, as I didn’t pack your spittoon.”

“How very disappointing.”

I splash water on my face and then reach for my face wash. Lathering up, I catch the driver’s eyes on me. He's staring at me in his mirror, fascinated as we sit in the queue at some lights.

“Okay?” I ask him.

“Absolutely,” he says. “Don’t mind me.”

“No problem.” I spill some water onto my hands and wash my face, before patting it dry on the towel Joe hands me from my bag. “That feels so much better.”

I reach for the moisturiser. “How long will this take, Nigel?” I ask, nerves squirming in my stomach.

He shrugs. “A while. There are roadworks on the route to St James.”

“Oh fuck,” I breathe.

Joe nudges me. “Don’t think about it. Concentrate on what you’ve got to do.”

I whip the T-shirt off and roll on some deodorant. Becoming aware of a commotion in the car next to us, I look over and see two women waving and cheering. I look down at my bare chest and laugh before giving them a lordly salute.

Joe clears his throat. He’s sitting calm and collected, one leg crossed over the other, sunlight gleaming on his intensely blingy wedding ring. “Back to the humdrum problems of your immediate future. Do you think Jed will disembowel you first, or opt for something slower?”

I roll my eyes and immediately regret it. They might drop out of their sockets. “He’ll probably do both,” I say gloomily, reaching for the tube of paracetamol in my bag and swallowing two with the last of the water.

I brush my hair, which is hitting my shoulders and will undoubtedly be the subject of another lecture from my boss at the next staff meeting. I turn to Joe. “Well?”

He grimaces. “I suppose you’ll do. Could you get away with wearing sunglasses in the church?”

“Hardly. The vicar’s a bit of a stickler for tradition. I don’t know why. Last week, he married Sally Parsons in what looked like a sheet.”

He snorts, and I reach into the suit bag to get my shirt. I fumble around, and panic starts to stir. “Where’s my shirt?”

Joe blinks. “In there?”

I shake my head, pulling out the dark grey morning suit and then searching frantically to the bottom of the bag. “It’s not there.”

“Oh dear. Your emergency measures could do with some refining.”

“Oh my god. I’ll have to go bare-chested to church. What am I going to do?”

“Have we got time to stop at a shop?”

“No.” Panic combines uneasily with my headache, making me feel like I might throw up. I stare out the window to steady myself, and then do a double take. We’re next to a bus stop, where a line of bored-looking people are waiting.

“Pull over, please,” I call to Nigel.

“What?”

“Can you please pull over by the bus stop? Right here.”

Grumbling, he stops the car. I open the window. “Hey, Bobby,” I call out to the last man in line.

“Raff?” he says, squinting at the taxi.

“Yes, babe. Can I have a quick word?”

He strides over. “For you anything.”

I grin at him. “I need your shirt.”

“What?”

“I need to borrow your shirt.”

“Not your usual tactics, Raff. You usually just go straight for the trousers.”

Joe snorts. Desperation tugs at me, and I say to Bobby, “I’ll give you a hundred quid for it.”

“Are you taking the piss?” Bobby narrows his eyes. “Oh, are you drunk again?”

“Oh god,” Joe sighs behind me.

I smile at Bobby. “Not this time.”

I can’t believe we’ve run into him. We’ve shagged a few times, yet we’re still civil. It’s like meeting an actual miracle.

Bobby continues to stare at me quizzically.

I look at my watch, groan at the time ticking away, and talk frantically. “A hundred quid and front-row tickets to whatever show you want to see.”

“Really?”

I nod. “Hurry up,” I urge.

“Is this how you get so many men out of their clothes?” Joe says in a tone of revelation.

“I’m going to get done for this,” Nigel says in a dire voice. “The mayor of fucking London will have my licence. I can’t stop here. I can’t go there. I’m pretty sure I’ll end up carrying people on my back the way that man is going.”

“Well?” I say to Bobby.

He hesitates and then grins. “Yeah, of course.”

He strips off his white shirt and then pauses. “What am I supposed to wear, Raff?”

“Oh.” I fumble for the T-shirt I was wearing. “How about this?”

He takes it from me. “You want me to wear a shirt with Southwark Fun Run written on it? I don’t know about that, babe. People might think I’m energetic.”

I wink. “I seem to remember you are. Think of the hundred quid and tickets for a show.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, why not.”

I retrieve my wallet from my jeans pocket and take a quick glance inside. I look back at Joe. “How much money have you got on you?”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Fifty quid.”

“Great. Hand it over.”

I add Joe’s fifty to mine and hand it to Bobby along with my business card. “Nice doing business with you. Ring me on that number tomorrow, and I’ll sort out your tickets.”

“That’s great, but you should know that I’d have done it for another shag,” he says, winking at me before walking back to the bus stop.

“Is your cock made of gold?” Joe enquires.

“It’s much more precious than that.” I settle back in my seat. “Okay, Nigel. Drive like the wind, please.”

“You are aware that this is bloody London, sir. Even the wind gets charged for using the roads here.” He signals and pulls into the road again.

Joe is looking at me, one eyebrow raised.

“What?” I ask.

“Is there a street corner anywhere where we won’t find one of your conquests?”

“Maybe in Kidderminster.”

He taps his fingers on his jean-clad thigh. “Where’s Stan?”

I blink at the change of subject. “At Bennett’s house, I expect.”

“Hmm.”

“What?” I ask, irritated. “Why did you make that sound?”

“I can’t help noticing that your wild behaviour has stepped up a few thousand notches lately.”

“I cannot keep up with your wild changes of subject when I’m sober, let alone hungover to my eyeballs.”

“It’s all connected.”

“What is?”

“Never mind. So, Stan is out with Bennett again. That seems to be getting pretty serious?”

My stomach churns, and I wonder if I’m going to be sick. “Yeah,” I say quietly, my mood shifting downhill. “God knows why. Bennett is far too old for him, and bossy doesn’t even begin to cover his personality.”

“But Stan likes him?”

“So it seems.” I shake off that depressing thought and reach for the buttons on my jeans before pausing. “Okay, I’m going to get dressed, but there’s a teeny problem.”

“Oh god.” Joe sighs.

Nigel eyes me through the mirror. “Have we got to stop again so you can exchange more clothes with another stranger?”

“I actually did know that one.”

“Biblically,” Joe adds.

Nigel ignores us. “Do you need to have a shower installed in the taxi, sir? Or maybe I should ring for a masseur?”

“No, but I need to get dressed, and I’m afraid I forgot my underwear.”

“You naughty little minx,” Joe says.

Nigel rolls his eyes. “I’m quite sure you haven’t got anything I haven’t seen before, sir, but do try to keep the flashing to a minimum. The mayor of London has probably legislated against that, too.”

“Good bloke,” I announce cheerfully. I kick off my shoes and wriggle out of my jeans before manoeuvring myself into my suit trousers with a great deal of swearing.

“I can’t believe you’re going commando to Moira’s wedding,” Joe says in a far too admiring tone. “Her mother has a fit of the conniptions if someone rolls up their sleeves.”

“She’s unlikely to know unless I split my trousers like you.”

“Oh god, don’t remind me.”

“Time?” I say, reaching for the socks and shoes inside my bag.

“Ten forty.”

“Oh fuck.” I fan my hand in front of my face after putting on my footwear. “The bride arrives at eleven. I feel faint.”

“Faint after,” Joe says unsympathetically.

“If I fall and hit my head, will Jed let me off?”

“No.”

“Well, at least I’m nearly dressed. That’s one thing in my favour. I’ll look nice in my coffin when he murders me.”

“The morning you’re having, you should clutch at all the straws you can find.”

I pull on the shirt, fastening the cuffs with ease of practice, feeling my heart rate settle a little. I can face most things if I’m properly attired. I pull the shirt across my chest and pause, looking down uncomprehendingly. I pull it again and then again. “Bollocks,” I whisper.

In the midst of my great emergency plan, I’d forgotten that Bobby was smaller than me. I look over at Joe, feeling like I might throw up. “It won’t button up.”

He stares at me for a long few seconds, his mouth working, and I wonder if he’s going to cry. Then he bursts into laughter.

“Oh, fuck off,” I say sourly, pulling at the shirt as if I’ve suddenly become a magical tailor and can make it enlarge with the power of my own hands. “Motherfucker. Why did I borrow a shirt from him of all people?”

Joe snorts again, wiping his eyes. “I can’t wait to tell Lachlan.”

“Tell him to come to the wedding. He can witness my downfall at close quarters. Bugger.” I tug at the shirt. It moves a bit, and I manage to get the buttons done up to my mid-chest level and then give up, unzipping my trousers and forcing the shirt tails in. “Hand me my jacket,” I instruct.

He obeys, and I slide into it. I grab my top hat from the hatbox and cram it on my head. “How do I look?” I ask.

His lip twitches. “Honesty, or complete flannel and nonsense?”

“I’d like more flannel than the towel department of John Lewis, please.”

“You look a picture of elegance and poise.”

“Ta.”

The car shudders to a stop, and I look ahead and groan in terror. We’re in a traffic jam that seems to go on for miles. “Oh shit. Can’t we go round it?”

“No,” Nigel says with a conspicuous lack of sympathy.

I look frantically at Joe. “What time is it now?”

“Ten to eleven.”

“How far are we from St James church?” I ask Nigel.

“About five minutes.”

“I’ll make a run for it.”

“You’re going to run for the church?” Joe asks.

“It wouldn’t be the strangest thing we’ve had to do.”

“True.”

I clap him on the back and then open the door. “Thanks for everything, Nigel,” I shout. “Joe will pay you.”

“Of course he will,” Joe says sourly.

“I may be gone for some time,” I tell him in a solemn voice.

“I’d rather be Ernest Shackleton than you at the moment, mate. At least he had a head start on that mountain. And he might have escaped Jed, who doesn’t like heights.”

I wave and edge around the cars in the queue. When I reach the pavement, I start to run.

A five-foot-eleven man running along London streets in a full morning suit, a top hat, and half a shirt doesn’t attract as much attention as you’d think, but my five minutes of strenuous activity are still full of ribald remarks and jeering. At last, I arrive at the bulk of the old church and lean against the wall for a second, panting, holding my side, and vowing to do more on the treadmill in the future. That’s if I don’t die from having a stitch this morning.

People edge past me in their wedding finery, walking up the path where the ushers greet them. One of them waves happily at me, and I offer him a limp salute while trying to suck air in.

“Church looks great, Rafferty,” he calls.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so thankful that I was organised and came to the church last night to finalise the arrangements. I’m less fond of the fact that upon hearing that Stan was staying the night at Bennett’s house, I immediately went to the club to drink my weight in tequila shots and pick up an alarmingly serious man.

“Fuck,” I breathe. As if recognising the end of my great trek, the bells begin to ring the hour, and a grey Bentley pulls up.

I straighten and then groan silently as my boss appears at my side like a villain in a pantomime. The only thing he’s missing is the cloud of purple smoke.

“Good morning,” he purrs.

“Hello,” I say in my most cheery voice. “What a beautiful morning for the bride and groom.”

We watch the bridesmaids jump out of the car, shining in their grey chiffon. They stand around laughing and giggling, their voices high in the air.

Jed hums thoughtfully. “Ah, yes. Just the right morning for a jog.”

I freeze for a second. “Hmm,” I say, thinking quickly. “Well, you know me, Jed. I get so deep into the details that I sometimes have to go for a quick run to clear my head.”

He stares at me disbelievingly. “In full morning suit and a top hat?”

“My client’s needs come before my own, Jed.” I’m quite proud of my tone of voice. It mingles a martyrish quality with a hint of gentle reproach.

He purses his lips, looking me up and down, his eyes catching and freezing at my chest level.

“Did you happen to lose the rest of your shirt on your run?” he enquires in a level tone.

Shit.

I wave a careless hand. “It’s the latest fashion. Don’t you follow wedding styles?”

He opens his mouth, but his epic dressing down is thwarted when Brian, one of the ushers, appears.

“Alright?” Brian asks, a slight slur in his voice. He uncaps a hip flask and offers it to us. “Hair of the dog?”

“No thanks,” Jed says, giving him a charming smile.

He offers it to me, and I shudder. “God, no.” Jed’s eyes narrow, and I hasten to add piously, “I don’t drink on the job, Brian.”

Jed relaxes, but Brian chooses that moment to slap me on the back. “Don’t suppose you could fit any more alcohol in you after last night. I saw you at the Pink Parrot, you dirty dog.”

I freeze, and Jed turns to me with a rather evil smile. “The Pink Parrot?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Brian,” I say repressively. “Goodness, maybe I have a doppelganger.” He opens his mouth to no doubt drop me in it further, but I smile rather manically. “No time to talk.” Ever again. “Oh, here’s the bride. How lovely.”

The Rolls Royce pulls to the curb, white ribbons moving in the summer breeze. The car door opens, and Moira appears, followed by about twenty miles of white tulle.

“Uncle Jed,” she cries. “Oh, it’s lovely to see you.”

Her father climbs out the other side and grins at my boss. “Looking spiffy, Jed,” he announces.

My boss shrugs. “I confess I feel a little overdressed now next to Rafferty.”

I roll my eyes and step forward. Moira shrieks when she sees me, and I’m gathered into a Coco-scented hug. “You look so gorgeous,” she announces when she pulls back. She tugs at my open shirt. “Well, this is novel.”

“Oh, it’s all the rage now,” I say airily. “We don’t go in for cravats this year. Far too fussy.”

Brian immediately tugs at his cravat, and I shoot a sunny smile at Jed. “Of course, there’ll always be the starchier members of the congregation who don’t catch on.”

I’m sure Jed’s lip twitches with amusement, but he bravely covers it up, and we make our way into the church.

An hour later, I sit back in my pew and relax a little. The vicar is currently saying a prayer, and the bride and groom’s fingers are now wearing lovely, shiny rings. The wedding went off without a hitch and with many a tear of happiness. Now it’s just the reception to get through, and at least there’ll be food there. And then home to Stan.

I think of my best friend and smile. It’s a Saturday, so I can go home to our shared flat and get into my old sweatpants and a T-shirt. He’ll play whatever vinyl he’s supposed to have sold in his shop but couldn’t bear to part with. I’ll offer my lucid criticism, which he’ll take the piss out of, and then he’ll critique the music much more knowledgeably. Then we’ll gossip and bitch the night away. Bliss.

My smile dies. Unless he’s out with Bennett tonight. I feel the customary lowering of my mood but shove it away.

My phone vibrates and distracts me from my thoughts. I look around nervously, but everyone is either glancing down at their hands or has their eyes closed as the vicar heads towards the end of the prayer. I ease out the phone from my pocket, and in his usual spooky way, Jed picks that moment to look over.

I freeze and then offer him a look which I hope conveys calm and authority. Bridal emergency, I mouth and frown as I see it’s a text from an unknown number. I look around and click on it surreptitiously.

Hey, babe. I'm just texting to see how you are. We must make arrangements for me to get my T-shirt back. It’s got a lot of personal significance, so I must have it back.

I bite my lip. The last time I saw his important shirt, it was heading towards Oxford Street on the body of another of my conquests. My life is very hard sometimes.

I sigh deeply, and the remaining buttons on my shirt give up the fight one by one. They pop off and ping onto the floor in the quiet hush of the church. I bite my lip and watch them roll jauntily across the floor towards my boss’s feet.

He meets my gaze. In my office tomorrow, he mouths.

“Amen,” the vicar and the congregation intone.

Chapter

Two

Stan

“I’ll have this one, please.”

The woman’s voice jerks me from my daydreaming at the counter.

“Sorry,” I say quickly and put out my hand. Nothing happens for a second, and I’m just about to cast my hand over the counter when the customer coughs, and I feel the record being put into my hand. “Thanks,” I say and slide my fingers over the record sleeve, feeling the familiar bumpy knobs of the braille on the label. “Attack and Release by The Black Keys. You’re in for a treat. It’s a great album. Track eleven is the best.”

“Oh, you’re blind,” she says bluntly.

I bite my lip to hide my smile because it was said in the tone of someone meeting Gwyneth Paltrow’s personality.

I nod. “Yes, I am,” I say, resisting the impulse to ask if she needs a gold star for the observation.

“I’m sorry I didn’t hand you the record.”

Her voice is nice, so I give her a smile. “Why? You weren’t to know. I don’t come with a warning label.”

She gives a high laugh. “I’m giving you my card now,” she says in a loud voice more suited to someone shouting across an empty field. She’ll never need to use a megaphone, that’s for sure.

If I had a pound for every time someone felt that the solution to knowing I’m blind is to shout so loudly they nearly puncture my eardrums, then I’d be living it up with twenty handsome pool boys in my villa in the Caribbean.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

I take the card and swipe it through the machine, the movements as familiar to me as cleaning my teeth.

“I love this shop,” she says, and I smile more naturally now.

“Thanks. Me too.”

“It’s been here years, hasn’t it? My dad says he came here for vinyl when he was a teenager.”

“Yeah, it’s been around since the nineties. My uncle owned it before me.”

“He was a proper character, wasn’t he? My dad says he used to wear a gold lamé trilby. They called him Pat the Hat.”

And his friends call him Pat the Twat. I smile at the thought of my eccentric uncle. “Yeah, he’s pretty epic.”

“And that new merch you’ve got is brilliant. I’m coming in on Saturday to buy some when I get paid. I want the tote bag and the water bottle.”

“Glad you like it.”

The designer was so fucking expensive that Raff had enquired if his designs were laced with gold, but it’s been worth it. The new sign for the shop is apparently epic, with a dancing sausage boogying away over a record and the word Bangers emblazoned on it. I’ve had tote bags, water bottles, mouse mats, and coffee cups made to sell. You name it, and I’ve slapped a logo on it. I think I’ll finally break even when I’m eighty.

She gives me a breezy goodbye, and I sit back at the counter, running my finger over the smooth surface. It’s an epoxy resin, and underneath it are vinyl records in funky colours. Pride of place is given to my uncle’s band, who, if you blinked and missed them, were famous in the nineties. He spent most of that decade smoking dope, drinking whisky sours, and nearly knocking people over with the draft from his denim overalls. Then he’d cut his losses and opened this record shop, where he became a London landmark as famous as Harrods but much more interesting.

My guide dog Hump gives a soft grunt, and I lower my hand to where he’s lying to the left of my stool, letting my fingers play with his silky ears.

Skindred’s “LOVE” is playing in the background, and I can feel the vibe of the shop surrounding me like a hug. I can’t see it anymore, but the interior is engraved on my mind—the old flagstone floors scuffed and marked by years of footfall, the red walls with iconic gig posters on them, and enormous black and white photos of my uncle with all the rock royalty from the eighties and nineties, the old wooden bins containing records.

To my right at the back of the shop are three big old velvet sofas—one red, one purple, and one tartan. They belong to what my family called my uncle’s Big Country phase, and I think the sofas’ springs date back to the nineties, but everyone gathers on them, regardless, to talk and look at their purchases.

I hear the Old Gang break into one of their many arguments as if on cue. They’re a group of older men who knew my uncle from the early days. They meet every Saturday to sit and chat. They’re lively, overly opinionated, funny, and a link I treasure to my uncle.

“What are you arguing about now?” I call.

“The grunge era,” someone says. I think it’s Ira who owns the florists on the next street.

“What about it?”

“They’re up in arms because I dared to say the Foo Fighters aren’t that great.”

“Isn’t that heresy?” I say lightly. “Won’t you be burnt on a stack of old buttoned-up cardigans and flannel shirts for saying that?”

“I said what I said,” Might Be Ira says staunchly. “The Foo Fighters are one step up and a better mullet haircut from Nickelback.”

“You have no taste,” another member of the Old Gang cries.

I tut. “Isn’t Dave Grohl the nicest man in rock? When you take his name in vain, I'm sure he turns up and barbecues for you.”

“So? Edwin, who owns the bike shop, is nice. That doesn’t mean I want to listen to him sing.”

“Oh well, when you put it like that.”

They laugh and fall back to arguing over Nirvana’s best album. I can answer that. It’s In Utero, which sounds more like a Pixies album than any of the ones the Pixies made for themselves. Not to mention the fact that the band set their trousers on fire to celebrate finishing the album. That sort of cheerful anarchy reminds me of my uncle.

Footsteps sound, and I inhale the scent of Kem’s cologne. He’s my shop manager and one of my closest friends. We’ve known each other since we were eighteen and worked in the shop at the weekends for my uncle. Pat was a quirky employer, more inclined to sit around and discuss music rather than teach us how to work the till. Luckily, when he’d sent Kem home with a joint in his pay packet, Kem’s parents had taken it as a joke and handed it back very quickly.

“What’s up?” I ask. “I thought you were updating the website.”

“It’s done. When you gave me the job title of website developer, I thought it would be really glamorous and would require me to wear pastel-coloured suits, espadrilles, and a ponytail. In reality, I seem to spend most of my day removing smart-arse comments and advertisements for penis extensions.” His voice is one of my favourites—rich and warm with the lilt from his early years in Trinidad. “Anyway, I moved on to trying to get hold of Mrs Hannall’s request list.”

Kem also manages the website section that sells our stock and sources rare vinyl. We started it up during the pandemic when we couldn’t open the shop, and to our astonishment, it grew in leaps and bounds so that it now forms more than half our income.

“Did you source Massive Attack’s 100th Window album?”

“Only in Germany.”

“Oh god, how much?” Germany is the source of a lot of rare vinyl, but since Brexit, we seem to pay more in taxes than a rock star’s drug bills.

“One hundred and eighty quid,” he announces as if expecting a drum roll.

“Fuck me. It’d be less expensive to pop over there, buy it ourselves, and then smuggle it back through customs.”

“Sometimes it’s very obvious that you’re related to Pat.” I chuckle, and Kem continues, “I called Mrs Hannall anyway. She’s going to pay. It’s the only one she hasn’t got.”

“That’s good. I wouldn’t mind getting a copy for the shop.”

“News of great joy, Stan. More stock to vanish into the black hole of your flat, otherwise known as the land of I’ll Just Take it Home for a Listen and Then We Can Sell It.”

The bell gives its familiar chime as the door opens, and I hear rushed light footsteps.

“Uncle Stan, it’s me Wolfie and Mummy.”

“Hey, mate,” I say, turning and stooping for Wolfie’s usual hug. I feel his little arms come around my neck. He smells of baby shampoo and Play-Doh and gives me one of his special hugs. They used to be gentle, but now that he’s six, it’s more akin to being crushed by a small boa constrictor.

“Can’t breathe,” I gasp, and he chuckles before finally releasing me.

I take in a much-needed gasp of air as my sister says, “Sit down, Wolfie, before you break bones.”

I collapse down onto my seat and hear Wolfie say, “Hello, Hump. Have you been a very good boy this morning?” His longing to pet the dog is tangible, but he knows very well that if his harness is on, it means Hump is working.

Fingers run through my hair. “This is getting really long, Stan,” my sister says.

“I need to go and see Leo.”

She tugs on a strand. “How is it that you got this beautiful head of curls and I didn’t?”

“Well, someone had to rock the flat as a pancake hair, and you were it.” She nudges me, and I laugh and rub my stubble. “This is getting a bit beardy, too.” I open my arms. “Where’s my hug, Lottie?”

She squeezes me and steps back. “You look nice.”

I sit back on my stool. “Oh god, what does that mean?”

My sister gives a huff. “It means you look nice. God, you’re suspicious.”

I wave a casual hand. “It’s fine. I just remembered I got Rafferty to oversee this outfit, so I know I’m okay.”

“As opposed to some of the outfits you’ve overseen for yourself?”

I start to laugh. “Who can forget the day of the orange cords and an acid yellow jumper?”

“You looked like you were auditioning for CBeebies,” my sister says callously.

“I thought you looked brill, Uncle Stan,” Wolfie says, kind as ever, and I grin in his direction.

“Thanks, mate.”

“I wouldn’t listen to him,” my sister interjects. “He was grumpy last week because he wasn’t allowed to wear his wellies to the school disco.”

“School disco? He’s six. What do they do when they reach year five? A quick jaunt to Spearmint Rhino?”

She laughs, but my nephew immediately asks, “What’s that?”

“Oh, erm, a nightclub,” I say quickly before Kem gets the idea to answer.

“I should like to go where rhinos dance,” Wolfie says sadly.

“They’re vicious creatures,” my sister offers.

“So’s Stan, but you still hug him,” Kem mutters.

“So, how was school?” I ask my nephew.

“It was good, Uncle Stan. I need to talk to you about something.”

“Is it how to behave in the classroom? You’ve come to the right person.”

“He really hasn’t,” my sister offers.

Wolfie continues. “I’m doing a project. We have to tell the class something special about our family.”

“Oh yeah. You could do about your mum when she tied me to her toybox when I was irritating her and told me there was a train coming.”

“I think that might give children a bad idea,” Wolfie says seriously.

I nod. “Of course. So, what are you doing?”

“I want to talk to you about being blind.”

I smile. “Really?”

“Yes, Uncle Stan. You’re brilliant, and I want the other children to know how cool you are.”

“Thanks, mate,” I say, touched. “What do you want to know?”

“Let me get my list of questions.”

“This is like Mastermind,” I observe.

“He’s very prepared,” my sister murmurs. “He needs a picture of you, so I’m going to give him that one from Boxing Day last year. You were extremely hungover and looked like you’d been lobotomised.”

“Oh god, I remember that. Raff gave me one of his supposed hangover remedies, and I was sick in the punch bowl.”

“Got them, Uncle Stan.”

“Okay. I am ready. Shoot.”

“Why is Hump called Hump?”

I chuckle. “He’s named after Humphry Davy, who created the first electric light.”

“So why did you call your guide dog that?”

“Because Hump is like my electric light. He sort of helps me to see in the dark.”

“Do you think Hump could come to school and show the class?” He pauses and then adds quickly, “And you too, of course, Uncle Stan.”

I snort. “Of course, and yes, we’ll come. Just get mummy to give me a date. I can show the kids how Hump guides me.”

“Epic.” There’s the sound of paper rustling. “Do you just see blackness like when Mummy turns my light off at night?”

“No, mate. I still see a tiny bit. Every blind person is different, though. There are variations over what they can see.”

“What about you?”

“I have a very tiny percent of my vision left.”

“Is that a lot?”

“Not really.”

“What does that mean? What do you actually see?”

I try to think of how to convey that info so he’ll understand. “Do you remember last Christmas when the fog came down and you were in the garden? You said you couldn’t see anything except for blurry shapes.”

“Was that just before I ate Nana’s mince pies and was sick?”

“I think it’s probably that you ate seven of them rather than being the fault of your grandmother’s cooking. Well, that fog is what I see all the time. I can see light and shadows.” I pause, considering the misty hues I see. “Sometimes it’s worse,” I add.

“Why?”

“If we sit in a room with low light, I might not see anything at all.”

“So, what do you do?” His voice becomes concerned. “That fog was scary, Uncle Stan, and you’re on your own in it. Aren’t you frightened?”

“No, not at all,” I say quickly. “And I have the lights to keep me company.”

“What lights?”

I think of how best to describe it. “I often have lots of little lights flickering and moving, and they’re pretty. Pink and purple and green. Flashing stars,” I say in inspiration.

“You have stars in your eyes? That’s wicked. My class went to the planetarium and they showed us the night sky. We didn’t end up seeing much because my friend Sammy stuck a rubber from the gift shop up his nose and got it stuck. He had to go to hospital.”

“I can’t wait to read this school project,” my sister says dryly.

“Okay. I think I have everything I need for now,” says the tiny David Dimbleby. “I think I should draw you now so the class can see what you look like.”

“Make me handsome, please.”

“Will do. Are my crayons still in your office?”

“In the drawer, I think. Kem?”

“Yeah, they’re in there, Wolfie. There’s also a big bag of chocolate buttons in there that Uncle Rafferty left.”

“Epic,” he says, and I hear him run off.

“How is it that Rafferty isn’t the size of a house with that sweet tooth of his?” Lottie asks.

“Copious amounts of shagging,” I offer. The thought of Rafferty and all his men gives me the usual pang, but I chuckle. “It keeps your figure very trim.”

“No wonder he’s slim then,” Kem says. “He was at the Pink Parrot last night kissing one conquest goodbye and leaving with another all in the space of an hour.”

“Fast worker,” my sister says, a distinct note of admiration in her voice.

“Does he have a revolving door in your flat?” Kem asks.

I shrug. “He doesn’t bring them home.”

Something in my voice must alert them that I’m not fond of the topic, because my sister says hurriedly, “And how is Bennett?”

“He’s fine.” I add some enthusiasm to my voice. “Absolutely fine. He took me to a nice restaurant last night.”

“Well, that’s lovely,” she says with more false cheer than Kate Middleton at a family reunion.

I smirk. “I know you don’t like him.”

“Nonsense. Complete tosh. He’s a very nice man with many good…good qualities.”

“Oh god,” Kem mutters.

I rest my elbows on the counter and turn my head toward her. “Name one.”

“Pardon?”

“Name a good quality that my boyfriend has.”

“Erm.” There’s a silence, and I can practically hear the gears in her brain turning. “He’s very invested in you,” she finally says.

“That’s all you’ve got?” Kem says in astonishment.

“And what does invested mean?” I add. “I’m not a savings account.”

“Well, I just meant that you’re his focus whenever he’s with you, and he really looks after you, Stan.”

“Ugh,” Kem and I say in synch.

“You know I’m not a potted plant, don’t you?” I clarify.

“If you were, you’d be a cactus,” she mutters.

“Like I said, I know you don’t like him.”

“It’s not that. I’m sure he’s lovely. He’s just a bit…”

“What?” I ask.

“Bossy,” she finally says, and I’m sure her posture is slumping. “He’s so bloody bossy.”

“He’s not so bad.”

“Gosh, Stan. You really must stop gushing,” Kem says, his voice full of laughter.

I snort. “He’s alright.”

“For now,” my sister offers. “While you’re waiting.”

I frown. “Waiting for what?”

“The coffee smells lovely today. I might get one,” she says quickly. “Kem, do you want anything?”

“I’d love a latte.”

“What about me?” I say crossly.

“You’ll have a flat white like usual.”

“And you said Bennett was bossy.”

She laughs, and I listen to her footsteps tapping away. She’s worn heels for most of her adult life, viewing flat shoes as an abomination. She even wears them with her pyjamas when she puts the bins out.

“The downside to having coffee here in the shop is that I now drink so much of the fucking stuff I have the sleeping habits of a startled bat,” Kem says glumly. “It was obviously a good investment, though.”

The cafe next door had come up for sale last year, and I’d bought it, got a liquor license, knocked through to the shop, and set up a brilliant barista. Now, during the day, people can browse records, sit and listen to music, drink coffee, and eat the cakes Kem’s mum makes. At night, the small stage showcases local bands. All for a mortgage that I’ll probably still be paying when I’m dead.

“Tell it to my bank manager and his grey hairs. He’s only in his thirties, and Raff says he looks like Anderson Cooper already.”

Kem laughs.

“Are you coming to the Refresho gig next week?” I ask him.

“They sound like a toilet cleaner brand. Is that the jazz-funk band?”

“Yeah, Raff and I went to their gig at the Palais last year. They’re amazing.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.” He pauses. “Speak of the devil.”

The door jingles, and I don’t need my sight to know Raff has come in. Something about him registered on my bandwidth many years ago, and no matter how hard I try to tune into another frequency, my dial is stuck. He’s lodged in my mind like a particularly catchy riff.

“Afternoon, my little record shop bitches.”

His voice is beautiful with its soft Irish accent—well-modulated and warm. It has always had a lightness to it, an undercurrent of amusement at the world. It’s my favourite voice in the world and never ceases to make me smile.

I try to picture his angular face—the long, wavy strawberry-blond hair, the sharp jaw and high cheekbones, and the full pouty mouth. He’s frozen in my mind at the age of twenty like a fly trapped in amber, because that was the last time I could really see him. However, I don’t need to experience Raff with all my senses. He’s a part of me, and so I know him as well as I know myself.

“You don’t look good, Raff,” Kem says in an admiring tone.

I lift my head to stare at Raff’s blurry form.

Raff huffs. “This is what tequila and bad choices look like, my friend.”

I cock my head. “Didn’t you have the Hollis wedding today?”

“Yeah, probably best not to mention that again. I have the hangover from hell at the moment, and in the future, I can look forward to a rather caustic session with Jed.”

“That man can get caustic with me anytime.” Kem’s voice is lecherous.

“After five minutes, the causticity turns into simply being dreadfully opinionated,” Raff says sourly.

“What happened? You didn’t come home last night.” I immediately want to pull the words back. They’re way too sharp. “I mean, you like to be home before a wedding.”

For all his lightness, joie de vivre, and casual attitude, Raff is actually laser-focused on his job and takes it very seriously.

There’s a long pause, and then he says, “Yeah, well, things happen.” His voice sounds flat and off, and I wonder what’s wrong.

“I bet they do, you dirty hound,” Kem observes.

Footsteps sound, and Raff says, “Lottie, you got me a coffee. Bless you.”

“If I’d done that, it would mean I’d have been given foresight. And if that were the case, I would use it for something useful like knowing there was a flash sale today in Stella McCartney’s shop. So I’d have been there rather than serving your hungover arse coffee.”

“Ouch, harsh.” The laughter is back in his voice. “But I’m more deserving of your attention than Stella’s clothes. I give joy, and you’re my sister.”

“I am not. I’d have a lot more grey hairs if that were the case, and my brothers did enough of a number on my hair colour as it is.”

She says something to Kem, and I feel someone come closer.

“You, okay?” Raff asks low. “You sound off.”

As off as someone who lay next to his boyfriend last night torturing himself, wondering who Raff was with and if this would be the one who’d finally make him change all his life decisions? That’s how pathetic I am—in love with my best friend who will never know if I have anything to do with it.

“Stan?” Raff says, and the worry is now clear in his voice. For all his casualness, there’s a strong knightly streak in Raff. He’s always trying to solve our friends’ problems and spent most of our teenage years charging after me and coming to the rescue. He hates not being able to help.

I shake my head, feeling ashamed of myself for worrying him. It’s not his fault I imprinted on him like a particularly stupid duckling and have never managed to shake it.

“I’m fine,” I say, and I can almost feel him relax.

Taking in a much-needed breath, I inhale the familiar scent of his Initio cologne. It’s a spicy, sweet blend of tobacco, vanilla, and rum, and its warmth is very Rafferty. For someone who’s like a butterfly with his beauty products, moving from one to another and never looking back, he’s remarkably loyal to his fragrance choices.

I feel his hand on my head brushing my hair back and push into the touch of those long elegant fingers.

He chuckles, and the lazy sound kindles a fire in my belly. “All these curls,” he says, his voice hazy and affectionate. His fingers dig into the tense muscles on my neck, and I make an involuntary sound of pleasure, sparks fizzing at the base of my spine. His fingers tighten for a second, and then I can feel his body still, and his hand falls away.

I sigh and make myself smile. “My hair needs cutting. I’ll ask Leo if he can fit me in.”

“That’s—” He stops and clears his throat. “That’s good, Stan.” His voice is slightly hoarse.

“What are you two talking about?” my sister asks.

“Stan’s hair. He’s going for a trim.”

“Leo will need a whip and a chair to get that under control.”

Raff laughs. “Where’s Wolfie? Off running the country?”

“In my office writing his thesis on blindness,” I say.

“Is he eating my chocolate buttons?” he asks, sounding way too panicked about sweets for a twenty-six-year-old man.

“Probably,” I say maliciously. “Oh dear. It was the last bag, too.”

“Wolfie,” he bellows. “Get your paws off my chocolate.”

I hear a little boy giggle and the sound of Raff moving away.

I smell Opium perfume, and my sister throws her arm over my shoulders. “God, that man moves well.”

“Does he still move the same way?” My need to see Raff happens less and less as I get older, but the yearning can still occasionally hit me in the solar plexus.

Lottie knows. Somehow, she always knows. “Very quickly, but oh so graceful. He walks slightly on the balls of his feet, and it makes him look like he’s dancing—easy and fluid,” she says, giving me the image. I smile my thanks and she drops a kiss into my hair. “I wish you’d tell him,” she whispers.

“Tell him what? That Spurs will never win the premiership? That would break his heart,” I say lightly, and she huffs.

“Yeah, of course. Maybe this time you’d finally be on the same page,” she says hesitantly. “You might be surprised by the answer, Stan.”

“And maybe I wouldn’t be, and that’s almost worse.”

There’s a long pause. “It’s your life,” she finally says.

I give a long sigh. “It really is. And I have a nice boyfriend,” I add very firmly but not terribly convincingly. “Even if he’s a bit bossy.”

There’s a slightly long pause, and her voice has an undercurrent of worry when she speaks next. “I was speaking to a friend yesterday who knows Bennett’s ex. He said to watch Bennett.”

“Why?” I ask, startled.

“Apparently, everything has to be about him, and he hates to lose. His ex said he can be spiteful and it made their split very nasty.”

“He’s always been kind to me.”

“He hates Raff.”

“One of the rare times that Raff’s charm has failed.”

“Well, just watch out for him. Don’t be so trusting.”

Chapter

Three

Rafferty

I open the door with a sigh of relief, flinging it wide so Stan and Hump can walk past me into the flat. “God, it’s good to be home.”

Stan’s mouth quirks as he takes off his coat. “You say that like you’re James Cook.”

“I feel like him sometimes. Although he’d have foregone his record-breaking voyages and thrown himself into the Pacific if he’d had to organise a food-tasting session with the Patterson-Barkers.”

“Are the Patterson-Barkers demanding?”

“Put it this way, if Zeus himself had descended from Mount Olympus and offered them ambrosia, they’d have told him they’d had better from Nobu.”

He laughs, and I take his jacket from him, seeing his smile of thanks and feeling the familiar warmth it gives me. I love to make him happy. After hanging the jacket in the cupboard, I take off my shoes and place them neatly in there too. Everything in our flat has a place. There’s good reason for why we keep it as neat as a show home. A few years ago, Stan’s old boyfriend had absently taken off his shoes and left them by the sofa. Stan had tripped over them and fallen. He’d needed five fucking stitches in his head. It had made my insides liquid lava with rage, but Stan had been embarrassed and laughed it off. Now I’m incredibly militant when we have visitors. Our friend Leo calls me the Lord of the Loafers.

Stan presses the switch to dim the lights, and I immediately know his eyes are sensitive tonight. He takes off Hump’s harness, and the dog tosses his head like a diva and scampers off to see what’s in his food bowl now his working day is done.

“If he had a clocking out card, he’d have eaten it,” I remark.

Stan gives his usual husky laugh. It’s warm and real and makes my chest tight. It makes a few other things tight, but I refuse to think about those. I’ve got enough trouble lately.

Stan sets his rucksack on the chair and opens it.

My mouth twitches when he pulls out a bag that’s a familiar shape. “What is that you’ve got there, Stanley?”

“Shut up.”

I start to laugh, relieved to feel tension ease from my shoulders. Relaxing is something I’ve struggled with lately. “Tell me you haven’t brought more records home. I thought the purpose of a record shop was to engage in commerce—by selling the records.”

“It’s The Prodigy’s The Fat of the Land,” he says, his earnest voice making me want to hug him. “It’s a difficult album to get hold of, and you know I can’t resist a good find.”

“You’re like Augustus Gloop trying to step over a chocolate puddle.” I stare at the album’s boldly coloured sleeve. “Is it from the estate sale we went to in Enfield last weekend?”

He nods. “I had to listen to it first before I sold it.”

He turns and walks into the lounge, his gait sure and confident in our home. I follow him, trying hard not to look at the swell of his arse in those Levi’s. The denim is soft with age and clings to his bum tighter than a lover.

I say, “I think you mean you want to give it a listen before it vanishes into the record shelves of this flat. I’m going to have to reinforce the floors soon.”

The lounge has high ceilings and tall windows that let in lots of light. I painted the walls white when we moved in and have filled them full of artwork I’ve picked up over the years. A huge green corduroy sectional stuffed with bright cushions is the biggest piece in the warm, vibrant room, but the records are definitely the room’s highlight.

Shelves crammed full of vinyl stretch from floor to ceiling on three walls. The shelves themselves are a testament to my adoration of Stan. Buying them, assembling them, and installing them was a three-stage nightmare. First there was a trip to IKEA where, after a ten-minute argument about how to get the boxes home, I almost left Stan in the car park. I’d been consoled by the fact that at least four other couples nearby were having the same hissed argument. Later, I’d lost valuable hours of my life trying to decipher the shelves’ assembly instructions. After my first failed attempt—which had left me with a handful of screws and no idea where they were supposed to go—we’d called out the big guns and got Joe’s husband to help. His profession is forensic accountant, but he makes an excellent carpenter.

But today as I look at the beautifully filled shelves, a horrible thought occurs to me. If this thing with Bennett is serious, then surely Stan will move in with him at some point.

I look around the room and imagine it empty of Stan’s records and, of course, empty of Stan himself. My chest hollows, my stomach clenches, and I suddenly feel like one of the dust motes that’s drifting through the sunlit room. As if it’s Stan that gives my body life and form.

But I’ve had these feelings before. Stan is too gorgeous and lovely to remain single forever. It’s a state I’m happy to embrace, but Stan likes constancy and craves long-term relationships of all kinds.

“You’ve gone quiet.” His voice interrupts my thoughts. He’s putting the record on the deck, his long, artistic fingers trailing over the vinyl, almost caressing. I know how they feel on my skin. Stan sees with his hands, and he’s exceptionally thorough.

“It’s good,” he says into the silence.

“What?” My face flushes. I need to get myself under control.

He cocks his head, and his focus on me is laser precise. “The record feels great. No scratches, and the vinyl is clean. You did a good job, babe.”

“Oh.” I force a laugh. “I had a good teacher.”

Stan likes to go to the estate fairs, which is where he gets a lot of his stock, and his sociable nature soaks them up like a sponge. My job is to examine the records the way he’s shown me and assess the wear and tear while he talks shop to the vinyl sales community. There’s usually a mix of the same people at those things, and I can always find Stan at the centre of a group of laughing people. He’s an unusual and endearing mixture of razor-sharp and sugar-sweet, and it draws people like little moths to his flame.

The needle comes down on the vinyl, and the familiar crackle sounds before Keith Flint’s voice screeches through the flat. I wince because The Prodigy is not my idea of a good listening experience, but Stan loves them and dragged me to two of their concerts. I’d stood there wishing for a pair of earplugs, while he’d jumped around screaming like a hyperactive banshee.

Stan listens to the first song intently, his head cocked to one side. And I take a moment to observe him.

He's taller than me, with broad shoulders and long legs. His hair is a mess of dark curls, and his eyes are a warm toffee brown. But it’s his face that always gets me. It’s high-boned and elegant with a long nose and thick, dark eyebrows that are usually lowered in an expression of concentration. However, he rarely seems sombre, because the puckish twist of his mouth and a dimple give him a cheeky air. It’s my favourite face in the world, and I could look at him forever and never grow tired.

“Ready?”

I jump as Stan’s voice breaks my thoughts. “S-sorry,” I stumble. “What did you say?”

He frowns. “Fuck, you’re more out of it than usual.”

“I beg your pardon. What do you mean more than usual?”

His lip quirks. “Maybe you should stay home for a while and give your liver a chance at life. And maybe give your cock a break too,” he adds in a tone that’s not entirely joking.

Before I can respond, he moves towards the kitchen.

“Oh, are you cooking?” I ask hopefully.

He shakes his head. “Are you?”

I follow him like a rat after the Pied Piper. “Well. I suppose I could give it a go.”

He shudders. “Please don’t. There aren’t enough Rennies in the world to cope with your attempts. I still get flashbacks from your trifle. It was like a milkshake.”

“That was Leo’s fault. It just needed more time in the fridge.”

“We could have given it until the End of Days, and it still wouldn’t have set.”

“Oh, shut up.”

He laughs, and I watch as he slips an apron on and ties it around his narrow hips. His dark curls fall around his face.

The kitchen is Stan’s domain, as he loves cooking and is very good at it. Pale blue cabinets intermingle with a stainless-steel worktop and appliances, while on the windowsill, a shelf of herbs is a mass of green. Everything is spotless and neat, and woe betide me if I don’t put something back properly.

“What are you making?” I ask, hoisting myself up onto the counter and swinging my legs. “Ooh, I hope it’s scrambled eggs on toast.”

“There’s not even a hint of subtlety about you, is there? And that’s breakfast food that I’m pretty sure even you can make.”

“Not as creamy and lovely as you do. Especially with the ham and peppers. And did you miss the memo about my headache?”

“We pronounce it hangover in these here parts.”

I roll my eyes. “Potato or potahto.”

“Exactly.”

“Please.” I smile as I watch him reach for a bowl in the cupboard. He grabs a whisk and pulls the egg carton towards him, running his finger over the braille label on the lid to check the date. He feels for the bowl, running his finger along the lip, and then quickly cracks six eggs into it. I love watching him anytime, but he’s brilliant in the kitchen. His movements have grace and surety because he knows every inch of the room like the back of his hand.

“I can actually feel you staring,” he says, reaching for the salt and pepper. He measures the proper amount of each onto his palm before adding them to the bowl.

“I can’t help it if you’re brilliant.”

He smirks. “I’m making scrambled eggs. It’s hardly Jamie Oliver.”

“He’s far too bouncy. I prefer you. At least I know you’ll cut the toast into little soldiers for me.”

“Oh my god. It’s like feeding a toddler.”

He goes to move past me, and without thinking, I wrap my legs around his waist, stopping him in his tracks. “You, of all people, know that’s not true,” I say, resting my hands on his broad shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin and hearing how husky my voice has gone.

He’s warm and solid and smells of Byredo cologne. I bought it for him for Christmas last year because the earthy sweet sage, amber, and plum smell reminded me of him, and he’s worn it faithfully ever since. It’s so very him—like a warm hug—and I squeeze him tighter, wanting and needing to keep him here in my arms. My Stan, in all his clever brilliance.

“Raff?” he says hoarsely.

I suddenly realise he’s become completely still, and I swallow hard, emotion popping in my chest like a balloon, letting in the cold air of reason.

Everything I just did was spontaneous—a result of my feelings for him—but I should fucking know better. Once, he’d have laughed about me hugging him and said something sharp, snarky, or both. But that was before the events of six months ago, and now everything is different.

“Sorry,” I mutter, letting go and feeling a pang in my heart as he moves quickly to get away from me. I wrap my arms around myself, feeling cold. Until I hugged him, I hadn’t realised how empty I’ve been—starved of his touch.

He hovers. “It’s just we can’t do that anymore. You know⁠—”

“I know,” I snap, my cheeks flushing at the hint of apology in his voice.

I hate the anxious expression that crosses his face. I can’t see him upset or worried. I’ve never been able to do that.

“I know,” I say again, making my voice light. “It was just a hug, Stanley. I give them out quite freely. I wasn’t humping your leg. It takes, at the minimum, five Negronis before I do that.”

He laughs, his expression clearing, and the relief on his face makes me feel a bit sick. “Are we talking hugging or shagging?”

“I do know the difference,” I say, keeping my light tone. “I’d get into enormous trouble if I didn’t. I’d be constantly pursued by a legion of bridegrooms with shotguns.” I jump down from the counter.

“Where are you going?”

The worry is back in his voice, and I squeeze his shoulder as impersonally as I can. “For a quick shower. I want to wash this day off me.”

“Is there enough soap in the world for that?”

“Probably not.”

He grins. “Well, you can tell me about it over dinner. Ten minutes?”

I nod. “Perfect. I’m starving.”

In the shower, I lean against the tiled wall, feeling the steam fill my lungs. I take a deep breath and then another, feeling my heart rate settle. By the time I come out, I’m Rafferty once more—light and easy.

When I come into the lounge dressed in sweatpants and an old jumper of Stan’s, he’s waiting on the sofa. Hump is lying on his back, displaying the goods like the jezebel he is. Sleeper’s “What Do I Do Now” plays on the stereo, and two plates piled high with food are waiting on the coffee table.

“God, I think I could eat that in ten seconds,” I say.

He cocks his head, listening to my approach, and smiles as I settle down next to him. His thigh is against mine, his earlier reservations seemingly gone, and I relish his warmth as we eat and catch each other up on our day.

I savour the sound of his laugh and ham up the day’s disasters to chase out more. I’m addicted to his smiles and laughter. I smile at him. This feels more like us. The feeling abruptly vanishes as Stan’s phone rings.

“Who is it?” I ask before the phone tells me.

“Bennett calling,” it intones in its robotic tone.

I roll my eyes as he answers it. Great, I mouth.

I push the food around on my plate, my earlier hunger vanishing as I listen to his chuckle.

That laugh belongs to me, I think sourly.

I’m not surprised when he turns to me almost apologetically. “Bennett is home from Zurich. Do you mind if I go over to his place?”

My heart sinks. Not tonight, when I have you to myself.

I realise the silence has stretched too long, and his brow is furrowed.

“No,” I say quickly, making my voice light and happy. “Of course not.”

“You sure?” he checks.

I’m almost positive he’d say no to Bennett in a minute if I asked him to stay with me, but it’s the almost part—that slight hesitation now—that makes me saddest because I used to know the fact with absolute solid conviction.

“Positive,” I say hollowly.

He grins at me and jumps up from the sofa. My leg feels cold without his against mine.

I listen to him grabbing his stuff. He whistles for Hump, who gives me a startled look as if to say, “Aren’t we supposed to be home now?”

I shrug. I can’t help him. Lately, Stan’s exits seem more like strategic withdrawals. Six months ago, I’d have known what was up. I’d have pushed and prodded until he admitted there was something wrong. Now I can’t do that. Our careless actions have changed everything, and now my best friend—the man I used to know better than myself—is like an iceberg, cool and distant, with so much hidden below the surface. And he’s drifting away from me.

I return his cheerful goodbye and hear the door slam. The quiet of the flat settles around me like a shroud, and unable to bear it, I put my dishes in the dishwasher and head for the comfort of my bed.

The dream always starts the same way.

The couple kiss torridly on the screen, tongues and hands roaming and clothes starting to come off.

“Lord Billington kisses Jane and then takes off her dress.” Stan’s audio description comes on, breaking up the sultry atmosphere on the screen like a crowbar on a piece of glass. “He strokes her breasts and then takes off his trousers. He lies atop her, and she opens her legs. They look yearningly at each other as Lord Billington enters her. He thrusts inside her slowly at first and then faster and faster.”

“Oh my god,” I groan, slumping on the sofa. “This is about as erotic as our old headmaster would have been reading ‘Tropic of Cancer’.”

Stan snorts and pauses the Netflix series we’re watching. “I’m trying to picture that. Didn’t you try to take that book out of the library once?”

“The librarian showed me the door.”

“I still can’t believe that. Especially after you told her you wanted to read it because you were interested in travelling to Mauritania.”

I can’t stop my laughter and lean into him. He throws his arm over my shoulders, and I snuggle closer. His body is hot against mine, and I can feel all the tight, lean lines of his torso. I shouldn’t pay any attention to it, as this is my best friend, but I can’t help myself. It’s been happening a lot lately. He’ll smile at me, and my heart beats faster. He’ll move in a certain way, and my mind will seize on the smooth honey tone of his skin or the sharp line of his jaw. I push the awareness away again determinedly.

“Put it back on,” I say, flicking the remote control in his hand. “And do make sure to keep engaging the audio description.”

“You were literally just criticising it.”

“I’m getting used to his voice. Soon, I won’t be able to have sex unless he’s narrating it.”

“I can’t even begin to imagine how he’d manage. The poor man would blush until his head fell off.”

“Is that even a thing?” I assume the snooty voice of the audio describer. “‘Rafferty Kendrick’s handsome face is set and sexy as he reaches down and unbuttons the footman’s breeches.’”

“Wouldn’t you aim higher than a footman? What about the butler? You’d have more opportunities to meet. Butlers had their own rooms.”

“Stanley, you’re managing to be both a snob and almost erotically practical.”

“There’s no almost about it. I am erotic. And your narration is as far away from literature as I am from shagging Harry Styles. It sounds like bad smut.”

“Hush.” I continue again in the audio describer’s voice. “‘Rafferty tosses back his strawberry-blond hair and lowers himself to his knees. The footman swallows hard, which is coincidental because that’s just what Rafferty is about to do.’”

Stan starts to laugh. “The AD man never comments on things. He just states events.”

He’s close enough that I feel the heat of his breath. With the worst timing in the world, my cock stirs, and I suck in a gasp of air.

“Raff?”

It takes me a second to catch up with the conversation. “Where was I?”

“The AD man never loses his place.”

“I’m beginning to hate that paragon of virtue. Now, what was I saying? Oh yes. ‘Rafferty leans in and sniffs at the footman’s crotch. A lusty expression crosses his face, and the footman’s cock twitches. Rafferty reaches in and draws out the other man’s penis. It’s hard, with precome slicking the bulbous head.’”

Stan stirs, his breath coming a little faster. I’m unsure if it’s my imagination, but the room suddenly seems very hot. I tug at my collar.

“Go on,” Stan says. His voice is low and hoarse, and I shudder. What the fuck is the matter with me? “What happens next?” he whispers.

“‘Rafferty…’” I stop and clear my throat. “‘Rafferty licks up the shaft, tasting the tartness of his seed.’” I wait for him to piss take about the use of the word seed, but the room is silent apart from the sounds of our raspy breathing. “‘The footman groans, and Rafferty puts his hand over his mouth to silence him. His other hand cups the man’s sac, rolling the orbs gently. The man groans again, his breath wet and hot on Rafferty’s palm.’”

Stan strokes my arm in tiny motions, and I’m pretty sure he’s unaware of it. I wish I could say the same. It’s like each digit is trailing sparks across my skin, and now my cock has become as stiff as a board. Because of Stan. My best friend, I remind myself frantically, but it does no good, and I can’t stop myself.

As if from a distance, I see myself nestling closer, pushing the side of my body into his. I wonder wildly if there’s been a chemical leak in London where some kind of erotic gas has been released. It’s got to explain why Stan is leaning into me instead of pulling away.

“Go on,” he says in a low voice.

I know I shouldn’t. I should be sitting up and making a joke instead of racking my brains for the words to describe the erotic story. I was never any good at listening to my conscience, so it’s understandable that just when I need it most, it appears to have gone on holiday.

“‘Rafferty takes the head of the penis into his mouth. He sucks on it, his cheeks hollowing with the force.’”

Stan’s fingers are now stroking deliberately down my arm, and when they reach my hand, he turns it over and trails his fingers over my palm, tracing the lifeline. I swallow a moan. I’ve been having sex since I was seventeen with a lot of men, but I never realised that such a simple touch could get me so hard.

“Stan?” I whisper.

“Go on,” he orders, and the command in his voice makes me move before I can think twice. I arch into him, and he groans. His hand moves in and brushes across the stiff length of my dick.

“Oh god,” I groan.

He freezes for a second and my brain returns online for a brief moment.

“What are we doing?” I manage before crying out. He begins to stroke my cock with a firmer, rougher touch. The soft material of my sweatpants might as well be made of tissue paper for all the protection they offer. I reach down to grab his arm, and he stops again.

“No?” he says hoarsely. His cheekbones are dusted with red, and his lips are full and look so soft. He blanches. “God, you’re right.”

He goes to move away. It’s what I should be doing, too. I know it, and he knows it, which is why I’m surprised to find myself reaching to stop him.

“Raff?” he breathes.

I pull down my sweatpants and put his hand on my bare cock.

The pleasure is so extreme that I cry out, arching into his touch, and he moans. It’s a shockingly intimate sound, and I have a moment of fear as he releases his hold on my dick. But then he feels for my face, clasping it and pulling me closer.

When his lips touch mine, I expect one or both of us to pull away, to freeze, to snap back into reality.

It’s the first time we’ve kissed. We’ve never, ever gone down this path. But our mouths move together with shocking familiarity. It feels like we’ve done this many times in many ways.

His lips are full and soft, and he kisses how he approaches life—full of passion and determination, tangling his tongue with mine and holding my face to an angle that suits him.

Before I know it, I’m lying flat on my back, and Stan is moving on top of me. We both groan as our cocks touch. The soft fabric of his sweatpants rubs against my bare cock, and the pleasure is so extreme that I arch into him. I try to wrap my legs around him, but my sweatpants are at my knees, stopping me, and I reach down, pushing at the fabric. His hand joins mine while he kisses me, and in a flurry of limbs and hot lips, we get my briefs and joggers off. I immediately wrap my legs around his narrow hips, arching up into him and rubbing against him, trying to find some relief.

He levers back, and I groan.

“Stop moving,” he orders, his voice thick and rough as he searches for my hands. I clasp his fingers, and he raises our joined hands over my head, pressing them into the sofa cushion. “Stay still.”

The command is so hot that I close my eyes, counting backwards as my balls tighten. I knew he’d be like this. We’ve always spoken easily about sex, and while I know he’s vers, he prefers to top. I also know he likes control, which is hardly surprising. What is stunning to me is how much I like it. It makes my skin feel tight, and my head swim.

He grins down at me and releasing one hand, he traces the contours of my face. His finger trails over my lips, and I open my mouth, sucking it in, making him shudder.

“Suck it,” he instructs.

I groan before sucking on that finger as if it’s a dick, letting my tongue move as my cheeks hollow.

He moans, and using our joined hands for balance, he grinds into me. He replaces his finger with his tongue, sucking on mine for a moment before thrusting into my mouth. The room fills with our groans.

I free my hand and tug at his sweatpants. “Off,” I mutter. “Get them off. I need you naked.”

He pulls back, and in a mess of movement, we tear our clothes off. Items of clothing fly around the room, and one of his trainers hits the TV, but we don’t pay attention as, finally naked, we come together on the sofa.

“Tell me to stop,” he gasps as he rubs into me.

I stare up at him. His eyes are closed, but mine have never been more open. I’ve seen him naked before, but never with the eyes of a lover, and he’s stunning. Broad shoulders and a muscled torso dusted with dark hair, tight abs and long legs all covered in golden skin. He’s beautiful.

“God,” he mutters, twisting his hips in a way that puts a wonderful pressure on my cock. “I can’t believe how good it is to kiss you.”

I wrap my arms over his broad back, pulling him tighter against me, never wanting to let him go. Our cocks continue to slide and rub together, friction eased by the precome we’re leaking. The sofa creaks as our movements get wilder, and Stan’s choked grunts get louder as he ruts harder against me.

“More,” I gasp, grabbing his arse and resting my feet on his buttocks, urging him on. “More, please. Make me come.” The last is a desperate whine.

His head lowers, and I feel his breath against my neck before he grunts, biting into my shoulder. The slight bite of pain lights me up, and I arch, throwing my head back and moaning low and long as I come in spurts over his groin. His breath hitches, and he raises his head, his face set as he searches for his pleasure.

“Come on,” I groan. “Come on me, Stan.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, and I’m mesmerised as his face contorts and come shoots, hot and wet, over my spent cock and balls. For a second, we’re immobile, but then he collapses into me, pushing his face into my neck and breathing in jerky pants. I band my arms around him.

Silence takes the place of our groans and heavy breathing, the atmosphere slowly becoming less content and more anxious. I prod him gently. “Stan?”

He moans pitifully, like a child who doesn’t want to wake up and face the day.

Against my will, I grin. “I know you’re in there.” I hesitate. “We need to talk.”

He stays stock still for a second and then sits up. Even when I’m anxious, I can’t stop my eyes from greedily travelling over his beautiful body.

He sits back on his heels, seemingly unconcerned about the come streaking his body and his nakedness. He licks his lips. “Raff?”

I grab his hand. “I know. I’m here.”

He squeezes my fingers. “What have we done?” he whispers.

I grimace. “I’m not entirely sure, babe. Either something brilliantly clever or ridiculously stupid.”

He snorts, his expression becoming lighter. For the first time in my life, I don’t give in to the urge to hug him. He cocks his head to one side, and with that eerie knowledge we have of each other, he smiles. “You need a hug?”

“So much,” I say fervently, sighing as I move into his arms and we snuggle together. His hug is tight and warm and so familiar. Except for one thing. “Well, this is novel,” I say. “It’s the first time we’ve ever done naked cuddling.”

He groans. “And you’re still talking.”

“I can’t help it.” I stroke his face. “Do you think this was a mistake?” I hold my breath.

If he says it was, I know it’s true. He’s my behaviour barometer and always has been. He hesitates, and the novelty of it worries me. “Stan?”

He rubs his face and then lowers his hand to trace my collarbone. I shiver, and his head comes up like an animal sensing danger.

“I don’t know,” he says.

“Well, that’s a lot of help, Stanley. Thank you so much.”

“I almost want it to have been a mistake that we can dismiss. Because this has the power to ruin everything.”

“But?” I ask, my voice wavering.

He shakes his head, looking cross, and I know it’s with himself. “I can’t say it was a mistake,” he finally says.

“Why?”

“Because I’m covered with come and just came harder than I have in years, and I want to do it again.” His cock twitches and I feel it in my own, as if they’re linked in some way. “Raff?” he says hoarsely.

“Me too.”

He slumps in relief. “But what do we do?”

I draw on my knowledge of all things hook-up, which is pretty wide-reaching. In this area, I am more knowledgeable than Stan, who, after his wild patch, gravitates to relationships. The only thought that arrives is to do it again. To feel those feelings over and over.

“We could always just keep doing it,” I say brightly.

“Really? Are you actually Satan?”

I snort. “You want me, and I want you,” I say, my tone becoming serious. “Does it have to be so complicated?”

“It’s always complicated. You know that.”

“And so…what? We never do that again? Can you say that now, Stan? The rabbit is out of the hat.”

“Not the genie?”

“I don’t like the thought of anyone in a bottle. Hat fabric is a lot more forgiving, and the rabbit escapes.”

“Don’t change the subject. Do you actually want to do this again?”

“And again, and again. Did you miss that bit?” I trace the broad shoulders that had been above me a few minutes ago. “It doesn’t have to be difficult, Stan.”

I nestle into him, feeling his sweat and hot skin. My cock rises, prodding his arm, and he reaches down almost absentmindedly and grips it, shuttling his hand up and down.

I gasp and rise on my knees, pushing into that tight, hot grip. “God,” I whisper. “I want you again. So fucking much.” I push his head back, holding his face in my palms as I move against him. “Let’s fuck,” I whisper.

“But what does it mean?”

“Does it have to mean anything? How can it mean anything more than what we already have?” I say hoarsely. “I know the most important fact, and that’s you’re the best person I know, Stan. I will never hurt you.”

“I won’t ever hurt you either.”

“Then let’s do this,” I urge, batting his hand away and climbing into his lap. His hands immediately lower to my arse, settling me against him so our cocks clash and nudge each other.

He takes my mouth in a feverish kiss, his face set in lines of stark arousal. “God, I want to fuck you,” he mutters.

I shudder. “Then let’s do this.” I kiss his lips before pulling back. “We’ll do this until you meet someone.”

He stills. “What about you?”

I roll my eyes. “That will never happen. You’re the most important person to me, and that’s the way it will always be. It’s how I know that this is all we can have.” I suck in a breath. “You know my history, Stan.”

“Shh,” he says, dropping gentle kisses onto my face. “I know. Shh. I know what keeps you awake each night.”

“We’ll do this until you meet someone.” I caress his lips, my fingers pressing gently at his skin before sliding down his throat and chest. When I pinch his nipples, he gasps. I say in a slow, hazy voice, “Until you meet someone special.”

“We. Don’t miss yourself out.”

“We,” I say breathily.

He drops kisses onto my lips, and I open them, letting his tongue inside, and then we’re a flurry of motion as we kiss and grope, breathing heavily. I grind down into him, my legs open and wrapped around him, my hole aching.

His fingers slide down the crack of my arse and tap knowledgeably against the pucker.

“Yes,” I groan and⁠—

I wake with a gasp, my cock throbbing like a toothache.

“Shit,” I mutter, palming my balls and giving the shaft a rough tug. I arch into my touch, and it only takes a few strokes before I come over my hand.

I subside back onto the bed, breathing hard. I wipe my hand on the sheet and lie there, feeling my breaths slowly steady.

The dream was so vivid. Not surprising, as the memory of our first time together has never lost its clarity. I can’t push it away, just like I can’t forget how it felt to have him push into my body later on, the feel of his arms pulling me close so that we seemed one person and not two.

It had been so fucking good—the best I’ve ever had.

Our connection made everything seem hotter and more intense. And so, we kept fucking, telling ourselves that we weren’t doing any harm, kidding ourselves that it wouldn’t change us. We’d always had the solemnly voiced vow hanging between us. We’ll do it until one of us meets someone special.

That potential hadn’t worried me. I’ve never had any intention of meeting that special someone. In fact, I’d run a mile if I did. Idiotically, I’d never realised that Stan already was that person. Not until Bennett came on the scene like a posh, very opinionated wrecking ball and changed everything.

My mind shies away from the conversation I’d had with Stan a few months ago.

I roll onto my back and rub eyes that are suddenly hot. I need Stan back. It’s a deep-seated ache that’s always there, making my heart hurt.

But I don’t know how to get him back. It feels like all our old paths that led to each other are overgrown and covered in thorns.

Chapter

Four

Rafferty

Holding tightly to the cardboard box full of wedding stationery, I nudge the door of Confetti Hitched open and stagger into the reception area.

“Quick,” I gasp. “Clear the desk, Grid.”

Ingrid, the receptionist, looks up from her phone. “What’s in the box?”

“The last person who asked that was Brad Pitt and it didn’t go well.”

“What?”

I shake my head. “You need to watch something other than Real Housewives.”

“They’re valuable indicators of the shift in society’s values. And I’m sure it was you discussing the New York format last week.”

“It’s just not the same without grown women wetting themselves and falling into the shrubbery.” I groan. “You’ll see the contents of the box close up very soon, if you don’t move that crap on the desk. The bottom’s about to go out of it.”

She jumps up and clears the files out of the way, and I set the box down with a grateful sigh. “Cheers, babe.”

“It’s not crap anyway,” she says thoughtfully. “It’s Jed’s annual job reviews.” She smirks at me. “Shall I destroy yours?”

“The damage was done when we met to discuss the review. He has very piercing eyes. He makes you confess all sorts of things you don’t want to. Dark secrets were spilled.”

“I can’t imagine what you’d have hidden, knowing all the crap you get up to quite openly.”

“I’m still emotionally and mentally scarred.” Jed’s voice comes from behind us. He’s leaning against the door, holding a bunch of files in his hand. “Staff meeting in ten minutes.” He eyes me, and his lip twitches. “We can discuss the Hollis wedding.”

“Or we could chat about world peace. That’s surely a more worthy subject.”

“But not as entertaining. Ten minutes.”

He vanishes back into the office, and I blow out a breath, slumping against the desk. “Shit. I need a vodka.”

“It’s nine in the morning, Colin Farrell.” She settles next to me. “Will it cheer you up if I tell you about the Foston-Halls?”

I turn to her. Ingrid is the eyes and ears of London. Nothing happens on the marital circuit that she doesn’t know about. “Possibly. I still shake when I think of their wedding arrangements. My partner was disturbed mid-shag at two in the morning by her mother ringing me to tell me the napkins were the wrong shade of teal, which still gives me flashbacks.”

“Did you stop shagging?”

“Not likely.”

“You carried on having sex while talking to her mother? The woman who makes Medusa look like a fluffy bunny rabbit?”

I shrug. “My partner’s pleasure is my priority. Men could learn from me.”

Joe appears at the door. “You should have that printed on your business cards.”

“Then I’ll leave the wedding business behind me and open a commune. I will wear a sheet at all times, and men will feed me grapes.”

“Knowing your exes, they’d probably try to choke you with them.”

“You speak the truth.” I eye him. “I’ll make you my trusty lieutenant, and you shall run my commune.”

“That isn’t half as enticing as you think it is. It’d resemble the Lord of the Flies after a few hours.” He looks at Ingrid. “So, what’s the gossip about the Foston-Halls?”

“They’re getting divorced.”

“Why?”

“Oh no,” I say in dismay. Ingrid and Joe turn to stare at me. I shrug. “I didn’t like them. They were more imperious than Julius Caesar on an off day. But I hate that they’re divorcing. Why, Grid?”

“He was sleeping with her mum.”

“What?”

Joe gapes at her. “He was shagging the Medea of the mother-in-law world? Well, he’s a brave man. I’ll give him that.”

Ingrid shudders. “I still remember her meltdown over the chocolate content in the taster bags. It was like a volcano going off. But more dangerous.”

“She was shagging her son-in-law. That’s terrible,” I say. When Joe shakes his head, I ask, “What? You know I hate cheating. It’s appalling.”

He claps me on the back. “You’re sweeter than Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz.”

“I have infinitely better fashion sense.”

He tugs my hair. “And longer pigtails.”

“I heard that open shirts were de rigueur on the wedding circuit nowadays,” Ingrid says earnestly, which is spoilt by the piss-taking gleam in her eyes. “Any comment, Rafferty?”

“You’re a couple of twats,” I inform them over laughter.

Jed’s assistant Artie appears at the door. “We’re in the conference room,” he says with a sweet smile, his silky dark hair flopping over his forehead. “Seeing as everyone is here for a change.”

“Joy,” I say, my tone surly. “That means we’ll have a full house for my dressing down.”

“Surely there can’t be more said about that?” Joe says in a serious voice. “You dress down more than a scarecrow.”

I take a detour to add the wedding invitation samples to my desk. After grabbing my diary, I saunter into the conference room. It’s a large space at the back of the house, with windows that look over the narrow, walled garden. The office is actually on the ground floor of Jed’s house. He occupies the two floors above.

I pop a pod into the coffee machine resting on the sideboard, grab my cup and a croissant, and settle down at my usual seat at the long oak table. The seat cradles my body as if meant for me, and as I look around the room affectionately, I think it might be true.

I’ve been working here since I was nineteen and have no plans to go anywhere else, despite being offered big money to defect to other wedding-planning agencies.

The others begin to filter in.

“Alright, Margot?” I say, smiling at one of the other planners. She’s a statuesque redhead with a wicked sense of humour. “You’ve got a lovely tan.”

She winks. “It happens when you have back-to-back weddings in St Barts.”

I roll my eyes. “Alas, back-to-back weddings in Chorley didn’t contribute to my tan.”

“Do you even get tanned with your ginger hair?”

“It is strawberry blond,” I say with dignity. “And as such, my skin becomes a lovely biscuit colour.”

“One that’s been left in the oven for too long,” Joe says cheerfully, coming into the room and slumping into his usual seat next to me.

“How long is this meeting scheduled for?” I ask. “I just need to know how long we’ll be focusing on my shortcomings.”

“An hour.”

“Shit. Quite a long time, then.”

“Eons,” Jed says, edging into the room. His hands are full of folders, and a tin of the Fortnum and Mason shortbread biscuits he loves is tucked under his arm. He’s discarded his suit jacket, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up, showing his corded forearms.

Artie jumps up to relieve him of his files, and Jed smiles at him. His smile is noticeably softer than the smiles he gives to anyone else.

I grab my diary and write, It’ll happen next month on a blank page and tap it to show Joe.

He rolls his eyes and, taking the pen, notes, Nope. A year at least.

You have no soul, I scribble.

We’ve been betting on how long it’ll be before Jed reaches for his beautiful assistant. First, Jed has to forget that he’s Artie’s boss, he’s much older than Artie, and a widow to boot.

Joe looks at what I’ve written and smirks at me. “Realist,” he mouths.

“Are you writing a thesis on how to screw up a wedding, Rafferty?” Jed enquires.

The others snort, and I grin at him. “Mankind will thank me for my contributions.”

Jed sits, murmuring his thanks as Artie hands him a coffee. Artie flushes a lovely pink and settles down next to him, pen ready to take the minutes.

I nod at him. “It’s Rafferty with two fs, and make sure you can spell the phrase ‘superb wedding organiser’.”

“He’d be better off spelling ‘chaotic disorder’.” Jed shakes his head. “And still, despite jogging to the wedding, turning up sweaty and dishevelled, missing half of your shirt, and looking like you’d dressed for a strip club, the bride and groom are thrilled with you and are recommending you to everyone. How do you do it?”

“Yes.” I fist pump and smile at everyone’s groans of despair. “It’s just excellent time management skills and an uncanny knack of knowing which way the marital market is swinging.”

“You don’t half talk some bollocks,” Margot says almost admiringly.

I nod. “That too.”

“So, what’s next?” Jed asks, opening his bulging diary.

I pull off the band that holds my organiser together. The leather cover is soft with age and handling. I open it to my current page. “I’ve got the Templetons today to discuss their circus plans.”

“How’s that going?” Jed asks. “I have to say it’s one of the more unusual wedding requests we’ve had.”

“Put it this way—I never want to source another clown in my life. And I prefer the old days when the words ‘big top’ had much more pleasurable associations.” Everyone laughs, and I grimace. “And after that, I’ve got a meeting with a new client to discuss possible venues, and then the Millers for cake testing.”

Joe groans. “If I have to taste one more piece of cake this week, I’ll hurl. Why can’t we have biscuit piles instead?”

“It doesn’t have the same ring as a croquembouche,” Margot offers, sliding a sly glance my way.

“Please don’t mention that,” I mutter.

Joe laughs. “I’d forgotten all about that.”

“How was I to know that cake was a balancing act held together by a bit of caramel and the best wishes of the bakery? I thought the layers were glued together with edible cement or something.”

“I still have the photo of the bride’s mother on my phone. I like to look at it when the days are long and depressing.”

“Why? Does it make you smile?” I say sourly.

Joe winks. “No. It reminds me that someone is worse at this game than me.”

Jed shakes his head. “Was that in the months when I foolishly let you two do weddings together? I’d have had better results if I’d employed the Chuckle Brothers.”

I sigh. “Fucking cake.”

“This time of year, I have to add another gym workout,” Margot says.

“It still bewilders me that most brides and grooms expect us to take part in the tasting with them. It’s the fruit cakes I dread. Tiny raisins.” Jed grimaces and then gestures at me to get on with it.

I tap my pen on the diary pages. “And after that, I’ve got a meeting with Leo.”

“How’s that going?” Margot asks.

My coworkers all know Richard and Leo, a couple who’ve been my best friends for years. “Fine.” I flick through the pages with details for their wedding. "They’ve got the pre-wedding party next week at Anson’s Restaurant. Don’t forget that you’re all invited.”

Everyone nods, and there’s a rustle as they check their diaries.

“They’re getting married in two weeks in Devon in a small ceremony for the families. Then they’ve got their commitment ceremony in Greece, so don’t forget I’m out of the office for two days to do last-minute checks.”

“How is it you get Greece, and I got snowy Scotland?” Joe muses.

“Hope I don’t return with the same souvenir you brought home the last time you visited Scotland.”

Artie laughs. “At least he didn’t bring home shortbread.”

“A surprise husband is not better than biscuits,” I say. “But don’t tell Lachlan I said that.”

Artie mimes zipping his mouth, and Jed looks at him affectionately.

“Good,” Jed says. “So all is proceeding as planned. Will you be missing your trousers at the next wedding or just the shirt?”

Laughter fills the room, and I roll my eyes.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Joe muses.

Jed works his way around the table, addressing everyone’s schedule, making notes in his diary, and offering his usual astute observations and helpful advice. He’s very handsome and commanding, sitting by the window with the sun shining on his brown hair.

I remember the first time I met him. Stan and I attended a wedding of a friend of his Uncle Pat’s—which accounts for the wild events of that evening—and Jed had been there as a friend of the bride.

Jed had been sitting at the bar, with a palpable air of loneliness about him. Later, I discovered he’d just lost his husband. But at the time, I’d simply hated how sad he’d looked. I’d left Stan with his boyfriend at the time and sidled over to Jed.

Jed offered me a cautious glance when approached.

“I can’t help but notice—” I began.

He immediately interrupted. “I’m not interested.”

“Rude.” I smiled and leaned against the bar. “But I’ll cope with the crushing disappointment. Fucking a hot daddy is not on my agenda tonight.”

One eyebrow rose slowly. “Is it usually?”

I seesawed my hand. “It depends. Older men can be a teeny bit problematic.”

He reluctantly turned to face me. “I know I’m going to regret this for eternity, but why?”

I leaned closer. “Well, they’re either far too bossy or overly fixated on their ailments.”

His mouth twitched. “Ailments?”

“I had one older man who decided to spank me. I was just getting into it when the motion aggravated his old wrist strain. The emergency department on a Saturday night can never be classed as foreplay.”

He stared at me for a second and then started to laugh. It sounded rusty with a sad edge, and I’d just decided I wanted to make it happen again, when all hell burst loose amongst the wedding guests.

The two bridesmaids, who’d been competing for Pat’s attention all night, decided to end the evening with a spot of warfare. This took the form of high-pitched screaming, flying flowers, and cake splattering everywhere.

Pat danced around them, pleading, “Girls, girls, no violence, please. It’s abhorrent. We don’t need it in society. There’s more than enough of me to go around.”

Jed and I had leapt into the fray and separated the warring women.

After, we took our seats at the bar again to nurse our injuries.

“Amanda has a promising career in the MMA ring if she ever wants to give up her work at the bank,” I observed. “Ouch, Stan! That hurts.” I winced as Stan pressed an ice pack to my face.

“Don’t be such a baby,” he ordered.

“Your sympathy could use some work.”

“So could your damage assessment.” He paused. “What’s this sticky stuff I can feel on your face?”

“Cake.”

“Oh, yummy.” He licked his finger. “I missed out on the cake.”

“If only Amanda and Dawn could say the same thing.” I shook my head. “Whoever organised this wedding needs a new job. Maybe in a high-security prison.”

Jed turned from where a handsome young man was trying to dress the cut over his eye. “Tell me why you think this.”

I shrugged. “Well, we all knew Amanda and Dawn went out with Pat at different points. Apparently, the bride mentioned it to the planner, but they promptly put them all on the same table. It was like Gladiator, only with gateaux.”

“What would you have done?” he asked, his tone unexpectedly intense.

“I’d have seated them separately, maybe one in France and the other in Outer Mongolia.” Stan laughed. “Also, I’d have sorted the flowers at the church. If the florist’s remit was to obscure the bride and groom, they did stunningly well. Some of those arrangements were taller than me, and I expected Tarzan to come swinging through them at some point.”

“Hmm.” Jed stood up, declining any more help from the young man with a charming smile. Then he reached into his pocket and produced a card case. After extracting one, he handed it to me. “Give me a ring. I might have a job for you.”

I stared at him. “Really? Was it my disastrous daddy story?”

Stan groaned. “Why do you always tell that story?”

Jed grinned, the smile glorious enough to almost convince me to try older men again. “It definitely wasn’t that story,” he said very seriously and patted me on the shoulder. “Ring me.”

I wasn’t to know that calling him would lead to my dream job.

The memory prompts me to make a mental note to remind Stan that my daddy stories are always necessary.

I return my attention to the meeting when Jed announces the last item on the agenda. Soon the room clears as everyone has appointments. I stroll out with Joe at my side and grab my jacket from my desk.

“Okay,” I say. “I probably won’t see you until tomorrow.”

He leans against his desk. “Lunch?”

I shake my head. “I can’t today. I’m meeting Saoirse for what will probably be a liquid lunch.”

“How is your mum?”

I grab my messenger bag, push my diary in, and then refill my business card case. “She’s fine. She's just back from her honeymoon in Bermuda.”

“Oh, Christ, not another one.”

I grin at him. “Husband number five, baby.”

He frowns. “I thought it was four.”

“No, she married my dad twice.”

“God, I always forget that.”

“I don’t blame you. The Kendricks have less of a family tree and more of a forest full of ley lines.”

He laughs. “How’s your dad?”

I roll my eyes. “Rollo is as usual—loud and flash.”

“That’s where you get it from. He’s a character.”

“He’s on wife number—” I pause and think. “Four, including my mum.”

“God, he’s practically a romantic.”

I snort. “Anyway, I’m off for lunch with her. Then I’ve got to see Leo at the salon and then home.”

He cocks his head to one side. “How’s Stan?”

I think of last night, and my stomach sours. “You keep asking me that,” I say shortly. “He’s the same as the last time I answered you.”

“Lachlan said he saw him at a restaurant last night with Bennett.”

I frown. Why a restaurant when Stan had already eaten with me? “Was Bennett being excessively loud and bossy?”

“He was telling Stan what to eat. Lachlan said he was stunned the man still had a spleen by the end of the meal.”

I force a reluctant smile. “And yet Stan’s still with him.”

“How long is it now?”

“Four months.” I could tell him how the date when Stan first met Bennett at a charity event feels like it’s burnt on my heart. But that would give Joe ideas about Stan and me and he doesn’t need any more help in jumping to romantic conclusions.

I smile at him breezily. “Anyway, I must be going.”

“Of course, you must,” he murmurs. “I’m sure we’ll return to the subject at a later date.”

“Well, you will. You’re more persistent than a terrier sniffing a crotch.”

“Such a lovely comparison,” he says sunnily.

I grab my stuff and leave the office, shouting a hurried goodbye and leaving that stomach-clenching moment behind me.

A few hours later, I walk through the Italian restaurant my mum picked for lunch. She’s at a table near the windows, her red head bent over her phone. Several men nearby are sneaking looks at her, which is her life story. She was a very famous Irish model in her early twenties, mixing with all the famous pop stars and actors, and something of that time still clings to her in her wild air. It always feels as if there’s no bad behaviour she hasn’t seen or done which was excellent for avoiding parental lectures when I was a teenager.

“Alright, Saoirse?” I say, coming up next to her.

She looks up with wide eyes, as though astonished at seeing me despite having organised the meeting, and then delight spreads over her face.

“Raff,” she says, jumping to her feet and hugging me. She’s as thin as ever, and I tower over her. “It’s lovely to see you.”

I hug her back. “And you,” I say, taking in the familiar scent of Baccarat Rouge that hangs in a subtle cloud around her. “How are you?”

She lowers herself to her seat and smiles at me. “I’m fine. Sit down, darling. You’re like a giant.”

I roll my eyes and slide into my chair. A waiter immediately appears and hands me a menu.

My mother smiles at him with potent charm, and he straightens like he’s been poked with a cattle prod. “I’ll have another Chablis, please, and my son will have⁠—?”

“Oh, an orange juice, please.”

She shuts her menu and hands it back without ordering food, and I sigh quietly, resigned to going to McDonald's afterwards as usual.

“Darling, no real drink?”

“No, Mother.”

She makes a moue of displeasure.

“Saoirse,” I correct myself. “I’ve got appointments this afternoon. It won’t look good if I turn up half-cut.”

Like you at my parents’ evenings, I add silently, remembering the occasions she lurched in late and loud but still forgiven by my teacher as she laid on her formidable charm.

She pouts. “Well, if you’re going to be boring, Rafferty.” She shakes her head. “So much like your father.”

I look at her slender, ice-cold beauty and wonder for the billionth time what brought her and my father together. My dad is brawny with dark hair and a stocky figure. He’s incredibly blunt, incapable of even the most basic diplomacy, and makes no attempt to follow fashion trends. His world was as far away from my mother’s as humanly possible and he never attempted to fit in with her fashionable friends.

It was probably his money and charm. My father is loaded, owning a very successful haulage firm and a lot of property, and he has a very charismatic air. If he’s in the room, you pay attention. Whatever it is, it’s drawn them together and forced them apart many times. I’m remaining braced for the next time.

“How is Rollo?” she asks as if sensing my thoughts.

“Dad’s fine, or at least he was the last time we met.”

We’d met for dinner, during which he lectured me on rugby, in which I have zero interest, and I talked about weddings, in which, despite having entered into marriage four times, he has even less interest. Then we regarded each other warily and agreed silently not to meet for another six months.

“How’s Stan?”

“He’s great.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Stan is such a strange boy.”

I bristle. “Why?”

“He’s a stunning man but pays no attention to how he looks.”

“You are aware that he’s blind, aren’t you? His looks aren’t an obsession to him.”

Unlike yours, I add silently.

She looks as thoughtful as the Botox allows. “Oh yes. I always forget.”

“Of course you do.” I roll my eyes. “And how is Carlos?”

She smiles her thanks as the waiter delivers her Chablis and immediately takes a long drink. Her face is beautiful but the lack of wrinkles has more to do with plastic surgery than healthy living.

I think of Stan’s mother with her long dark hair touched with grey and her makeup-free face. The image warms me. Thank fuck for his parents. I’d have probably been feral if it weren’t for them.

“He’s fine,” she says finally.

“Has the childcare centre got him for the day?”

She glares at me. “There’s no need for that, Rafferty. He’s not that much younger than me.”

“Oh, only three decades, but who’s counting?” I smile at her. “Come on. It’s a little bit funny. He still thinks CBeebies is grown-up TV.”

“At least he wears his trousers correctly. The pinstripes on yours are far too wide, and they’re a little tight, darling.”

“It brings all the boys to my yard. So where is the child bride?”

“He’s at the gym.”

“Is he exercising his fingers? All the better to count your money, Saoirse.”

Anyone else would be offended, but my mother is made of sterner stuff. The fact that her husband is thirty years younger than her doesn’t strike her as ridiculous because, to her, there’s no mystery as to why he’s with her. She stares at me for a second and then bursts into husky laughter.

“Cheeky,” she advises me, affection in her pale blue eyes. “So, what’s the gossip?”

The next hour passes pleasantly in the vicious slandering of her friends. When I finally get up to go, she stands up, too, extending her arms. “Hug, please, Raff.” I hug her, and she tugs on my hair. “This needs cutting.”

“I know. I’m meeting Leo later, so I’ll ask him to give me a trim.”

“And then you’ll go home. Is Stan still staying with you?”

“Strangely, considering the fact that he rents the flat with me, he is still there.”

She tuts. “I don’t understand that. You have your trust fund, and I know Rollo would help you if you wanted to buy your own place.”

“I don’t want one,” I say calmly. “I like living with Stan.”

“It’s a bit strange.”

“What? Being friends with someone for twenty years? It’s about as strange as marrying a man-child with the morals of a rather dissolute alley cat.” She stares at me, and I kiss her smooth cheek. “Or so I’ve heard. Ciao, bella.”

Humour restored, she pats my cheek. “Love you, darling.”

“You too.”

The bell tinkles as I enter the hairdressing salon, and the familiar sweet scent of shampoo and hairspray fills the air. I grin at the receptionist, Micky, who's sitting at the front desk painting his nails. His hair is dyed a shade of pink that I last saw on my mother’s lips. “Alright, Micky?”

He looks up and grins. “Rafferty Kendrick, as I live and breathe. How are you, babe?”

“Well, you know.”

“And so does most of the Pink Parrot, naughty boy.”

My brow furrows. “I don’t think I’ve done anything too outrageous lately.”

“How about the naked shots?”

“Ah. I remember now. It was a chilly evening, so don’t judge me.”

He chuckles. “You know very well that it was a summer’s night. Leo’s in the back doing highlights. Go through.”

I salute him and make my way to the back, where Leo’s station is. Leo is standing with his blond head bent over a lady and a large trolley filled with bowls and brushes positioned next to him.

He looks up and grins. “Hey, babe. Nice to see you.”

“I’m sure it is because it’s me.”

“So modest,” he informs his client. “We have such a problem with his wallflower tendencies.”

She laughs, and I grin at one of my brides. Bailey has a head full of tin foil, looking rather like a space-age Medusa.

“Alright, Raff?” she asks.

“Fine, lovely. What’s this reprobate doing to you? Don’t worry about his nickname. Edward Scissorhands is affectionate and not a commentary on his hairdressing skills.”

Leo rolls his eyes. “Ignore him if you can,” he advises Bailey.

She just smiles at me. “I’ll be in tomorrow, Raff.”

“I know. We need to finalise the guest invites.”

“God, don’t remind me. We’re bringing Phillip’s mother.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Depends if you like hatchet-faced old cows.”

“Well, luckily for you, they’re my speciality.”

“He’s not kidding,” Leo says. He taps her shoulder. “Fenn is going to take you now, lovely. He’ll get you coffee, cake, and some magazines, and then I’ll be over to check in twenty minutes.”

Bailey smiles at both of us, and Leo’s apprentice escorts her away.

Leo starts to clean up the station. “What’s up?” he asks, the light catching the platinum band on his finger.

I look at him affectionately. Stan and I met Leo on our first day at secondary school. We’d been keeping our heads down, as befits newbies who don’t want their faces rearranged by the older kids. Leo had obviously not read that particular memo, because he’d been laying down the law to three hulking third-years who were cowering before him. He’s funny and a complete livewire. You never know what will happen when you meet up with him.

“I came to talk about your wedding arrangements.” I settle down in the chair. “It seems funny to be having this conversation with you. I never thought you’d get married given your previous rather caustic opinions of that state.”

“Should you be saying that as a wedding planner? I thought you’d claim some sort of marital presentiment.”

“I don’t think I’d like to possess that. It sounds rather horrifying. No, it’s just that you didn’t have the best start with Richard considering that you met when he demanded you come into the bank to cut up your credit cards. It’s hardly the most romantic meet-cute I’ve ever heard of.”

He smiles at the thought of his banker fiancé. “It was ours, and that’s all that counts.” He gives a mock shudder. “And he was very thorough with those scissors. Quite turned my head.”

“Well, if anyone can make me believe in happy ever after, it’s you, babe.” I pause and raise my voice, “Oh, and you too, Bailey.”

“Wanker,” comes the amused reply, and I grin before turning back to Leo.

He gestures at me to tilt my head back and then runs his fingers through my hair.

“I know I’m pretty irresistible, but this is so sudden, Leo.”

He tuts. “It’s getting too long.”

“I know. I’m amazed that Jed’s let me keep it this way.”

He shudders. “That man. Yummy.”

“You’ve never sat in front of him while he chastises you for hours.”

He drapes me in a gown and tucks a towel around my neck. “Does he sweep his hair back when he does it? Ooh! Does he roll up his sleeves? He has forearms to die for.”

“And a tongue you could cut your throat on, but far be it from me to interfere with your twisted fantasies. What are you doing?”

He holds up his scissors. “Getting ready to take you swimming. What do you think I’m doing?”

“Oh, okay, but only because it’s you. And don’t be too nervous. I’m sure I’ll like whatever you manage to do with it.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s what my hairdressing awards stress.”

“No one loves a bragger.”

“It’s inner confidence.” He pauses. “Backed up with a shit ton of shiny statues. Okay, talk to me while I cut.”

I lean back in the chair, feeling his long fingers run through my hair. “All the arrangements are done for the party. You just need to check with Richard’s Aunt Betty if she’s coming and bringing the coven with her. I’m sorry. I meant her daughters.”

He begins to snip with an expression of concentration, but his mouth has a tell-tale quirk. “I can’t wait for Richard’s parents to meet my family. They think Prince William is lower class.”

I snort, and he pinches me. “Hold still.”

“Are you this tender with all your clients?”

“No, you’re a special case. And I mean that most sincerely. Very special. Okay, so I’ll confirm with Betty, and you can ask the venue if there’s anywhere for them to park their broomsticks.” I laugh. “Anything else?”

“I don’t think so for the party. We need to meet next week with both of you to go over the last details for the commitment ceremony.” Leo and Richard are getting married in a registry office, but having their commitment ceremony in a hotel in Greece. The country is very close to their hearts after they met again on a Greek cruise where Richard was a guest, and Leo was the hairdresser. After many mishaps, they’d come home inseparable and stayed that way.

“I’ll remind him.” He puts his scissors down. “Okay. Over to the sink.”

“You sweet talker.”

I edge over to the sink, clutching the towel around my shoulders, and let him ease me into the chair. “Comfortable?” he asks as I lean back.

“I’ll be even more comfortable if you do that special head massage.”

“Is that the one where you make sounds like a porn star?”

“I can’t help that you have magic fingers.” I snap my fingers. “Do me, baby.”

He snorts, and I feel the water hitting my neck. “Warm enough?”

“Do you care?”

“Well, I don’t want to freeze my wedding planner. Who else will care about the shade of the napkins?”

“I could run the country with my attention to detail.”

“What an alarming thought.”

We fall silent as he shampoos me, the scent of coconut fresh on the air.

After a few moments, he says, “Stan rang me this morning.”

“Oh, yes?” I’m proud of the evenness of my voice.

“Yeah, he needs a haircut.”

“Well, I didn’t think he wanted his oil changed. Ouch!” I say as he pinches me.

“I saw him with Bennett the other day.”

“Oh, yes? How is the Marquis of Marylebone?”

“I don’t like him much, Raff.”

“Do you think I do?” I say harshly.

“I suspect for very different reasons.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighs. “Why do you dislike him?”

I lick my lips, suddenly feeling nervous. “Erm, because he’s a massive bellend, and Stan deserves better.”

“You’re not wrong, but that’s not why you dislike him.”

“Well, why else?”

“Why else, indeed? You’re about as forthcoming as a dead pigeon.”

“That’s a bit harsh.”

He towel-dries my hair and then gestures me back to his station. I sit down in front of the mirror and blink. “Wow, that’s…that’s short.”

He puts his hands on his hips. “And?”

I twist my head from side to side. My long hair is now chin-length, and the shorter length turns my waves more into curls. It accentuates my jawline and makes my eyes look very blue. “It’s actually quite nice.”

“Quite?” The word is filled with outrage.

I wink at him. “I’m sure you’ll get better at this hairdressing lark the more you do it, love.” He rolls his eyes, and I laugh. “It’s great. Thank you.”

He starts the hairdryer and directs a warm stream of air over my head, his talented fingers busy and his face preoccupied. I can predict what he’s going to say next without any effort. You can’t divert Leo when he’s after the truth.

As if on cue, he says, “So, how is it between you and Stan?”

I shrug, avoiding those clever eyes fastened on me in the mirror. “Not brilliant,” I admit.

“Oh, Raff.”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “We just need to get back to normal.”

“That’s hard to do after you’ve spent a couple of months shagging.”

“I’m beginning to regret confiding in you about that.”

“You didn’t need to. It was as clear as day when you started fucking around.” He stops the hairdryer, watching me with bright grey eyes. “So, it’s difficult?”

I bite my lip, fiddling with the hem of the gown. “Yeah. I’ve fucked a lot of men, Leo.”

“They weren’t Stan.”

“It’s just such a mess. I can’t be around him without needing to touch him, and I can’t get him out of my head.”

“Why don’t you tell him how you feel, Raff?”

I blanch. “I’d rather suffer from an attack of biliousness.”

“Have you been watching Bridgerton again?” He sighs. “You can’t keep hiding your feelings from him.”

“Really? Because I actually think I can.”

“I think you’d be surprised by what he says if you tell him.”

“No,” I say, and it comes out sharper than I intended. “I have no right to interfere in his love life. I wanted to be just his friend again, and now I am. I need him to be happy. I’ll get over everything else.”

“Can you get over being in love with him?”

I wince and then try to look as if it was a smile. “It’s probably not that. It’s because we’re best friends, and the waters got muddied a bit. We’ll go back to the way we were soon.”

“Yes, that’s what I’m worried about.”

“What do you mean?”

“The last thing either of you needs is to go back to being just friends.”

“Why? Because, in all honesty, that’s what should happen.” He raises one eyebrow, and I narrow my eyes. “I’m telling the truth. He’s made his decision and he’s chosen Bennett. I just want my friend back now.”

He pats my head, his expression gentle and soft. “You’re pretty but not awfully bright, Rafferty Kendrick.”

Chapter

Five

Stan

I sit back in my desk chair and try to focus. There’s an estate sale I’m interested in and my screen-reading software is reeling off a list of album titles. I’ll be bidding on the lot in a few days, so the details are important.

But I can’t stop thinking about Raff. It had been torture last night to be close to him and yet not touch him. We’ve sat together on a sofa, talking and laughing hundreds of times over the years, but those innocent days are clouded by new memories of what it’s like to touch him, what it feels like to slide into his body and hear his moans.

I knew what we were doing when we started sleeping together. I knew it was dangerous to my heart, but I couldn’t stop, and the reason for that was simple. I’ve been in love with Raff for most of my life. I don’t know when or how it started. It was as simple as breathing to me, and one day I looked at him, and I knew he had the whole of my heart, and that would never change.

There’s nobody like him. He’s funny, kind, and the best kind of wild, but equally, he’s my safe place—the one person I turn to when I need comfort.

When he kissed me for the first time, it was game over. I couldn’t have resisted him if my life depended on it, and the sex had been so good. The kind of sex that changes everything.

Sighing, I shut off the software and I take the path where my brain is determined to take me. One of those times when Raff and I were together…

Raff is laughing as we enter our flat. The February night is cold, the air tasting of snow, and I’m warmed by the cosy lounge and the tale Raff’s telling.

“So, my bride asked the registry office if she could walk up the aisle to some music that had a bit of tension to reflect her ambivalent attitude towards matrimony. She expected something by Massive Attack, but do you know what they played? The Mission Impossible theme tune.”

As we take off our coats, I savour the feeling of lightness between us. Since that night on the sofa a few days ago, there’s been a funny distance. Nothing terrible—it’s like we’re cautiously settling into a new dynamic. Tonight was just what we needed. We’d gone to a local club and spent the evening dancing and laughing like fools. Now, my limbs feel like jelly, and I’m completely relaxed.

Hump comes out to investigate us, and I pet him, stroking his ears and telling him that he’s a good boy. I hear the patter of claws as he moves away.

“He’s gone back to bed,” Raff says. “Reminds me of your dad when he used to wait up for us.”

“You lie. His nose was never that wet.”

He laughs, and I pull at my scarf irritably. I hate anything confining, so god knows why I put it on—probably a lifetime of my mum pressing it into my hand.

“Here, let me.” Raff’s voice is full of warm laughter, and I inhale the scent of his cologne as he comes nearer. Gentle hands unwind the scarf from my neck. There’s a soft thwomp as it falls to the floor, and then I gulp as his hands run down my T-shirt and over my arms. The touch is gentle yet knowing, and I stifle a groan at the feel of his skin on mine. It’s a painful relief, like I’m a neglected plant being given water again.

“Raff?” I say hoarsely.

His body jumps as if he wasn’t aware he was touching me. There’s a pause, and then he sighs.

“Should I say sorry?”

I swallow hard. “Do you want to?”

Silence descends as his hands move, smoothing up my chest before they twine around my neck, pulling me down to him. “No,” he whispers and kisses me. His lips are full and soft, and before I know it, I’ve pushed my tongue past his lips, seeking his own tongue to suck on before the kiss deepens and becomes wetter, filled with sighs and groans.

His hands move again, pulling me tighter against his body, and his scent makes my head spin. Then he tugs me with him as he moves backwards, and I follow him the way I always have because he promises mischief, mayhem and so much fun. This is a huge step up from our usual brand of trouble though.

When he comes to a stop, I explore with my hands and discover he’s leaning against the back of the sofa.

“Support,” he mutters.

“Ah, the scene of our last cataclysmic decision.”

He pulls my T-shirt over my head and discards it. “So gorgeous,” he murmurs, running his fingers over my shoulders and chest.

I shudder as his sexy voice tugs at my balls.

Not to be outdone and dying to touch him, I push up his T-shirt, following the cotton with my fingers and mapping out his torso. His skin feels like silk under my rough fingertips. He’s thinner and less hairy than me, with long muscles and a lithe energy I can feel even when he’s still. The desire to see him is a deep ache, but I have loads of practice in ignoring it. I twist the pebbled nubs of his nipples and smile when he gasps.

“Yes, just like that,” he says feverishly, and I tweak them again before rubbing my nail over the crumpled skin. He moans, and I inhale sharply, searching for control as he starts to writhe against my leg, the hard length of his cock digging into me.

I lower my hands and find the waistband of his jeans, quickly unbuttoning them and sliding my hand inside. Raff’s dick is hard and hot, with a damp spot already forming on the soft cotton of his briefs. Fisting his length, I give him a couple of firm strokes, feeling more precome. He groans and arches into my grip, and suddenly, it isn’t enough. I need more skin.

I shove his briefs down and fill my hands with his arse. It’s full and round under my palms, a testament to his trainer. If I could, I’d send her a thank-you card.

The feel of him—touching him in this way I’ve always longed to yet never dared—creates a half second of panic. I’ve had my hand on my best friend’s cock, and now his bare arse is in my palms. What the hell am I doing?

But panic disappears immediately when Raff groans and shoves into me, kissing under my chin and licking and sucking at the skin. I know exactly what I want and need to do.

I spin him around, not even trying to be gentle. “Bend over,” I say hoarsely.

The way he shudders under my hands, and the speed with which he obeys, tells me something new about Raff. He likes being told what to do during sex.

The knowledge sends a thrill down my spine. I’m naturally bossy in bed, and I like to be in charge. The thought that Raff’s desires complement mine sends a fresh wave of pleasure down to my dick. I have to give it a pinch to stop myself coming.

I slide my hand down the long, graceful line of his back as I carefully lower myself to my knees. Then I reach out, filling my palms with his cheeks and spreading them so I can nose inside. I lick a stripe down his channel, and Raff’s whole body stiffens.

“Stan?” His voice sounds almost surprised.

“No?”

“It’s just… Well, I haven’t had this done much.”

Relief floods me, and I bite my lip to hide a smile. “I suppose your usual speedy sex turnaround doesn’t leave much time for intimacy. Your partners might lose the skin off their noses if they linger too long down here.”

“Alright, Quaker Stan,” he says crossly, and I laugh.

“Luckily for you, this is one of my favourite things.”

“I thought that was collecting old Roxy Music albums and the rose and violet chocolate bar from Fortnum and Mason. Oh fuck,” he groans as I lick around his hole, sending my tongue dancing over the wrinkled opening. “God, don’t stop,” he says, his voice going high as I begin to suck.

Ignoring his garbled protests, I pull back and slide my finger through the moisture.

“Why is this so good?” he whispers.

I cock my head. “The better question is, why are you still talking?”

I suck on the opening again before sliding the top of my tongue in as it loosens. Raff chokes out a groan and begins to writhe under my hands, undulating like seaweed in a current while I lick and suck, getting his hole nice and open.

I lose myself in the scent and taste. It’s tart and yet sweet, just like him, and I’m so far gone that it takes me a second to realise that he’s pulling away. His hands urge me up to lean against him. “Raff?”

“I need you to fuck me,” he says, and his voice is wrecked—husky and low.

I hesitate. “But if we do this, what happens after, Raff?”

He strokes my cheek. “Then we carry on being friends like we agreed. Didn’t we already talk this over?”

“Yes,” is all I can manage as my hands move independently of my brain, circling his waist and pulling him close.

“Fuck, I want you inside me.”

That hoarse whisper is too much, and all my caution flies away. I spin him around, pushing him forward until I feel him settle against the sofa again. “Lube,” I gasp. I’m going to come out of my skin if I don’t have him soon.

“In my pocket,” he gasps as I circle his hole with my finger. “Let me get it.”

“You were thinking of picking someone up tonight while I was with you?” I growl.

“No,” he blurts. He hesitates, and I have to strain my ears to hear his next words. “I hoped we’d end up here.”

I’m dimly aware that I’m already breaking our rule of nothing serious, but I can’t focus due to the throbbing of my cock. My need for him is like my need for air. The desperation of it should make me pull away. But I don’t.

I hear rustling, and then a packet is placed in my hand. “You deal with the lube,” he says. “I’ll get the condom.”

After pushing my jeans and briefs to my knees, I tear open the packet with my teeth and squeeze the contents into my palm.

As I warm the lube between my hands, I feel Raff step closer. I gasp sharply as he rolls the condom on me. He’s slow and teasing, like he is with so much else in life. He grips my length, holding it loosely as if prompting me. I wait for a second, then give in and arch into his knowing grip. He immediately tightens it, and I shuttle in and out, fucking his hand until it’s too much.

“This will be over before it’s even started,” I warn.

He grunts in agreement.

“Bend over the sofa,” I instruct.

There’s a rustle of movement, and I put my hand on his back to centre myself. His skin is damp with sweat and hot to the touch. I skim my hand down, admiring the wiry strength and litheness of the body under my fingertips, and then, with one hand holding his cheeks open, I find his hole and rub the lube into it, stretching him slowly and thoroughly and ignoring his whispered pleas. My heart is hammering in my chest, and my blood feels like it’s burning in my veins.

Finally, he shoves my hand away. “Now,” he orders.

I grab his cheeks, spread them, and notch my cock against his hole. I push gently inside, taking it slow as I work against the muscle. Finally, I bottom out, feeling his skin hot against mine.

We both go still and groan. My head is reeling, and I wonder if he feels the same astonishment and awe that we’re finally doing this.

I wait a few seconds for him to say something, but he’s quiet as he begins to undulate against me. Slow at first, as if testing the fullness, and then a little faster.

My cock rubs over his prostate, and he jerks in my arms. “Ah, god, yes. Shit, Stan, you feel so fucking good.”

“You do too,” I say hoarsely, both hands holding on to his hips as if supporting myself. I need the support. I’m dizzy and lightheaded, all my attention on the snug, hot clasp of him around my cock.

I try a thrust, and he cries out. I slow, checking if I’ve hurt him, but his groan of pleasure is a green light.

I push at his hips, widening his stance before I pull all the way out. It takes an effort to leave the tight clasp, and he makes a disgruntled sound as I pause. Then he shouts when I shove in again. Hard.

I can go deep in this position, and the sound of his desperate cry makes me flush hot all over. “Take it,” I mutter, shuttling in and out, gripping his shoulders and feeling his buttocks bounce against me as I hit home. He moves suddenly and I realise that he’s raising his legs so the sofa’s back supports him. I grab for his thighs, holding him steady, lean back and thrust again, and he goes completely rigid, goosebumps breaking out on his skin under my fingers.

“Fuck me right there,” he begs.

I push against that sweet spot inside him, rubbing over it with the edge of my cock while he shivers and whines.

The sound of our groans and grunts echoes around me, the scent of sex and sweat filling my head. I’m holding him too tight, and I’m probably bruising him, but I can’t care, because I know he wants it. He’s pushing back at me just as hard, begging me to go faster, deeper. So I do, gripping the back of his neck as I hammer into him.

My balls tingle, and I know I’m close. I need the length of his body—all of him—tighter and closer. I clasp his midsection, raising him from the sofa. My cock goes impossibly deeper, and he jerks as if he’s been electrocuted.

I feel for his face and tug gently until he turns it to me. Then, cupping his chin with my fingers and tracing his lips, I lean in and kiss him.

Everything slows as though time is dipped in treacle. We kiss with tongues and choked groans, and I trail my fingers along his sharp jaw and down his neck. And then, with my hand over his chest, holding him firmly, I start thrusting again.

I can hear the meaty thwaps of flesh meeting flesh, and I revel in them. With Raff, I’m more free than I’ve ever been. I can be completely unrestrained with him, because he knows every sharp edge in me.

He raises his arms and I feel his hands twine around the back of my neck. His body arches, and I skim my hand down his chest, tweaking and pulling at his nipples until he cries out.

Then I lower my hand, spreading my fingers through his wiry bush. I grip his dick, and it feels like an iron bar in my hand, the tip sticky with seed. I speed up, my thrusts banging into him while I shuttle my hand over his cock, the trace of lube and precome making him slippery.

His whole body tightens against mine, and he gasps, “Coming. Fuck I’m coming.”

He gives a long, stuttered groan, and his cock pulses in my hand, coating my fingers with wetness. Bringing my hand up, I suck on the digits and groan at the taste of him. It only takes a couple more thrusts, and then my balls tighten, and I come seemingly endlessly, emptying myself into the condom.

We collapse against the sofa in a flurry of damp limbs and sighs and⁠—

“I’ve done the window display, Stan.”

My sales assistant Lennon’s voice disturbs my trip down sexy memory lane, and I jump guiltily. “Sorry, what?”

“You alright? You’re a bit flushed.”

I’m fervently glad the desk covers my lap. I clear my throat. “I’m fine. Did you need something?”

“The window display is done.”

I focus my attention on the lad who started here in a Saturday job but who displays all the same sticking tendencies as Kem and myself. He’s passionate about music and has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the seventies which is ironic for someone whose parents probably weren’t even born then. He’s also preternaturally laid-back, which could be due to the copious amounts of dope he consumes. I always know where he is in the shop because he smells like a coffee shop in Amsterdam.

“Oh, good job, mate. Thank you. What is it this week?”

“I did a rockers window with album covers for bands like Black Sabbath and Motörhead. The background is red, and I included that sixties record player you got at the garage sale last week. My mate made bats from some old vinyl, and they’re flying out of the record player. It’s not bad.”

“Well, it sounds absolutely amazing.”

“It is,” Kem’s voice says. There’s a rustle of clothing, and then I hear the desk creak as he sits down on it. It’s his favourite spot. “You’re brilliant, Lennon.”

“Ta. I’ve also been thinking that maybe we should have our own music awards.”

“Don’t they call those the Brits?” I say idly.

“They’re so bloody lame.” Lennon’s voice is rich with disgust. “I watched it last week, and I was bored off my tits.”

“They didn’t use to be,” Kem says.

I chuckle. “Yeah, tell that to Michael Jackson and Jarvis Cocker’s cardi.”

“What?” Lennon asks.

“Long story. Look it up on YouTube. It used to be Pat’s favourite video. He made me watch it when he babysat me and Lottie, and he laughed every time. Suffice to say the Brits used to be a lot more fun—sort of like me and Kem.”

Kem huffs. “Speak for yourself. Kem is still plenty of fun.”

“And still managing to talk about himself in the third person in a very creepy way.”

“Maybe we could do our own awards voted by the customers,” Lennon continues doggedly.

I try hard to look in his direction as he talks. It takes more effort than it used to. As my vision deteriorates more, my desire to behave as though I’m still sighted also diminishes. It used to be easy to fake sight and focus on whoever was talking to me, but those days are long gone. I sometimes can’t help thinking—why should I try so hard? It’s not my job to make a non-disabled person comfortable with my own fucking blindness.

I realise that Lennon’s still talking, and I jerk to attention.

“We could leave cards around for the customers to fill in and then feature the winners on the display.”

“That’s a good idea,” I tap my desk idly. “Kem’s been looking at a college course on window displays. Would you like to go on that, Lennon?”

There’s a startled silence. “But I’d still be working here?” he asks in a worried tone.

“Of course,” I say immediately. “God, I don’t want to lose you.” I can almost feel him relax, so I continue. “It would give you more choices, though. Kem says you’re brilliant and very creative. And maybe one day, you’ll want to spread your wings.”

“I doubt it,” he says firmly. “I like being here. But yeah, I’d love to do that.” There’s a short pause. “I hope there’s not too much homework though, Stan. I was never good at that in school.”

“Minimal,” Kem says immediately. “It’s mostly practical, and you can practise what you learn in the shop. They come out and assess it.”

I snort. “Maybe make that on a day when old Reggie isn’t ranting about how Stock, Aitken, and Waterman were worse than Satan.”

We all laugh, and then Lennon says, “I’d really like that. Maybe I could take on the displays in the cafe, too.”

“Absolutely,” I say immediately and with feeling. “Have at it.”

“Don’t you want to know what I’m thinking of doing?”

I smile in his direction. “I trust you, Lennon, but if you want confirmation, just run it by me or Kem.”

“Epic,” he says, sounding extraordinarily like my nephew. “I had the idea of melting down old damaged coloured vinyl and making some tea services. We could make a psychedelic artist display and have it like you’ve gone through the looking glass. My sister could make the cups and teapots. She’s dead creative and makes a mint on Etsy.”

“Get Kem to advance you the money, then, and keep receipts. And give him your receipts from the rocker display while we’re discussing it.”

“Will do. I’ll get my folder of ideas out of the staff room.”

His footsteps race away, and Kem chuckles.

“Hates homework but has a folder of ideas. That was a good suggestion, Stan.”

“I’m full of them.”

“Unfortunately for the world’s sanity, they usually involve Rafferty.”

I clear my throat because that reminds me too much of last night. Raff and I had sat so close together, and it had been hard to remember not to lean on him as he put his arms around me. I’m not physically affectionate with many people, because I like my distance. But that has never applied to Raff. From day one, he’s been in my space, and I allowed it, marvelling but liking it too. But now I have to think consciously about what I’m doing around him, and it’s tiring. Bennett’s phone call had been welcome, and even though it hadn’t been the best of evenings, it had still been better than sitting beside Raff and not touching him.

Pushing the memory away, I say, “I had a phone call from Finn Jameson this morning.”

“You say that so casually. Only Finn Jameson, whose band won five awards at those boring old Brits.”

I smirk. “Well, he’s become just Finn to little old me.”

“Get you, Star Shagger.”

“Chance would be a fine thing.”

“What did he want? Aren’t they on tour?”

“They got back last week. They’ve got a new album, and he wondered if we’d like them to play at the store.”

“Fuck off.”

I smile. “I know it sounds incredible, but they love the shop and want to pay back. He says they’ve got fond memories of Pat, who gave them a lot of good advice at the beginning.”

“Was it the phone number of his dope dealer and how to smuggle drugs into the country in your turn-ups?”

I snort. “Probably. Thank God Finn never picked up on Pat’s fashion sense.”

“Who can forget that tartan cap?”

“It was a tribute to Big Country and Scotland.”

“What did they ever do to deserve that? The brim of the cap was bigger than my head.” He laughs. “So, Finn Jameson is playing here.”

“Yeah, they’ll play an acoustic set if we want.”

“If we want? Oh, because it’s so likely we’ll say no.”

“I don’t know about that. Can we fit their fans in? They’re traditionally a bit…”

“Enthusiastic?”

“I was going to say deranged, but let’s run with yours. It’s more polite.”

“How about a competition? That way, we can set the numbers and make it an intimate gig. I wouldn’t mind getting intimate with Finn.”

“That’s not a bad idea.” I pause. “The competition, not your creepy stalker voice. It would be much better all around if he didn’t have to call the police on you. A competition might be like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory with the gold tickets.”

“Well, hopefully, we’d miss the creepy undertones and wouldn’t lose any children that are present.”

“Yeah. Totally.”

“And you can go on local radio.”

“How is it that I’m the one doing that?”

“Because you’re more charming than me.”

“That’s not exactly difficult. Fred West was more of a people person.” He laughs, and I tap my fingers on the desk to the Saint Motel track playing in the shop. “I’ve put it in the diary, so we’ll need to schedule a meeting with Finn.”

“Not his agent?”

“No. I suggested that, and he said when it’s friends he doesn’t need agents.”

“That man could sell charm to George Clooney.”

He wanders away, and I sit back in the chair, feeling the leather cradle my back. I reach down, offering a hand to Hump. He licks my fingers with a rough rasp of his tongue, and I tug gently at his velvety-soft ear. He's a Labrador Retriever, one of the breeds that makes brilliant guide dogs. He's sweet and very sensible, and my sister often says he should be in charge of our flat because he’s the only adult in the building.

“Alright, mate? Not too boring for you?” I grimace. “Sorry about last night,” I whisper.

Hump has to sleep in a basket in the kitchen when we stop at Bennett’s flat, because Bennett doesn’t like dogs on the bed. It’s a far cry from home, where Hump sleeps happily at the bottom of my bed. We got up this morning to find Hump had chewed the legs on Bennett’s kitchen table. I’m pretty sure it was Hump’s way of voicing his objections. The fuss Bennett made would have been more appropriate if Hump had shit his bed. I wouldn’t put it past my dog to do exactly that, if Bennett doesn’t improve his attitude. All bets are off when Hump’s harness is removed.

“I think I’d rather have shared your basket,” I confide.

He licks my hand again and then I hear him settle down in his basket under the desk with a groan of happiness. The sound always makes me smile. I can’t imagine my life without him.

When my sight began to deteriorate, I’d been reluctant to use a cane or get a guide dog, determined to ignore the problem. I would walk behind people, so I’d know when stairs were nearby and therefore avoid falling down them. I’d also follow big landmarks when out walking. But after taking more tumbles than a circus clown in training, I gave in and learnt to use a cane, relying on that and my residual sight to bridge the gap in my vision.

I hated the cane passionately at first. It made people talk to me differently, and they treated me as if I was blind, which was hardly surprising.

I’d eventually grown to love the freedom the cane gave me. Still, when my parents tentatively bridged the suggestion of a dog, I’d been reluctant, unsure that I needed an animal to show me where to go. But Hump is like having another best friend. I trust him absolutely, I can tell him things I can’t tell another soul, and he doesn’t answer back like Raff.

I’ll need to rely more on such friends in the future. My vision is deteriorating. The doctors warned us it would happen, and it’s become evident I’ll lose my last bit of light and shadow perception. Not knowing when it will happen is fucking scary.

In my experience, blindness has been a progression of learning to deal with the current level of shit just as the next setback comes along. It’s sad and often very tiring, but I’ll deal with whatever comes in the future. It’s a matter of pride to me.

There’s a knock at the door, and I turn my head in that direction. “Yes?”

“It’s Bennett,” my boyfriend says.

The sound of his voice should inspire a surge of excitement. I wait a few seconds, hoping it will come…

Yeah, nada.

“Hey,” I say. The amount of excitement in my voice makes me sound like someone in youth theatre, so I modulate it. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you wearing?”

His voice seems to have an undercurrent of amusement and I cock my head to one side. “Clothes?” I raise my hand, touching my shirt with a feeling of dread. I hate the idea that people have been staring at me. “What’s wrong with it?”

“You’re wearing an old blue Fila tracksuit jacket, an acid yellow T-shirt, and jeans with more holes than a piece of honeycomb. I’d also be prepared to bet that you’ve got on your neon green Gazelle trainers as you rarely accessorise with anything else.”

“Ouch. Well, don’t tell anyone I created this fabulous outfit. They’ll be queuing up for fashion advice.” I laugh in relief that it’s not too bad. I’ve definitely worn worse. “I packed an overnight bag quickly, so I didn’t have time to check the outfit with Raff.”

“And why do you have to check with him, of all people? He’s hardly an arbiter of fashion. Last week, when I came round, he was wearing a onesie with naked Santas on it.”

I repress a smile. “I used to have a colour detector. If you pressed it against clothing, it would tell you the colour.”

“Why don’t you use that then?”

“Well, it had quite a posh voice and Raff used to imitate it and tell stories of what it got up to when it wasn’t in use. If I remember correctly, it had a particularly debauched relationship with the TV remote control. I couldn’t take it seriously after a while.”

“How charming,” he says in a voice that makes it clear that it’s anything but. “Maybe you should go back to it and rely less on other people, hmm?”

By other people he means Raff. His disgruntlement at Raff’s position in my life has increased lately.

“Hmm. And maybe you should keep your opinions to yourself, Bennett.”

My voice is light, but my meaning is unmistakable, and there are a few uncomfortable moments of silence before he finally mutters, “Sorry.”

I repress a sigh. Bennett has become a problem. I’ve been searching for a way to break things off for a few weeks now, but my attempts have been foiled by his flashes of humour that can be quite endearing, and his ability to change the subject.

I first met him at a charity event to raise money for a guide dog centre where he’d been bidding generously. We were introduced by a friend of mine and Bennett had made his attraction to me very clear from the start. I was desperate at the time to escape my unreciprocated feelings for Raff, and Bennett’s attentions were very flattering to my wounded heart.

He was good in another way too. Everyone sees me as Stan—the go-getter and the confident man who takes on all obstacles and wins. That’s a big part of me and who I’m proud to be, but the truth is that underneath this façade I’m not so confident and I feel vulnerable far more times than I’d ever admit to anyone other than Raff.

Bennett had somehow seen that in me though, and by being older and gently commanding, he’d given me a way to switch off my troubled thoughts and be a little vulnerable for once.

It was a pleasant experience to be with him…for a while.

The trouble came when his gently commanding air slowly switched to something more appropriate for a sergeant major on the parade ground. I can’t put my finger on when it changed but that attitude is never going to work for me long term. I left home at eighteen and travelled the world for a year. I’m quite sure that I’m not cut out to be told what to do by anyone, least of all my boyfriend. Bennett likes to be in control, but my blindness is not something he can ever arrange to work properly.

I’ve been putting off ending it because I can’t help but feel guilty. I’m the one who let this happen. It’s my fault that I drifted for a while allowing him to make some of my decisions while I wallowed in my feelings for Raff. But now I’ve woken up again and it’s too uncomfortable for me to let it go on much longer. I’ve got a feeling that my parting with him is going to be acrimonious. He’s too stubborn for it to happen any other way, and he doesn’t like to lose.

I push those worries away to deal with later. “I thought you were working today,” I say.

“One of my clients cancelled.” His tone sounds irritated. “So, I thought I’d pop in and take you to dinner.”

I grimace. “Ah. Sorry, but I can’t.”

“What? Why?” He sounds affronted, as if he cannot imagine a scenario in life where I shouldn’t be sitting around waiting for his company. He’d have more luck dating a Golden Retriever than a human being.

“I’m going to that concert with Raff,” I say.

He gives an aggrieved sigh, and I bite my lip to hide my smirk. Raff is an easy-going bloke, but he has the ability to irritate Bennett like no one alive. He seems lodged under his skin like a chaotic strawberry-blond tick.

“Why?” Bennett asks.

“Because they’re an excellent band, I like a concert, and I love spending time with Raff.”

“I just can’t understand it. He’s so lightweight and happy.”

His bewildered voice makes me want to smile. He isn’t the first person who Raff has confounded with his temperament. “Is that a character failing now? You’d better tell Disney, if so.”

“His levity forms ninety per cent of his personality. I’m disappointed that you can’t see that, Stan.”

I cock my head as anger stirs. “And I’m disappointed that you’re talking to me like you’re my mother. But then I suppose we can’t always be happy in life.”

There’s a startled pause, and then he says in a sullen voice, “Rafferty is wild and far too charming for anyone’s good. He’s a bad influence on you.”

“What?” I can’t help my surprise. The level of spite in his voice is new and disconcerting. He’s always been so careful to keep it low-key. Probably because he knows I’ll stick up for Raff.

“With him, you do stuff that could be dangerous.”

“Like what?” There’s an edge in my tone that someone normal would pick up on, but Bennett is completely convinced of his own rightness in everything. He wears certainty like a superhero cape.

“Well, you did that skydive with him last month. That was so dangerous with your condition.”

“Condition? I’m not pregnant. And I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but Raff wasn’t flying the plane. Nor was he teaching me—or the other person in my tandem jump—how to skydive.”

“Yes, but it was his idea. He encourages you to forget.”

“Forget what?”

“That you’re blind.”

“Oh, God forbid.” I take a deep breath, rage squirming in my belly. “What you’re failing to realise is that he encourages me to live,” I say through gritted teeth. “He lets me be free, and he’s always been my safety net in case I fall.”

My voice is steely, and there’s a long pause before I hear him move. His footsteps sound nearby, and I half stand, only to jerk in surprise as he takes my shoulders and pulls me up. I hate it when people do that. My family and friends know to take it slow if they’re going to hug me.

“I’m sorry,” he says, embracing me. "I shouldn’t have said that.”

I’m stiff in his arms. “But you meant it.” I sigh. “Bennett, maybe we should⁠—”

“No, don’t say it.” His voice is urgent. “I’m sorry I said anything. I don’t know why I did.”

“Because you were cross and taking it out on me?”

“Well, maybe.”

Unexpectedly, his rueful words make me laugh, and he senses my weakness and pulls me even closer. “I hate fighting,” he says and kisses me. His hand is firm on my chin, and his tongue pushes into my mouth. He tastes of mint and smells expensive, but it’s still all wrong, and I can’t help my instinctive recoil.

He lets me go. “What the hell, Stan?” he snaps.

I can feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Sorry. You took me by surprise.”

“Really? What about all the other times, then? We haven’t had sex in a month.”

“I’m just very tense at the moment.”

“So am I. You don’t see me turning into a monk.”

I try for a light note. We’re in my office, and I don’t want to air details on my sex life to customers. I think they’d prefer The Black Keys album that’s currently playing. “Well, I definitely won’t be either. I’d trip on the long robes, and Hump wouldn’t like the food at a monastery.”

To my surprise he laughs. “Maybe the monks should just serve table legs and then he’d be happy.”

I relax a little. “Sorry about the table,” I mutter. “I don’t know what came over him.”

“No need to apologise. I think he’s still holding a grudge over that crate.”

Bennett had bought a very expensive dog crate for Hump when we stayed at his place but on demonstrating it, he’d accidentally locked my dog in. That would have been fine if he hadn’t then bent over the crate and dropped the keys inside.

“He was eyeing me in a way I haven’t seen since I watched Steve McQueen in The Great Escape at Christmas. Please don’t ever give Hump a motorcycle and an escape route. He’ll end up living on an island in South America under an assumed name.”

His whimsical words make me chuckle and relax a little. These flashes of humour are what’s made me stick around for the last couple of months. It’s like he lifts his armour just long enough to seem fallible, but sadly, he always lowers it again.

“Stan, it’s Raff. Am I interrupting?” Raff’s voice comes from the door.

“You,” Bennett says in a tone more suited to greeting war criminals.

There’s a startled silence. “Yes, me,” Raff says. “I have the uneasy feeling that I’m being blamed for something. It’s not exactly an unusual circumstance, but I do like to be able to fully claim my bad behaviour.”

Bennett huffs. “We were talking about this ridiculous idea of a concert.”

I groan. “It’s jazz-funk. Not abseiling down the Eiffel Tower.”

“Rafferty, please keep Stan safe,” he says in a tone of voice that makes me want to scream. “You influence him into making bad choices. You need to be better.”

“That sentence sounds like it should have a hashtag attached to it,” Raff says, and I can detect a tiny note of tension in his voice.

“You know that I’m right.”

Raff’s tone is chilly when he speaks again. “Stan makes his own choices in life. He’s not quite your Stepford wife yet.”

“What?” I say.

He continues, and I can hear the animosity bristling in his voice. “Stan’s a grown man who makes up his own mind what he wants to do. He doesn’t want or need me to wrap him in cotton wool. He’s more capable than you and I put together. I’ll always look out for him, but it’s not because he’s blind. It’s because he’s my best friend.”

“I think we should try to consider Stan’s feelings and stop this argument. You’re rather confrontational this afternoon, Rafferty. Maybe it’s youthful high spirits.” Bennett’s voice is pompous, and I hear an angry-sounding hiss come from where Rafferty is standing. “I’ll speak to you later, Stan,” Bennett finishes silkily.

A fraught silence falls after he’s gone.

“Are you with him because you have a kink for boring headmaster porn?” Raff enquires.

I snort. “Shut up.”

“No, seriously. Mr Bishop was less strict than him when he suspended me from secondary school.”

“Bennett’s trying⁠—”

He makes a huffing noise. “I’ll say he is. Very fucking trying. And what was that crack about me having high spirits? Maybe I should actually be high. That might make it easier to have a conversation with him.”

I feel along my chair and grab my jacket. “Forget it. We’ve got to get a move on, or we’ll miss the gig.”

“Are we dropping Hump off at the flat first?”

“We certainly are. Hump does not like jazz-funk. He prefers pop. He wants to lie down in a dark room instead.” I pause. “Which sounds extraordinarily attractive to me at the moment.”

“I’m only fighting for your honour, Stanley, but please don’t smother me with gratitude,” he says in a pious voice that makes me smile.

“How about I just smother you?”

“How very typical that all of this seems to be my fault. I might just as well wear a hair shirt.”

“Well, don’t give it to me to wash. I’ll shrink it.”

Chapter

Six

Rafferty

Once outside, we pause while Stan puts on his sunglasses. He can’t regulate his pupils, so direct sunlight can sometimes be too much for him. Then with him holding on to Hump’s harness, we set off. I spare a smile for Hump, who is alert and focused now he’s on the job.

“So, how was your day?” I ask.

Stan grimaces. “It was good up until the last fifteen minutes.”

“That was not my fault.”

“Must you rise to him?”

“I think I must.” Stan snorts, his face lively with amusement. “He’s just so stuffy and bossy,” I add.

“Have you ever considered that you might like him if you tried?”

“No, and neither have you.” That shuts him up because we both know it’s the truth. “If I tried until the end of the world, I would still think he’s a dickhead. He speaks to you like you’re five, Stan, and he’s going to send you to sit on the naughty step. Why on earth do you put up with that?”

“He can be kind and he makes me laugh sometimes.” He shrugs. “Bennett’s not so bad.”

“What a ringing endorsement. I feel faint.”

“Oh, shut up. How was your day anyway? Did Jed fire you?”

“Me?” I say in indignation. “He would never do that.”

“One more day attending weddings half-naked, and he might say differently.”

“I’m telling you, half-naked weddings are going to catch on.”

“I’ll take your word for it. I can’t see Leo endorsing it.”

“Not likely. The buttons on his wedding shirt are made of gold. Did I tell you that?”

His full lips are pursed in amusement. “A time or two.”

“Gold. He’s one step down from Elton John. If he displays a desire to bedazzle a piano, I need you to tell him no.”

“Why not you?”

“He can always get around me. You’re the strict one in this partnership.”

“That’s not difficult. You have the impulse control of a penguin.”

I come to a stop outside the newsagents near our flat. “I’m just going to get some gum. Do you want anything?”

“No, thanks. I’ll go and grab a coffee from Starbucks. Do you want one?”

“Nope. See you in a minute.” I watch Stan and Hump walk off, admiring the grace of Stan’s long-legged stride before shaking myself and heading into the shop.

I grab a couple of packets of gum and, as an afterthought, some more mints, thinking of the wedding tomorrow. I have more of these in stock than a polo mint convention. Fresh breath and clean hair are a must for a wedding planner. I add a bumper bag of chocolate buttons to my basket and join the queue, looking idly out of the shop window.

I notice Stan has his coffee and is standing outside the Starbucks. He’s hugging his precious coffee to his chest and talking to Hump, the dog’s head tilted as if he’s about to answer back. Seeing them makes me smile—the two most important beings in my life. A shaft of sunlight lights up Stan as if he’s an angel. It’s completely false advertising, because he’s naughty and irrepressible. The breeze ruffles the dark curls around his high-boned, sweet face, and something warm curls around my heart.

“Alright, Raff?”

I jump and turn to find the shop owner watching me with a knowing smile.

“Sorry. I was just thinking about the events in the stock market today,” I say quickly.

“Oh, yeah? That sounds interesting. Tell me about it, and make sure you go into great detail.” His eyes twinkle.

I slump. “Oh, shut up.”

“Hey, no judgement. Stan’s a good-looking bloke. I’d stare if I were gay myself.”

“I’m glad you’re not. You’d be far too much competition.” Errol is a smooth mover. He has a string of women who come into the shop smelling of perfume. They bring him lunch and coo over him.

He laughs and rings up my purchases. I’m just sliding my change into my pocket when he says, “Oh dear.”

“What?” I turn, following his gaze, and start to laugh. “Fuck. Not another one.”

A man stands next to Stan, his hand on Hump’s harness as he gestures towards the road. He’s obviously intending to help Stan across it.

“Oh dear, another good Samaritan to the slaughter,” I say.

Errol laughs. “I suppose they mean well.”

“It’s shocking how many people don’t know not to touch a working guide dog. Stan gets taken across the road more times than a chicken, and he never finds it particularly amusing.”

“I think the bloke might be finding that out right about now.”

I grin and head out. As I approach, I hear the stranger tell Stan, “No need to be embarrassed.” He’s using an overly loud voice that some people adopt for blind people.

“I’m not,” Stan says.

“I’ll just help you over. It’s a busy road.”

“Fine,” Stan replies, “But it’s actually a road I don’t want to cross.”

His voice is edging from polite to sharp, but the man isn’t paying attention. It's a shame. His gravestone will likely say, Over-achieving Do-gooder.

“You just come with me,” he tells Stan.

“That sounds rather creepy and not in a good way.”

“Is there a good way?” I ask lightly. “Okay, folks?”

Stan’s lip quirks. “Oh, fine, thank you. All in a day’s work. And sometimes creepy is good. Remember Christian Bale in American Psycho?”

“You’re the only person who finds Patrick Bateman attractive. He literally killed people.”

“Yes, but he cleared up after himself and had excellent grooming skills.”

“He wasn’t a Labrador.”

“I just like a man who brushes his hair. Does that make me picky?”

The stranger blinks, looking between us. “Are you with him?” he asks me. “I’m going to help him over the road.”

“Why are you telling me?” This is another thing that chafes—people who talk to me rather than Stan. As if he lost his comprehension skills along with his sight. “Unless you’re helping me across the road, too. That would be rather nice. I haven’t had anyone do that since I was five.”

“Not even then,” Stan offers. “Your mum used to stop to flirt with the lollipop man.”

“She did always like a man in uniform.” I pause. “Or any man, really.”

He chuckles.

The man regards us both, and then says to me, “Oh, you can take care of him, then. I’m glad.”

Stan taps his fingers on Hump’s harness. “I think it’s the other way around. Even my guide dog couldn’t work with Raff.”

I shrug. “You could be right.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” the man says, quickly exiting stage left.

“Thank you so much for your help,” Stan calls sweetly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t completely incapacitated and couldn’t make you feel all warm about yourself.”

“He’s gone. Don’t be mean. He meant well.”

He gives a dramatic sigh that makes me smile. “They always do.”

“Alright, Pollyanna.”

“Shut up and give me a chocolate button.”

“How do you know I bought them?”

“Rafferty, I know you very well. You couldn’t pass a chocolate shelf if your life depended on it.” He pauses, a smile hovering on his lips. “And despite knowing you, I’m still here mentally functioning. Go me.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Laughing and bickering, we make our way back to the flat, where we smother Hump with hugs and kisses and leave him sitting contentedly in his basket with his rubber chicken, to which he has an undying devotion.

Once outside, Stan checks me on the pavement. “Wait.”

“What’s up?”

“Do I need to get changed?”

“Into a sweet person? It couldn’t hurt and might widen your dating prospects.”

“No, you twat. My clothes. Should I get changed into something else?”

I blink. “Why? We’re only going to a gig.”

“Yes, but do I look silly? What does my outfit look like?”

His long, tight body is clad in clothes that shouldn’t look good together but somehow do, because, infuriatingly, he can make absolutely any outfit work. He has an air of effortless cool about him that he probably learnt at his uncle’s knee. “You look fucking cool as always. I need to borrow that jacket. It’s great.”

He gives me a wide, unguarded grin that relaxes the usual concentration on his face and pulls out a cheeky dimple at the corner of his mouth. “I just wanted to check.”

“Why?” I groan. “Bennett.”

“He said I looked odd.”

“Well, at least you don’t look like a cunt. He can’t change clothes to disguise that.”

He nudges me and then threads his left arm through mine, his right hand holding his cane. We set off, the tapping of the stick a familiar percussion to the song of our lives together. I cherish how he leans on me and occasionally lets me lead. He’d never relinquish all control, and with others, he’s staunch and determined to appear unbreakable. But our friendship creates trust, and it’s a badge of honour I won many years ago.

He found out he was going blind when we were seventeen. We’d all known something was wrong with his sight, but the diagnosis still came as a devastating shock, and understandably, Stan didn’t take it well. His shock quickly turned to rage, and for a while, he seemed like an angry stranger. He’d been surly, rude, and antagonistic, the formerly affable and sweet boy itching to pick a fight over anything.

Unfortunately, things went from bad to worse when he decided not to care anymore and thought he was invincible. Drugs and partying put him in some incredibly dangerous situations. I spent a whole summer following him on his misadventures, absorbing his snarky remarks as I lurked and made sure he was okay. I still shudder at the memory of finding him in a room where some college mates were running a train. He’d been naked and off his tits—completely unaware of where he was and incapable of forming a sentence. I’d wrapped him in my coat and got him home safe and sound. The same can’t be said of the bloke who’d been responsible for the drugs and the party. I’d gone back and written ‘I am a massive cunt’ in permanent marker on his forehead while he was passed out, something that still gives me satisfaction, particularly as he had a job interview the next day.

After that, Stan slowly began to accept the situation with his sight, but spent several months worrying about being a burden. Leo and I finally offered him brutal honesty—he’d always need help with certain things and there would always be people who would be idiots in the way they treated him. But that never meant his friends and family would feel he was a chore.

It seemed to be what he needed to hear. He’s now settled on a happy medium where he’s independent but not afraid to ask for help.

As if on cue, he asks, “Did you do the laundry?”

I snort. “Is that not my job, Stanley? I’m little more than an indentured servant existing to please you.”

“You wouldn’t talk so much if that was the case. Anyway, you don’t do much else except hang around being charming.”

“Thank you. I know you think that’s an insult, but I like it.”

“Damn. Foiled again.” He chuckles and squeezes my arm.

“Yes, I did the laundry. Your stuff is put away.”

We’d quickly learnt when we moved in together that Stan is a disaster at laundry. He has zero patience at the best of times, and as he can’t see clothing labels and doesn’t want to bother with the laundry gadget that reads them for him, he tends to just shove everything in on the same programme. After he’d shrunk most of my wardrobe, I’d taken over. The Emperor’s New Clothes is just a fairy story, so while Jed might have accepted my explanation of fashion trends last week, I doubt he’d be quite so sunny about full nakedness at weddings. Not to mention I like expensive shit that doesn’t get on well with a boil wash.

We arrive at the venue, and when I discover there’s a line to get in, I wave at the bouncer to get his attention. He’s a huge bloke with a stern face, but he immediately grins when he sees us. “Hey, you two,” he shouts. “How are you doing, Stan?”

“It’s Neil,” I tell Stan, leading him towards the club’s entrance.

Stan’s head turns, a smile breaking over his face. “I’m fine, Neil,” he calls. “Your Steps album came in. It’s behind the counter.”

“Brilliant,” the man mountain shouts. “Come on through.”

Some men at the front of the queue grumble and mutter, but Neil gives them a steely glance, and they immediately pretend to be deep in conversation.

I clap him on the arm. “Cheers, mate.”

“You’re welcome. You going on to the Pink Parrot afterwards?”

Stan’s hand tenses on my arm, but I concentrate on answering Neil. He’s not the kind of bloke you like to have staring down at you while he waits for a response.

“Nope. Just me and Stan tonight.” I give Stan an encouraging nudge. “We must ration out his personality, as his friends can only handle him in small doses. It’s my turn with him tonight.” I give a brave and loud sigh. “I have to be strong.”

Neil laughs, and Stan punches my arm. “Wanker.”

I’m smiling as we head into The Jampot, one of my favourite venues. The building is beautiful and has great history. In the sixties and seventies, it was a nightclub where all the big acts played. It went bankrupt in the eighties, shortly becoming a restaurant and then a bingo hall, and now it’s a nightclub again. The elements of its past are evident in the avocado green fittings in the bathrooms and the huge disco balls dangling from the ceilings. Some wag has decorated the old bingo calling box with a plastic skeleton that’s wearing a hair net and a ballgown.

Once inside, Stan folds his stick. After clipping it to the holster on the back of his jeans, he takes my arm, and I guide us through the entryway which is carpeted in red velvet.

When we get to the huge gilded double doors that lead downstairs, another bouncer called Ben signals us. I push through the crowd, Stan’s hand clutching tight to my arm.

“Beer’s here, boys,” Ben says, reaching down to produce two bottles and handing them to us.

“You’re wonderful,” Stan says.

Ben smiles and says, “My wife still talks about our wedding with stars in her eyes, mate. For that, Raff can have all the beer he wants.”

Ben had been made redundant when he and his fiancée Iris were planning their wedding with my agency. I’d grown attached to them, so I waived my fee and called in a lot of favours so they could still have the wedding they wanted.

I slap him on the back. “How’s Iris doing?”

His stern face always softens when he talks about his wife. “Much better now, thanks, Raff. The first three months are the worst, but the morning sickness has disappeared.”

“That’s great.”

Ben turns to open a curtain covering the wall. Then opens a door the curtain was hiding and gestures at me and Stan. “Through you go.”

“Why can’t we go through there?” the woman behind us asks sharply.

“Ah, these are VIPs, madam,” Ben explains.

After thanking him, I escort Stan through, and Ben closes the door behind us.

We start down a gloomy corridor, taking the route the stagehands and stars use to get from the dressing rooms to the stage. Since Stan and I are regulars, the management lets us use this back way, which is much easier for Stan to traverse than the steep central staircase that always has an eager crowd pushing and shoving along its narrow stairs.

I walk more steadily as my eyes become accustomed to the dim light.

“Is it as much like a rabbit warren down here as it feels?” Stan asks, totally at home in the darkness.

A man bustles down the narrow corridor, holding a coil of wiring. “Watch out,” I murmur to Stan, pulling him closer to my side and against the wall so the man can get past. Stan stiffens but then immediately relaxes into me, his body warm and familiar. The man gives us a harried nod and vanishes around the corner.

Instead of continuing, I find myself resting with Stan against the wall. It’s rather comfortable in the warm, dim light, and I’m enjoying a relaxed feeling that’s escaped me lately. Stan has always been able to simultaneously soothe me and make me feel more alive than anyone else.

I tighten my hold on him, and instead of pulling away as he has done for months, he melts into me, his arms coming around my waist. His breath is hot on my ear, and his hair is a silky caress against my chin. Unbidden, my fingers push into his silky curls, scratching his scalp gently. He gives a half-stifled grunt, and I groan when his lips brush against my cheek. My hold on him tightens, and I’m just leaning close to kiss him, when footsteps make us jump apart.

The man from before appears around the corner. He gives us a curious look and walks away, leaving us in an uneasy silence. I try to think of something to say—anything that won’t result in more horrible awkwardness.

Stan straightens and asks, “Are we listening to the concert in a corridor tonight?”

I laugh. “Not good enough for you, princess?”

He shakes his head in disgust, making me laugh harder. It’s a bit too loud, reflecting my inner state. Everything’s off balance lately.

Taking a deep breath, I tug him away from the wall, and we make our way to our spot to the right of the stage. The old box seats have got a fantastic view—we’re almost sitting on the band, and the whole old club is spread out before us. Being here is one of the many benefits of Stan running a wonderful shop that’s so well-loved and popular with musicians and club managers.

The box would fetch a pretty penny if they sold tickets for it, but it needs doing up and there’s no fixed seating here; it’s become a repository for pallets and old chairs.

I stand back quietly as he sends his stick out, tapping around so he knows where he’s safe. “I’m sure there are even more chairs than usual. Are they actually breeding?”

I chuckle. “Not likely. The blue chairs are willing, but the red chairs have a headache, and the silver chairs say they’re holding out for better prospects.”

He laughs and then walks forward, putting out a hand for the railing. I automatically sidle against him, my hand hovering at his back, but I don’t say anything. Stan paid his dues during his teenage years of being poked and prodded and having decisions made for him. Now he can do things the way he wants, and I’m fiercely proud of him.

Satisfied, he offers me a wide smile. “I love this box even if it smells of cigarette smoke, a faint trace of body odour, and a touch of weed.”

“Ah, ze romance of it all,” I say in a hammy voice, making him laugh.

“I hope they never empty it of chairs, and we can always be here for gigs,” he says almost wistfully.

If I could, I would buy the box just for him. And I’d insist he’d let me accompany him to every show so I could watch his enjoyment. Stan’s curls are wild, his face keen and interested, and his colour high.

A memory of how he’d looked sucking my cock slams into my head in full technicolour glory, and I cough and shift as my dick hardens. Why can’t I forget that?

I guess it makes sense. I love Stan too much for him to become one of the many men I’ve had in my bed, most of whom I only have vague memories of.

“Are there many here? It sounds busy.”

I wrench my gaze to the crowd below. “Oh. Er. Yeah, it’s a full house,” I say hoarsely.

“That’s good. They’re such a great band. They deserve all the good things.”

“Kem said Finn Jameson rang you?”

His fingers tap to the music playing over the sound system. “Oh yeah. A few days ago.”

“And you never thought to mention it?” I say indignantly.

He offers me a mock solicitous smile. “Well, I was saving you from yourself. You’d only have turned up and hung around him, staring and mouth-breathing loudly.”

“I do not do that.”

He laughs. “If you say so.”

“Does he know what he’s doing by becoming involved with the shop? Soon, you’ll be managing the band.”

“Like Colonel Tom Parker?”

“Doesn’t he make Kentucky Fried Chicken?”

“Ha ha.” He reaches out unerringly, finds my arm, and administers a pinch. “You make it sound like the shop is rather controlling.”

“Well, either the shop or the owner. Didn’t Pat meet a band in the morning and departed on tour with them in the afternoon?”

“Yeah. The Stones. He was gone for six months and needed to sleep for a year when he came back. I don’t think his liver has ever recovered properly.”

“That was probably when the band started going off the rails. How’s Pat doing?”

I love Stan’s uncle. He’s wild and free and utterly irreverent, and he gave Stan his love of music and a place where the only serious subject was who was better—Blur or Oasis.

“Fine. He split up with Flora.”

“What? When did you hear that?”

“He rang me this morning. I got chapter and verse on the split and a recommendation for a new type of weed.”

“I thought Flora was the love of his life.”

“You know Pat. She was the love of five minutes of his life.”

“So, what’s he up to now?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’ll try, but I’m not making any guarantees.”

“He’s joined a commune in Ibiza.”

“Sorry?” I choke and break into laughter.

He shakes his head, a smile playing over his lips. “It’s a very nice one, apparently. They have cabins and a sea view.”

“They’ll be worshipping him within three months tops.”

“He is very irresistible.”

“I still can’t believe he sold the shop to you for a hundred quid. I’m not convinced he wasn’t drunk or high. Or both.”

“You know Pat. Family is everything, and he believes possessions and money bring out the evil in society.”

“He certainly could have taught my parents a thing or two. Although not in casual drug use and extremely casual shagging. They had him beat on all fronts.”

He squeezes my arm, and I savour his touch. He knows my entire history, and I know his, and our closeness is a precious thing.

The lights dim, and when the band plays those first exciting notes, Stan and I cheer. The air reverberates with a heavy dance track, and the next hour is spent dancing and singing along. I might watch Stan more than the band, but that’s my secret.

They stop playing for intermission—a tradition the owners keep mainly to sell vast quantities of booze—and I lead Stan down the corridor towards the bar. His body is damp with sweat, a scent that mingles pleasantly with his cologne. It makes my head spin.

“This is why I like being with you,” he says, probably louder than usual because our ears are ringing.

“I’m sure there are a multitude of reasons,” I say just to hear him laugh. “Name this one.”

“Because you let me be me.”

He pauses, enthusiastically waving his hands around, and I smile helplessly at him. “Bennett would never have allowed me stand at the railing and let me dance.”

“Let you?” I say crossly. “Has he bought you, and I never realised? Well, I hope he kept the receipt. It’ll be buyer’s remorse; you mark my words.”

He laughs, but I grimace. I hate the way he introduces Bennett into our conversations, but I guess it’s a bright point that he doesn’t sound very fond of him tonight.

“He said you were a bad influence.”

“I heard. Has he actually met you? You are the source of at least fifty-two per cent of our bad ideas.”

“Maybe more,” he says with a pleased smile.

“Probably.” I snort. “And how the fuck was the skydiving my fault? That was all you. ‘Oh Raff, I need to feel alive. I need my blood to pump in my veins. You’ll jump out of a plane with me, won’t you, Raff?’”

“Wanker,” he says, laughing at my impersonation of him.

“Truthful wanker.”

He returns to his subject as we start walking again. “I mean, we went around Europe on trains when we were seventeen. If I’d been with him, I’d have been in one of those hamster balls they put kids in.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“You know those balls? They bounce around in them for fun at the seaside, or so Vinnie said.”

“I shudder at the thought of your brother being in one of those. Anyway, it’s all a bit too dangerous for Bennett. He’d like to keep you in a padded room wrapped in cotton wool.”

He sighs. “I shouldn’t criticise anyone for caring about me.”

“I don’t know, Stan. You’ve told him repeatedly to stop smothering you. Surely, if he cares, he should listen to you.” I want to ask why he puts up with Bennett at all, really. But I don’t want to spoil the evening with an argument. Who knows how long we’ll be able to keep doing these things together.

“I don’t want cotton wool,” Stan insists. “I want to live. I want adventures. I want to create more incredible memories—like…like that trip we took around Europe.”

“And that’s exactly what you should have, babe. You do you.”

I shoot him a fond look as I lead him into the huge bar area. I will never tell him that our European trip was a nightmare for me in some ways. I was a nervous fucking wreck thinking I’d lose him in a museum in France or a beer garden in Germany. I’d had visions of him living the rest of his life in an oompah band with a man called Fritz.

Knowing Stan, he’d have been perfectly happy, and by now he’d be managing a hugely successful German Oasis cover band.

“This place is packed. Here’s a less crowded corner.” I lead him to a quiet spot away from the ever-growing drinks queue. “I’ll get some drinks. Stay here, babe.”

“Okay. Ta, Raff. I’ll have an orange juice.”

I give his arm a squeeze. “I’ll be back soon.”

I fight my way to the bar and catch the barman’s eye. He looks familiar, which in my world means I’ve either shagged him or arranged his wedding.

“Alright, Raff,” he calls. “Looking good as usual.”

Ah, it’s the former.

“Hey,” I say, grinning at him. I can’t remember his name.

“What can I get you, Raff?”

“Oi,” a man says next to me crossly. “He’s only just come to the bar. What makes him so fucking special?”

“He does a wonderful prostate massage, and his mouth is like a Hoover.”

The man blinks, and I smile at him. “But mainly, it’s my charming personality.” The cross bloke rolls his eyes, and I turn back to the barman. “An orange juice and a Bud, please, babe.”

“You enjoying the concert?”

“I am. They’re really good.”

“I presume you’re with Stan?”

I blanch. What does he know about Stan?

He chuckles as he sets the drinks on the bar and takes my money. “You might have mentioned his name a few thousand times the night we spent together.”

“Ah, he’s my best friend.”

“Really? I thought he was your husband or something.”

I stare at him. “And you still shagged me?”

He winks. “Prostate massage. Did you miss that bit?”

I grin and gesture to keep the change. I fight my way back to Stan and hesitate when I see a man talking with him, standing close.

My stomach clenches with immediate and ridiculous jealousy, and I can’t believe this has happened to me. Me, who made a virtue out of casualness.

There’s fuck all I can do about my feelings for Stan, and I obviously need to find new methods for coping.

I straighten my shoulders and walk forward. “Alright?” I say, nudging his hand and giving him his drink.

“Rafferty,” he breathes.

I blink at his enthusiasm. “That’s me,” I say cautiously.

“I was just telling Pete that we were here together.”

How is it that Stan can remember everyone’s name, and I can’t remember the name of someone I’ve actually shagged? The world is a strange place.

My eyes widen as Stan leans in to kiss my cheek. “Oh,” I say. “Oh.” I smile broadly at Pete. “Yeah, we’re here together.”

The man studies us. He’s tall with dark hair and very blue eyes. “You’re hot together. Fancy a third?”

“I haven’t even met you yet, mate.”

“Do we need an introduction to shag?” he asks.

“Probably not,” I say in a spirit of honesty. “But Stan does.”

Stan grimaces. “What are you on about? I could totally shag a stranger.”

“I know,” I say, placating him. “But you do prefer a relationship. Remember Ivan?”

“You always bring him up.”

“Babe, you brought him home for a one-night stand, and last week you were the best man at his wedding.”

“I can’t help making friends. And I’ve had many threesomes, thank you very much.”

I take a drink of my beer. “Do you want one with your new friend Pete?”

He pauses. “No,” he says.

Pete huffs. “I could have died of boredom waiting for you two to make your minds up.”

“So, you decided to leave charm by the side of the road and go with aggression?” I ask mildly. I tsk. “Manners maketh man, you know.”

Stan leans back against the wall, his mouth twitching with amusement. Then he grimaces and hands me his drink. “Hold this.” He retrieves his stick from its holster. “It was digging in my bum,” he offers in a cheeky voice that makes me want to laugh.

“Something I shall be doing when I get you home,” I say in a lordly impression of Bennett when he’s in one of his moods. “You need a good spanking, young man.”

Pete blanches as he stares at Stan. “You’re blind,” he exclaims.

“No, I just have a very long stick,” Stan says.

“Bragging again, you little minx,” I compliment.

“You don’t look blind,” Pete snaps.

Stan’s mouth thins, and immediate temper sparks in his face. “You don’t seem like an arsehole, but such is life.”

The man bristles. “What did you just say to me?”

I roll my eyes. “He said he likes going for a stroll.”

“Fucking weirdos,” Pete says and vanishes into the crowd.

Stan huffs. “We’re the weirdos when his opening chat-up line was ‘fancy a good hard fuck’?”

“Don’t sneer. I might borrow that one.”

He frowns. “Being blind is a major turn-off in the kingdom of the gay.”

I sling my arm over his shoulders and hug him, pressing a kiss into his hair and handing him his drink back. “Only with the wankers. I’m sorry it cost you a threesome with Captain Charisma. He looked super.”

He laughs, his bad mood vanishing. “I think we’re the sanest people here, Raff.”

“I fear for the safety of the world, then.”

“I’m having such a good night.”

“Me too,” I say softly. “I always do with you.”

He smiles, and when the crowd pushes him into me, he doesn’t move back. Instead, he rests into me, and the awful warmth in my chest grows and spreads.

Chapter

Seven

Rafferty

Stan winces in pain as we step off the bus with Hump close to his side. It’s Sunday afternoon and the streets are dusty and hot.

“It’s your own fault,” I murmur. “If you tackle that hard, you have to expect some bruises.”

He pats his leg as if that will miraculously ease the pain. “It was totally Malcolm’s fault. He fouled me.”

“Okay, Eric Cantona.” I eye him and grimace. “I’m not sure if you’ll have a black eye too, babe. It looks swollen.”

“It’ll be totally worth it,” he says with a relish that makes me laugh. “Malcolm is a complete prick.”

“He’s a lovely man. It’s just that the two of you turn into monsters on the football pitch for some reason.” I pause and add slyly, “I wouldn’t like to be the one who tells Leo that his best man has a black eye due to violent tendencies.” Stan blanches, and I laugh.

We’re on our way to have dinner at Stan’s parents’ house after his Sunday game of football. Before his eyesight deteriorated, he was a keen footballer, so when he found he missed it, he took up blind football last year.

Watching the games is certainly an experience, and not just because Stan’s legs are a thing of beauty. According to Stan, the game was adapted from futsal. It’s five-a-side, and they play with a ball that has a noise-making device so the players can hear it. Players in the outfield wear eye patches to make gameplay fair, as some players have more light or shadow perception than others. It’s exciting to watch, and I rarely miss an opportunity to go and support Stan. The silent cheering the spectators use so the players can hear the ball gives the game a frisson for me, as do their shorts.

We’ve barely gone a few yards before he stops and winces. “Sorry,” he mutters. “My calf’s really tight.”

I look at the park next to us and then pat his arm. “This way,” I say. He frowns in confusion but still takes my arm as I walk into the park. Finding an empty bench, I set his hand on the back of it. “Sit down.”

He bites his lip to hide a smile. “Me or the dog?”

“Hump is the least irritating member of your partnership.”

“Ouch!” He laughs but sits down obediently on the bench with Hump coming to settle at his side. The dog shoots us one of his patient looks and then sits serenely as if it’s his dream come true to be forced to deal with two such aggravating adults.

Stan’s mouth is quirked in amusement, but his smile dies quickly as I kneel down in front of him and lift his foot onto my thigh. “What are you doing?” he gasps.

“I can’t watch you limp along. We’ve got a couple of miles to walk, and you might make us late for dinner.”

He laughs. “You are the source of all unselfishness in the world.”

“You know it.” I tap his leg. “Anyway, out of the goodness of my heart, I’m going to massage your calf. What did you think I was doing? Open heart surgery?”

His lip twitches. “I’m pretty sure you didn’t take that exam module when we were at school.”

“I probably had a promising surgical career in front of me, but the school cut me off in my scientific prime.”

“Could that have had more to do with the fact that you failed GCSE Biology? If you’d been given a scalpel to do an appendectomy you’d probably have operated on my jawbone.”

“It’s looking like an attractive proposition at the moment,” I say just to hear him laugh.

I rest my hands on his calf and my smile fades away under a surge of lust. It’s been so long since I was this close and touching him. His skin is hot beneath my hands, and I lean over watching raptly as my fingers slide along his muscular calf.

I realise he’s gone quiet and looking up I swallow hard at the stark look on his face. To anyone else he might look austere, but I know that expression now. It’s lodged in my memory and impossible to shake off. This is Stan’s turned-on face.

“You don’t have to—" He stops talking and sucks in a noisy gasp of air as I dig my fingers into the muscle and rub downwards. “Oh god, that’s really good,” he whispers.

I swallow hard and remind myself sternly that we’re in a public place and he’s not mine anyway. Clearing my throat I move back a little to make my massage as impersonal as I can manage.

“How does that feel?” I ask, glad that my voice isn’t reflecting my feelings. It’s light and happy now with no sign of turmoil.

He’s silent for so long that I look at him anxiously, but his face is blank. “Good,” he finally says. He sniffs. “Maybe you could branch into this if the wedding planning doesn’t work out.”

“It might be a good idea because I’m pretty sure you don’t have to wear a top hat to massage someone,” I observe, rubbing behind his knee. The muscle is very tight.

“I don’t know about that. Maybe for special massages that come with happy endings.”

I snort. “So, you’ve moved my employment prospects from massage therapist to hooker. The world should be happy you never branched into career management.”

A middle-aged couple approaches us on the path, but they slow to a stop when they’re standing behind us. I twist to see what they’re doing and then blink in surprise as the woman grimaces in apparent disgust and then tuts.

“Disgusting,” she says in a voice just loud enough for me to hear. “To do that openly on the streets is shocking,” she continues, her voice high with indignation. “What is this country coming to?”

For a second I wonder if she’s talking about someone else, but she’s glaring at my hands on Stan’s leg so it’s obvious that we’ve been cast as the baddies in her Sodom and Gomorrah scenario.

Stan cocks his head. “Is she talking about us?” he asks, astonishment written clearly on his face.

I roll my eyes and carry on massaging his calf. “Just ignore her.”

“She’s talking like we’re committing public indecency.” His lip quirks and he whispers, “Did you take your clothes off during this sports massage and forget to tell me?”

“Very funny.” He chuckles and I smile at him, but my grin vanishes as the male half of the prude partnership steps up to bat.

“There are private rooms for what you’re doing, young man.”

I sigh feeling very aggrieved at all this misplaced attention. “I know. I’m meeting your mum in one later.”

Stan’s snort breaks the stunned silence that seems to have settled amongst us.

The man finally splutters, “I beg your pardon.”

“You heard,” I reply. “All I’m doing is massaging my friend’s tight calf. Mind your own business and move on.” He shakes his head and takes his companion’s arm as they move away. “Lovely to meet you,” I call. “We must do this again sometime.”

“Wanker,” Stan says succinctly.

“There’s no need to get personal,” I tell him. “I was just riding to your rescue like a particularly hot knight.”

“A gobby one. You should have just ignored them.”

“It was a bit difficult seeing as they’d taken up residence staring at us like we were on the stage. Are there more fuckwits around than usual, or is that just my imagination?”

He laughs, but as he gets to his feet, he wobbles and sways into me. I adjust my weight, tightening one hand on his arm and grabbing his hip with the other one, steadying him. His body is warm, and his shampoo has a fresh, clear scent. There’s a streak of mud over one eyebrow that he missed when showering, but all I can see is him, because, really, he’s all I ever really see.

The love is like a blow to my chest—it fills my throat, and I want to shout it out loud, so everyone knows. For a second, I think I might’ve actually shouted, but then Stan takes a sideways step and says something I can’t understand over the ringing in my ears.

I must give him an appropriate reply, because he doesn’t show any alarm at being near a madman. I let out a long breath, and my hand, when I run it down my jeans, is damp and shaky.

“So, if you had a superpower, what would it be?”

I consider Stan’s question. “Probably the ability to erase people’s memories. That would put a stop to Jed’s rather caustic staff meetings.”

He laughs, and I turn my face to the sun. We’re walking along the street leading to Stan’s childhood home and where his parents still live. The neighbourhood is the same as ever, as if time froze when we moved out. A mix of semi-detached and detached houses line the long avenue, with cars parked everywhere. Lime trees cast shade across us as we pass under them, and the air is full of the sound of distant traffic from the high street. Nearby, a window opens, letting out the sound of music, and an ice cream van tinkles on the next street.

We pass my old house, and I look at it curiously. My mum moved into a flat in Kensington last year, and I don’t have any nostalgia for the place that was my childhood home. It was just a house where I slept. My real home was with Stan’s family next door.

We turn onto the short drive leading up to his parents’ house. It’s a Victorian detached house set back from the road and hidden behind huge old horse chestnut trees that the council complain about every year for shedding conkers on the street.

Hump’s harness jingles as he pads along beside us, and I huff crossly at the memory of the nasty couple in the park.

“What the hell was that noise?” Stan asks. “Did someone let your air out?”

“I’m thinking about what else I should have said to that couple.”

“Let it go,” he advises me.

I press the doorbell. The sound of barking and children comes from the back garden. “It’s hard when the world is full of so many judgemental arseholes,” I say just as the door opens.

“What a delicious Sunday afternoon sentiment,” Stan’s mum, Rowena, says.

I grin at her. She looks the same as ever—thin with long dark hair and very blue eyes. The only sign of the encroaching years is the grey dusting her long braid. Being near her soothes me, and it’s been that way since I first met her.

“Looking as beautiful as ever,” I say, accepting a kiss from her as Stan removes Hump’s harness. The dog shakes himself and runs off to join the family’s two dogs. “You haven’t changed since that time when you broke into my parents’ house and kidnapped me.”

“You old smoothie, Raff,” she says, hugging Stan and stepping back so we can move into the hallway, which is dominated by a six-foot-tall black-and-white picture of Stan and his brother and sister. The sound of a violin playing drifts on the air from his dad’s study.

“Are we ignoring the elephant in the room, which is your short-lived career as a child napper?” I ask.

“She’d have been terrible at that,” Stan offers. “Far too noisy.”

“She certainly was,” I say, squeezing Rowena’s arm in memory of that night. “I didn’t know an adult’s voice could go that high. She was a revelation.”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t remember you as being particularly cowed by the situation. In fact, you were very charming for a five-year-old.”

Stan snorts. “He appears to have lost that charm today.”

“Why?”

I wave my hand. “Nasty-minded old couple in the park.”

“When aren’t there?”

“Well, they learnt their lesson. Raff activated his aggravating setting,” Stan observes.

His mum bursts into laughter. “You’re like Ivanhoe but without the armour and the blond hair.”

“Hey, I do have blond hair. Doesn’t the strawberry bit count?”

“No,” Stan interjects.

Rowena grins. “Talking of hair.” She runs her fingers through Stan’s curls. “This is getting long, baby.”

“I’m seeing Leo tomorrow.”

She sends me a sparkling glance. “It looks to me like Raff saw him first.”

I groan. “It is a bit short.”

“What?” Stan turns to me. “Has he cut it?”

“Short,” his mum says. “Suits you, darling. Shit, the apple crumble will be burning.” She darts off down the corridor towards the kitchen.

Stan cocks his head to one side. “How short? You never said.”

“It sort of faded into the background with my work-based emergency.”

“Was that the work-based emergency that you created?”

“Pah! The hair will grow, but Jed will be happy for a bit. That’ll be a pleasant novelty.”

“Come here.”

I step forward obediently so he can run his fingers over my head. His fingers are cool against my hot skin, and I stand quiescent as he explores the contours of my skull. It’s strangely lulling, as if we’re under a spell, and the sounds of the house fade away as I lean further into his touch. It’s as necessary to me as water. A lot of men have touched me over the years, but not one of them ever did it with the knowledge of me that Stan brings.

He strokes my cheekbone. “I think you’re as beautiful as ever,” he says.

I smile, and his fingertips slip over the groove above my mouth and then along my lip. With a shudder, I unthinkingly open my mouth to suck gently on the fingertip, and he exhales a soft groan.

“Raff,” he says huskily.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you two finally having a moment?”

We jump at the voice from behind us, and I turn to find Stan’s younger brother observing us as if we’re on the stage and he has front-row tickets.

“Vinnie,” Stan says with affectionate resignation. “Can we help you?”

“No, it’s just that you’re blocking the way to the kitchen. If you need more time, I can get a stool and sit down.”

I narrow my eyes at him and wince. “Shit, you look like you need one. You look terrible.”

“I went to a rave last night,” he says, biting into his apple with strong white teeth. The Mortimer siblings' maternal grandad was a dentist, so they all have fantastic teeth.

“Well,” I say, “if your appearance is anything to go by, you had a good time.”

The idea that Stan was the wildest of his family had been knocked into a cocked hat when Vinnie reached eighteen. Vinnie could’ve rivalled Liam Gallagher in his heyday, but thankfully, he's much more charming. The Mortimer boys breeze through trouble with a gorgeous smile.

“I think so. To be honest, the whole night is a bit hazy. Memory’s a funny old thing, isn’t it?”

“It is if it’s mixed with a vat of Rumple Minzes,” I observe.

Stan shudders. “I don’t know how you drink that shit. It’s far too pepperminty.”

“It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it,” Vinnie says and grins at me. “Nice haircut.”

“Of course, it is. It shows off my face.”

Stan laughs, and his dad’s study door opens, and his dad pops his head out. “I thought I heard you two.”

His black hair is shaggy with strands of grey, and there are lines around his eyes. He’s a very handsome man, and I can see where Stan gets his cheekbones from.

“Afternoon, Edward,” I say, stepping forward so he can hug me.

As he does, bits of paper fall out of his pocket, covered in musical notes and doodles in his scratchy handwriting. I gather them up, and he gives me a smile of thanks, looking at the papers as if he’s never seen them before and then stuffing them back in his pocket. I repress a smile. He’s the most absentminded person I’ve ever known.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, giving Stan a hug and ruffling Vinnie’s hair.

“Erm. I actually live here,” Vinnie offers.

“It’s Sunday, Dad,” Stan says.

“Is it?” he asks blankly. “Well, where did that week go?”

“It’s a mystery to me,” I say, smiling at him.

Rowena appears. “Dinner is ready.”

Edward sniffs. “Well, how fortuitous. I appear to be on time for it for once.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

We follow her down the corridor and into the dining room at the back of the house. It’s a warm welcoming room that looks out over the overgrown garden. The walls are covered with artwork, valuable paintings mingling with children’s drawings as if they’re on the same artistic level. It’s nice that a Sisley drawing is accorded the same status as one of Wolfie’s sketches of Hump. We all thought it was a mutant ostrich but Wolfie informed us otherwise.

Photos are in abundance too, and it’s lovely to see my face in so many. In every one, Stan and I have our arms around each other, and we’re laughing.

Lottie is already seated at the table with her husband, Alex. He’s a tall, appallingly energetic man who was a former championship rower and now works with the UK’s Olympic rowing teams. This might explain his preference for wearing shorts all year round, which raises a few eyebrows when two feet of snow are on the ground.

“Alright, Alex?” I say.

He grins at me. “Wow, that’s a drastic haircut, Raff.”

“At least my top hat will fit better now.”

“Yeah, that’s what I always say when I get my hair cut.”

I wink at him. “Where do you keep your hat, then? In the pocket of your short shorts?”

He snorts. “They’re not that short.”

“Daisy Duke would have had a fit of the vapours.”

“Pay no attention,” Lottie says to her husband. “Your legs are lovely, darling.”

Wolfie wanders into the room, Hump at his heels as well as Daisy and Maisy, the family’s old greyhounds. “Hello, Uncle Stan and Raff.”

“Hey, mate,” Stan says, sitting down at the table in his usual seat.

Lottie’s eyes narrow at her son. “Did you wash your hands?”

Wolfie slides his hands behind his back in an insouciant move I can only envy. “Did you know that some insects can walk on water? They’re called water striders.”

“Hmm. Do they wash their hands before dinner as well? Let’s see them.”

Wolfie reluctantly extends his hands, and Lottie rolls her eyes. “Is there any soil left in the garden, or is it all behind your nails now?”

Edward seizes his grandson and pulls him onto his lap. “Maybe you’ll have cherries growing in there soon. People will climb through your window to pick them from under your fingernails.”

I stare at him. “Is that supposed to be whimsical? Because it sounds rather nightmarish.”

“Like that bedtime story that you told us about the violent bread fairy,” Stan says.

“I didn’t sleep well for weeks after that.” I groan.

“That was a charming little story,” Edward says indignantly. “If only I could remember the details, I could publish it.”

“Only if Stephen King’s editor is free,” Stan mutters.

Edward’s face is suddenly dreamy. “I could make a score to go with the story.”

“Would it have the Jaws theme?” I ask sweetly.

He’s gone, having vanished into the world of his music. “Something with a harpsichord, I think.” He looks around. “Now, where did I put my pencil?”

“It’s behind your ear, Grandad,” Wolfie says.

“Ah, good boy. Paper?”

“Shall I get you some?”

“No, you shan’t,” Rowena says briskly as she enters the room. “Dinner is ready. Vinnie, come and help me dish up.”

“Why me?” he asks from where he’s prostrated himself at the dining table like a Victorian hero on the opium. “Why can’t they all help?”

“You sound like you’re five,” Lottie observes.

I laugh. “Vinnie always sounded like he was having an existential life crisis even at five. ‘Why isn’t CBeebies on now? Why is life so cruel?’”

Stan snorts. “Why, why, why?” He finishes on a wail.

Vinnie rolls his eyes. “Twats.”

“Language,” Rowena scolds. “There’s a child in this room.”

“I do know that word anyway,” Wolfie says, climbing onto his chair. He pauses as we all stare at him. “What?”

“Where do you know that word from?” Alex asks, looking as though he’s worried it was from him.

“Sam McCluskey said it at school when Santosh took the box of crayons off him. Mrs Phillips made him sit on the naughty chair, but the leg was wonky, and he fell off.”

“This sounds a bit like Raff’s life,” Stan offers.

“I’m slightly concerned that the school’s furniture appears to be falling apart,” Alex says. “What is the world coming to when even the naughty chair has wonky legs?”

“At least his vocabulary is expanding,” I say cheerfully, helping myself to roast beef. “You’ll thank the education system one day.”

The rest of lunch passes in a haze of good food and even better conversation. After we’ve finished the thankfully not charred apple crumble and custard, we all sit around talking idly, occasionally rubbing our bellies and wishing for elastic waistbands.

“Can I get down, please?” Wolfie asks after a time.

“I don’t know. Can you?” Alex says.

Lottie nudges him, laughing. “You can, Wolfie. What are you going to do?”

“Play some more football.” He makes a tragic sort of face. “The only trouble is that Archie and Michel have gone in for their dinners, so I’ll be all alone.” He gives a sigh loaded with pathos and looks around the table hopefully. “If only there was someone to play with me.”

“I already played today, so I vote for Raff,” Stan says.

I glare at him. “Whose side are you on, Stan?”

“I think yours, but I’d have to check.”

I tut, and he snorts, his face filled with lazy laughter.

I look around the table and then groan. “Okay,” I give in.

Wolfie makes a sound of jubilation. “Yes. How about you, Daddy?”

Alex, ever ready to exert himself physically, gets to his feet. “Yeah, come on.”

“I don’t want anyone to feel guilty about this,” I say, and six blank faces look back at me. I roll my eyes. “It’s like having Sunday dinner with psychopaths,” I inform them, hearing their laughter as we leave the room.

Stan

A comfortable silence falls in the room as Raff and Alex’s footsteps fade. Pretty soon, there’s a screech of joy from the direction of the garden.

I cock my head to one side. “Was that Wolfie or Raff?”

“Hard to tell the difference,” my dad offers.

“I’m going for a lie-down,” my brother announces, and I listen to his footsteps patter away.

“Well, I suppose I should wash up,” my dad says with a heavy-sounding sigh.

“Yes, that should definitely happen,” Lottie says.

“I’ll help,” I offer.

“Don’t you dare,” my mum says, and I feel her pat my shoulder. “It was his turn at least fourteen Sunday dinners ago. Artistic temperament only goes so far.”

“When did I have that?” my dad asks and I hear him push out his chair. “I must have missed it. Can we have a redo?”

I smile as I listen to his humming and the sound of plates and crockery clattering.

“Want another glass of wine, Stan?” my mum asks. “We might as well finish the bottle if your dad’s busy.”

This is one of two places where I feel safe enough to drink. The other is my and Raff’s flat. “Well, someone has to do it.”

“I’ll help too,” Lottie says in a brave voice.

“The three of you are just full of humanitarian goodness,” my dad says.

“And rosé,” my mum offers.

I reach out and touch my glass before raising it to my lips. “Are they enjoying themselves out there?”

“Of course they are. Raff’s more child than man,” Lottie says. “Although he might struggle to walk home afterwards. Wolfie just fouled him. I might go out and heckle them.”

I listen to her footsteps move away and then a hand touches mine and my mum says, “You okay? Did you speak to the doctor about your headaches?”

“Everything is fine.” My response sounds defensive, so I try a smile to soften it. “He said it was just stress so there’s no need to worry. They’ll stop eventually.”

I’d mentioned my headaches at my check-up but when the doctor had enquired about what was stressing me, I’d changed the subject. My appointment with him was for half an hour. Not a year.

“Okay, darling.”

Her concern comes from a place of love, but it both riles me and makes me feel guilty. I fumble for her hand and kiss the back of it, inhaling the faint smell of handwash and sugar from the crumble. “I love you, Mum.”

A kiss lands on my head, and I smell her perfume, sweet and soft on the air. “Love you too, Stan.” Silence drops for a few beats, and her voice is wistful when she speaks next. “God, the sound of children shouting in the garden takes me back to when you all were kids.”

I smile. “Good times.”

“Has Raff seen Saoirse or Rollo lately?”

“He met Saoirse for lunch yesterday. Why?”

“Just wondered. His mention of me rescuing him took me back, that’s all.”

Rafferty had been five when he and his parents moved in next door to us. Before then, my mum and dad had been the famous ones in the neighbourhood. My mum had been a well-known stage and screen actress, and my dad was a Hollywood film composer, but they’d been quite normal. My mum rarely wore makeup outside a film set and was prone to doing the school run in her pyjamas. And my dad spent most of his time muttering to himself and looking like he hadn’t brushed his hair for a year.

However, Saoirse and Rollo took the neighbourhood’s X factor up a notch when they moved here from Ireland. They hosted glamorous parties constantly, with music on until three in the morning, and the street crowded with expensive cars. The Kendricks had been rackety and carelessly charming.

My excitement, however, was all about having someone of my own age to play with. My sister considered herself too mature to play with me, and I, in turn, felt the same way about Vinnie. We went to school across London, so none of our friends were within reaching distance.

I met Raff for the first time when he walked casually up the drive to call for me. He hadn’t waited for our parents to make introductions. Saoirse and Rollo might never have gotten around to it, as they tended to spend their time ignoring their son, being stoned, or both.

I’d stared at the small boy. He was wearing shorts and a T-shirt like me, but, unlike mine, his clothes were immaculate.

“Hello,” he said, a smile hovering on his mouth. “I’m Rafferty.”

“Stan,” I offered.

“I came to see if you wanted to play.”

I’d hung on the door, observing him. Even then, with tousled strawberry-blond hair and a naughty expression, he’d looked effortlessly glamorous.

“Yes,” I said cautiously. “Do you want to come in?”

“Or you could come round to my house.”

“Are your mum and dad there?”

“Not really,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “Saoirse is drunk and asleep so she won’t get up until tonight, and Rollo is out with another woman.”

I blinked in surprise at that information but then focused on the important part. “You call your mum and dad by their names?” I said in awe.

He shrugged. “Yeah. Don’t you?”

“No,” I said, startled. I’d only just stopped calling them mummy and daddy, but I kept that fact to myself.

“So, are you coming? We can play in the garden. It’s really wild, so that would be good fun. Or we could play hide-and-seek in Saoirse’s rooms.”

“Yeah, of course.”

I’d happily followed him the same way I’ve done ever since.

We’d been walking down the drive chatting when, my mum’s call stopped us in our tracks. “And just where do you think you’re going?” she asked.

We looked back to where she was standing at the front door. “Oh, we’re off to Raff’s house. Saoirse is drunk and still asleep, and Rollo is out with another woman,” I said blithely. “So, we’re going to play hide-and-seek in her dressing room.”

She’d blinked, but to her credit, she just said gravely, “Well, how about the two of you stay here to play instead? Dad’s home from the orchestra early, and I’ve made scones.”

Raff cocked his head. “What are those?”

“They’re a bit like bread with raisins in them,” I told him. “They’re lovely when they’re warm with butter and jam.”

“Hmm,” he said dubiously, like the smallest gourmet in the business. “That sounds fine to me.”

And so, he’d come to our house. After that, we rarely went to his, but when we did, I was in awe. Our house was shabby and in a constant state of disrepair, as my dad started jobs and then promptly forgot about them when a tune came into his head. We actually lost our lawnmower in the long grass for a few months. Raff’s house was like a film set—filled with expensive furniture and glamorous people. People always hung about, like a royal court with Saoirse and Rollo at its centre.

From then on, my mum insisted on us being at our house most of the time. Raff seemed happy to be with us and away from the racket of drink and drugs. At first, he was like a small and very charming wild animal, but gradually that summer, he’d edged closer, allowing my mum to treat him as one of her own children, enforcing hugs and lots of her opinions.

My mum says, “I still shudder when I think of that night. What could have happened doesn’t bear thinking about.”

I nod at her reference to a specific night that summer—one that our family had long since referred to as Fight Night. My mum had gone next door to take Raff’s school coat to him after he left our house without it. She’d found Rollo fucking a woman in the hallway and a naked Saoirse passed out on the sofa—a line of coke on the table and a cigarette smouldering in her hand. Raff had been trying to cook in the kitchen. Fortunately, my mum arrived before he’d put a tin of baked beans in the microwave.

“Terrible,” my dad says from nearby. He’s obviously taken advantage of my mum’s distraction to leave the washing up and circle back to the dining room. “Saoirse and Rollo shouldn’t have been allowed to raise budgies, let alone a small child.”

My mum makes a huffing noise. “They should be ashamed of themselves, but that would require a modicum of a conscience in the first place. I still think she holds that night against me,” she muses.

I snort. “Why? Raff preferred to be here for good reason. It’s not like you stole him.”

“No. Because the ice bucket of water I flung at her ruined her hairdo and new sofa.” She tuts. “Anyway, Saoirse and I came to an arrangement.”

I frown in her direction. “What? I’ve never heard that before.”

“Did you never wonder why Raff had his own room here. And why he came away with us, even when I was on set?”

I shrug. “I just thought Saoirse found it easier.”

“You can put it that way. She found it easier to keep her teeth. I told her that if I ever found Raff in those circumstances again, I’d punch her until I got tired—which would take a while as I had a lot of aggression to work off—and then I’d report her to the police.”

I gasp. “I didn’t know that. Why didn’t you report her straightaway?”

“It was different then. Besides, Saoirse and Rollo don’t have any extended family. Raff would have been taken into care, and we’d probably have lost him, and who knows what would have happened to him? It was the best compromise your dad and I could think of. We insisted they employ a professional live-in nanny who’d look after Raff at home, and he liked her.”

“Nanny Sally. He still sees her. Does he know about this?”

“We thought it better not to tell him. They’re still his parents, and they did try with him after that. They cleaned up their act a bit, and Sally kept a firm eye on everything. There was an understanding that Raff would come to us for meals because Saoirse doesn’t eat and definitely doesn’t cook, and when she got bored with her version of mothering, she’d send him straight over to me. We kept a very close eye on them, but it worked. Hence, why she doesn’t like me. Saoirse doesn’t like a mirror being held up to her unless it’s to check her appearance.”

“Well, she never shows it,” my dad says.

“Are you actually washing up or just listening to us?” my mum asks.

“You’re much more interesting than the dirty pots.”

“That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I’m sure it isn’t. Once, I told you that your eyes were as blue as the urinal cakes in the gent’s toilet.”

“Be still, my heart,” my mum mutters.

“Have you seen Saoirse and Rollo lately?” I ask, taking another sip of my wine.

They’d divorced after a few turbulent years, and Saoirse had gotten the house, which is probably lucky because my mum obviously had no intention of letting Raff leave with her and her next toyboy husband. If they'd tried to leave, I wouldn’t have put it past my mum to lie across the drive.

“We had dinner with Rollo last week,” my mum says.

“How is he?”

“Loud. I’ve never known there are twenty different ways you can tell someone you’re richer than them,” my dad says, and I snort.

“Only twenty? He’s slipping. God knows how Raff turned out so well.”

“He’s a wonderful young man, but I still think he carries the baggage,” my mum says thoughtfully. “He learned some incredibly wrong things from the two of them, not least of which is he views commitment with as much horror as getting syphilis.”

I tap my fingers on the table. “Well, that can’t be helped. He’ll never change.”

“Really?” my dad says. He sounds surprised. “I think he’ll change for his person. He just needs to be shown that commitment to one person doesn’t automatically equate to an orgy on the soft furnishings.”

I clear my throat. “And just who could be Raff’s person? He views monogamy as akin to death.”

“We all know there’s only one person who could give Raff what he needs,” my dad says. His voice sounds amused.

“What’s that? And who is this miracle worker who’ll provide it?”

“He needs stability and love, Stan,” my dad explains. “He needs to know that someone cares enough for him to tell him no. Saoirse and Rollo never did that. They let him do whatever he wanted because it meant an easier life for them. It’s just lucky he was such a kind child, or he could have turned into a monster.”

“Like them,” my mum says. “I think Raff goes the other way. He’s far too concerned about other people’s happiness.”

“That’s because he still doesn’t see himself as a prize. They never told him he was,” I say solemnly. “He just learnt that other people’s wants and needs come way above his.”

I hear a sigh, and my dad says, “Just once, I want to see Raff demand what he wants for a change, instead of letting other people do as they please. He needs to stand up and shout and take what he wants because he knows he’s worth it.”

“He’s not L’Oréal. And you never said who this miracle worker is,” I say.

“Do you want me to?” my dad says, sounding astonished. “His name has four letters, starting with s and ending with n, with the letters t and a in the middle.”

I grimace. “Actually, no. Stop talking now.”

“There. I knew I was right. Rowena, take a note in the diary. Edward was proved right once more.”

“I’ll put a gold star by it,” my mum says obediently.

I groan and stand up. “I’m going to my room.”

“Well, that phrase has been said a fair few times,” my dad observes. “Usually in a state of rigid disapproval of your parents.”

“I need some records I’ve been storing there,” I say repressively, but I can’t hide my smile.

“Make sure you make a lot of noise,” my mum says. “It’ll teach your brother to come home at five in the morning and set the alarm off by trying to get into the shed.”

“The shed?”

“He thought it was the house and then got huffy with us for trying to get him into his own bed. Next time, I’ll leave him draped over the lawn mower.”

I escape and make my way upstairs, my muscle memory automatically counting the steps and allowing me to move easily. My bedroom is cool and airy and smells faintly of beeswax and a lost trace of Davidoff’s Cool Water. I’d practically bathed in it when I was fourteen, and it’s obviously penetrated the wallpaper.

I’m sitting on the bed and sorting out my vinyl, running my fingers along the braille labels I’d made so long ago when there’s a sound at the door. “Hello?”

“Are you finding more vinyl to bring to our place, Stan? At this point, I think we have more than HMV.”

I smile at Raff’s voice. “Oh, shut up. I’m trying to find Coming Up.”

“By Suede?”

“Yep. I promised Lennon he could listen to it. He’s just discovered Britpop.”

“Wow! He’s actually left the seventies. Does that mean he’ll invest in a bowl cut and a pair of Clarks Wallabies?”

I snort. “Shut up.” The bed depresses, and I inhale his cologne's familiar spicy-sweet scent. “Did Wolfie beat you at football?”

“So conclusively that I can never face the FA again.”

“Their loss is Wolfie’s gain.”

“He fouled me and then had the nerve to blame it on me. I’ve been gaslit more times this afternoon than Stewart Granger.” I feel him lie back and exhale. “It’s so quiet here.”

“That’s because Vinnie is probably unconscious. Mum says he fell asleep on the lawnmower last night.”

He chuckles and the sound sends a tingle down my spine. “We can’t judge. Remember Lottie’s friend Louisa’s house party in Wimbledon when we were seventeen? We fell asleep in the bath.”

I start to laugh. “Her dad was shocked when he turned on the taps.”

Silence falls, and it’s so comfortable that I jump when he speaks again. “Your mum is right,” he says, his voice lazy and slightly slurred with tiredness. “These curls are out of control.”

His fingers tug on my hair, and I turn to face in his direction. My hand lands on the slippery album covers, and my arm shoots out from underneath me, landing me squarely on Raff’s chest.

“Ungh,” he gasps.

“Sorry,” I say, trying to get back up.

His hand on my arm stills me. “No, don’t go,” he mutters, his voice dark and sugar sweet.

“Raff,” I protest, but I can’t summon the moral fibre to get up. I also can’t think of all the reasons why he shouldn’t be drawing me down to him. “We shouldn’t do this. Oh god, mmm.” The last is because he’s kissed me. His lips are warm and soft, and the scratch of the stubble on his chin makes my blood spark and fizz.

Joy floods through me at feeling him like this again, and before I know what I’m doing, I give him my weight and then moan when I feel his cock hard against my hip. I grind down into him, panting hard and he spreads his legs. I feel his hands on my hips, drawing me closer still, and we both grunt and kiss furiously.

I try to think of why I shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s hard when we’re grinding together, our bodies fitting together as perfectly as if designed to do this forever.

I groan when he pulls away.

“Bennett,” he gasps.

“What? That’s not my name.”

It takes me an embarrassingly long few seconds to realise that he’s referencing my boyfriend. I grimace and sit up, ignoring his grumbled protests. I fall to the side, palming my cock.

“Oh god, don’t do that,” he says. I hear him stand up, and his shadow blocks the light from the window. “We can’t start this up again, Stan.”

“I know that,” I protest.

“This isn’t me.” His voice is miserable. “I don’t cheat or help others to cheat.”

“I know,” I say again. I never want him to sound sad. He tries so hard to be unlike his parents. It’s essential to him that he not be Saoirse and Rollo, and this situation isn’t helping him.

“You know Bennett and I aren’t exclusive,” I say softly.

He huffs. “Yes, which just makes him even more of a silly tosser.” I smile and hear him give a deep sigh. “I don’t fuck around with men who are in any form of relationship, and you know it.”

It’s one of the reasons I took up with Bennett. I knew Raff would insist we stop having sex. I’d needed his insistence because I wouldn’t have been strong enough to stop it myself.

Bennett regularly sleeps with other men. He views sex with them as almost like having to take a taxi because you’re late and don’t want to walk. I haven’t done the same. It’s hard enough being in love with one man while dating another without adding extra dicks into the mix.

His footsteps sound, and I feel him press a kiss on my forehead. “I love you,” he says as usual. It’s his way of making sure we’re okay.

“I love you too.”

The words should be easy because we’ve said them a thousand times, but they’re not anymore. Now, they’re weighted by my real feelings, which makes the casually affectionate words unexpectedly serious.

“I’ll be downstairs.”

I nod, and when I hear the door shut, I fall back onto the bed, giving a long sigh. I have to get my life back on track. I can’t fall back into bed with Raff again. My heart wouldn’t take it. My parents bringing up that horrible night with Saoirse and Rollo is an awful, but helpful, reminder that Raff has excellent reasons for why he doesn’t believe in—and doesn’t want to try—a long-term, committed relationship. And that’s exactly what I want with him. So to keep his friendship, I need to keep my kisses and my cock to myself.

But I equally can’t be with Bennett. He’s not for me, and I’m not for him. Which means I have a very uncomfortable conversation in my future. I grimace. Maybe I should have asked the school careers officer about being a monk. It would surely have led to simpler life choices.

Chapter

Eight

Stan

I climb into the taxi and settle back on the seat with a sigh of relief. “I love London cabs.”

“I’ll buy you one,” Richard says. His posh voice has an undercurrent of amusement, as always. “Say the word, and we’ll drive away into the sunset together.”

I smile. “I don’t wish to incur Leo's wrath; he might do something to my hair.”

“Would he fish out the partridge, the pear tree, and the five gold rings? You could carry our honeymoon luggage in that mess of curls.”

“Don’t be rude,” I say comfortably. I’ve loved Richard since the day Leo brought him to meet me. He’s a good man, but I’d like him anyway because of how Leo’s voice changes whenever he talks to him. My previously prickly friend softens whenever he’s around Richard. “Having a sugar daddy buy me a taxi would probably be a waste anyway. I’d just use the bus.”

“I cannot understand your and Rafferty’s obsession with taking buses everywhere. It takes ages to get where you’re going and at certain times of the day, they smell like week-old fish.”

“They’re quick and cheap.”

“Like Rafferty,” he says. I snort, and after giving me a nudge, he asks, “Why do you love taxis?”

“They have a yellow line inside their doors that’s usually bright enough for me to see. And so they’re easy to get in and out of. I’ve fallen into more Ubers than Rafferty has into strange men’s beds. Plus, taxis have very light interiors because they have glass roofs, and they’re big enough for Hump to sit comfortably.”

“Where is he?”

I palm my stick. “At home. It’s going to be busy tonight. He’ll just get trodden on.”

“He’s coming to the wedding, though, because Leo’s bought him his own corsage.”

I smile. “Of course.”

“Good, because he’s much better behaved than Raff. If Hump could only organise weddings, we could dispense with the strawberry-blond fool altogether.” His voice is full of affection.

“Is he at the party already?”

Raff had dashed out of the flat this evening in a fearful rush, pausing just long enough to say that Richard had called to say he’d pick me up on his way to the party.

“Yes. He wanted to check over the details. He’s with Leo.” The taxi slows to a stop, and Richard says, “We’re here.”

I turn in his direction. “Ready for your party? This is the last step before marriage.”

“Stan, I think I was a goner when I cut up his credit cards, and he looked at me with those bright grey eyes of his and said, ‘I like a man who knows how to use his tools’.”

I snort, and we exit the taxi. I extend my stick and walk steadily next to Richard. He’s very good to walk with, as he makes no attempt to grab my arm and steer me like about fifty per cent of people I meet. Instead, he keeps up a low-paced helpful commentary of “doorway to the left, three steps upwards, don’t walk into that plant pot,” and so on.

The room where they’re holding the party is warm and smells of the heady perfume of flowers. Flamingods “Dirty Money” is playing, so I know Raff is somewhere around because they’re his latest obsession. “Are there double doors to the right?” I ask Richard. “It’s very light over there.”

“Yes, they’re bi-folding doors which will be open. There’s decking, tables, and chairs if you need some fresh air.”

Footsteps sound, and a shadow moves across the light. “It’s Leo. You’ve been ages. I thought you might have run off together,” Leo says, his voice full of laughter.

“Well, he did offer to buy me my own taxi.” I grin, accepting his hug. It’s tight and warm and very familiar. I’ve known Leo since school, when we were seated next to each other in cookery class, and he blew up our oven. “It was like Pretty Woman.”

“Bloody awful film, but while I remember Richard Gere being particularly creepy, I don’t recall any mention of taxis.”

“Raff loves the film. He has to watch it every time it’s on.”

“If Richard Gere had met Rafferty instead of Julia Roberts, he’d have used that Lotus to run him over.”

Rafferty’s voice comes from behind me. “Did I hear someone taking my name in vain?”

“When don’t you?” Leo says wryly.

I smile involuntarily at the sound of Raff’s voice. Someone squeezes my arm, and when I smell his cologne, I know it’s Raff. I pat his hand, glad he sounds so normal. It’s been a bit weird since our episode in my childhood bedroom. A bit too formal and stilted. He sounds much easier now, probably because he’s in his element.

“Do you want me to show you to your table?” he asks. “Or do you want to get a drink?”

“Table, I think,” I say, hearing voices behind us. “Are people starting to come in?”

“Yeah.”

“Definitely table.”

He leads me across the room, his arm warm and strong beneath my hand. The impulse to caress him is so strong that I have to clench my fingers into a fist.

After helping me get settled, he offers to fetch me a drink. “Usual?”

I nod and hear Richard say, “My Aunt Betty just came in. I’ll get Leo a mojito. He’s going to need it.”

“I love how he knows you, Leo,” I murmur.

Raff says earnestly, “That’s love and marriage, though, isn’t it? Knowing your other half with all the good and the bad. It’s lovely. Okay, I’ll get you an apple and rhubarb cooler, Stan.”

I nod and hear Raff and Richard walk away, talking.

Leo says, “He has more rosy ideals about marriage than David Foster.”

“Are you surprised?”

Leo huffs. “Less endearing is his steadfast belief that it’s not for him.”

“He’ll never get married.”

“I’ve never understood how he can arrange all these weddings believing that they’ll end happily, when you and I both know it’s a crapshoot with the best relationships.”

“He’s quirky.”

“That’s certainly one way to put it.”

I sigh. “He says he’s too much like Rollo and Saoirse.”

“He’s nothing like them. He’s certainly never done a line on the side of the sink like his mother did last week at the salon.”

I snort. “They’ll never change.”

“It doesn’t help that they’re so fucking charming.”

“Like their son.”

“Hmm, his persistence in not taking what he wants is not quite so charming.”

“Leo,” I say warningly, and he tuts.

“I don’t know why I’m bothering talking to you. You’re just set on cheerful obliviousness.” I frown, and he changes the subject. “Is Bennett coming?”

“I think so. He’s at work so he might be late.”

“Well, work’s loss is our gain.”

“Oh my god. Leo.”

“Last week, he told me that he hoped I would up my game when I married Richard, as his family had expectations of me.”

I groan. “I’m so sorry.” I hesitate. “Do I want to know your reply?”

“I told wee Charlie Dickens to fuck off and shove his great expectations up his arse.”

“Oh god.”

“Oh, Stan, chillax.”

“Who says that apart from creepy millennials?”

“I’ll be polite.”

“In a spirit of complete honesty, you probably won’t be.”

“Okay, I probably won’t, but I’ll maintain a nice tone of voice when I insult him. Just tell me when you’re dumping him and taking over the care of Rafferty?”

I inhale and end up choking on my own spit. He pats my back briskly. “What? You know you’re the only one who’s up to the job. He’d drive anyone else into an asylum within ten minutes.”

“Tell that to three-quarters of London’s men.”

“It’s probably more than that, given the way that boy has spread himself around over the last few months.” I can’t help but wince and feel him squeeze my hand. “You know it means nothing.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, and you know why, but you bury your head in the sand like a camel.”

“Do they bury their head in sand? Or do you mean ostriches?”

“The bird? Why would they be sticking their heads in the beach?”

I give up. “I’m not sure why you think⁠—”

“Ssh,” he hisses. “They’re coming back.” Then he says brightly, “Lovely. Thank you so much for everything you’ve done for us, Rafferty.”

There’s a pause that can only be described as startled, and I smile. Eventually, Raff says somewhat warily, “Have you been drinking, Leo?”

“Can’t I offer a compliment unless I’m drunk?”

“No,” we all chorus.

He huffs. “I’m not one for idle flim-flam.”

“Or compliments at all,” Rafferty offers.

“But you know I love you both. And so does Richard.”

“I do,” he says obediently.

“You’re just scared to disagree with Leo,” Raff objects.

“Probably. Isn’t everyone?”

“Fair point,” Raff offers.

Someone says Richard’s name, and the next few moments are spent listening to Leo and Richard greet family.

Someone kisses my hair, and I know from the cologne that it’s Leo. “We’re off to greet people. You, okay?”

“Course.”

He moves away, and Rafferty says, “I’m just going to check the bar. Kem will be joining you here at the table, along with Richard’s cousin Sarah and her wife, and Fleur Atkinson with her partner.”

I wrinkle my brow. “That name rings a bell. Didn’t she sleep with the groom at his wedding reception last year? She was famous for it.”

“I know. It was like meeting Katie Price for the rest of the season. She’s turned over a new leaf, apparently.”

“She needs to turn over an entire tree if she wants people to forget that one. After the bride threw the cake, it took you six goes to get the cake out of our suits.”

He snorts. “Funny boy,” he murmurs, and I feel fingers running through my curls. “I like your hair this long,” he says and then taps my shoulder. “I’ll bring you another drink back. Be good.”

“When am I not?”

He snorts. “The party will be over by the time I finish enumerating the occasions. See you in a minute.”

I settle back in my chair, wishing Hump was here. It’s awkward being on your own at these things, especially when you can’t see anyone, and I can always talk to Hump to ease my awkwardness. He’s a better listener than most people.

“Hello?”

I turn my head in the direction of the light voice. “Hello?” I say a little hesitantly.

“I think we’re at the same table as you,” a woman says.

“Lovely,” I say faintly.

The chair beside mine pulls out, and there’s a clatter and a curse.

I realise what’s happened. “Sorry, that’s my stick.”

There are a few seconds of silence and then she says, “I’m Fleur.”

Ah. The groom stealer and cake thrower.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Stan.”

“You know, your face is very familiar. Have we met before?”

“I think I was at the same wedding as you last year.”

There’s a silence, and then she says cautiously, “Which wedding?”

“Oh, erm—” I can’t fucking remember the couple’s names. I attend so many weddings as Raff’s guest. It’s halved our weekly grocery bills. All I can recall is the flying cake. “The cake was very nice,” I finally say and blanch. I rush on. “But then when isn’t it? Although once there was this fruitcake with brandied raisins and icing and—” I realise I’m babbling. “Lovely to finally meet you,” I finish quickly.

“Oh dear. Stan’s mouth is moving. Not a good sign.” Raff’s voice comes from behind me, and I grimace in his direction. Save me, I say mentally, and I can almost feel his amusement.

“Rafferty.” Fleur’s voice is eager. It’s either because Raff is exceptionally charming, or she’s relieved to be free of my conversation. “How are you?”

“Same as usual.”

“Ah, charming and pretty, then.”

“And noisy,” I add firmly. “Very, very noisy.”

She ignores me. “I haven’t seen you since Oxford and the Pattersons’ wedding. That was a lovely wedding.”

Raff and Fleur make small talk and after a moment, warm breath stirs my hair, and Raff whispers. “She didn’t steal that groom.” He presses a glass into my hand. “I’ve got to circulate. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Don’t be long. You know how eternal the seconds are without you,” I say grimly, and he chuckles.

I pass my hand cautiously over the top of my glass to check for straws or drink decorations. It’s never a pleasant moment when they go up your nose or poke you in the eye. There’s nothing there so I take a sip, savouring the tart taste. Fleur is now conversing with other people so others have obviously been seated at the table. They talk on, ignoring my presence, so I clutch my stick and attempt to look engaged. It’s hard because they seem to be discussing a problem with a car park.

“And when I got in the lift, there was a couple shagging,” Fleur the groom stealer says in a scandalised tone. “My partner Patrick objected, but the man told him to take another lift. I wouldn’t have minded, but that was the only one.”

I put my drink down and adjust my focus to the space around me. The room feels very full now. The temperature has risen, as has the volume of the music, and people’s conversations are beginning to seem loud and far too close. Someone bumps into my chair, and I lurch forward, banging my elbow on the table. They offer a laughed apology, but my heart is hammering. I run a finger along my shirt collar, feeling hot and sweaty. My pulse continues to race, and I groan silently. Not now. I try to take slow breaths like my therapist taught me—breathing in for four and out for four—but it’s not helping. The whole room feels like it will fall into me, and my breathing is starting to jag.

That quickly, I’m on the edge of a panic attack. I have them sometimes at events like this, but I haven’t had one in ages. I’ve discussed them with my therapist many times— too many stimuli coming at me in one go cause a sensory overload, which triggers my fight-or-flight impulse. I know it’s because I’m tired tonight, and my brain, as usual, is having to work hard to process all that’s happening in the room. But acknowledging this does not help my feelings of anger and embarrassment.

I suck in a breath. It feels jagged and too short, like I can’t get enough air. I fucking hate feeling like this. I hate being different, and I particularly despise that I will have to ask someone to help me find a quiet spot to try to recuperate. It’s at times like this that I feel at my most isolated.

I close my eyes, focusing on my breath while spinning the leather bracelets on my arm. Raff and I bought a set from a market when we were eighteen—I wear two and he wears two. When I first started having these attacks, I found that spinning them helped a little, but tonight, nothing seems to help as the music gets even louder. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, and I take in a deep gasp of air.

“Stan, can you come and help me with something please?” Raff’s voice is like a lifeline in the darkness.

I draw in a shuddering breath at the feel of his hand on my shoulder. He’s always careful to touch my shirt at times like this, as my skin can feel painful.

I nod, unable to form words, and climb to my feet, swaying a little before grabbing my cane. He wedges his hand under my arm, and I follow his guidance.

“Where?” I get out.

“Manager’s office. It’s got doors onto a private patio. You can be quiet there.”

“His office?”

He gets me. He always has. There’s no need for explanations with Raff. “I shot him fifty quid in case this happened.”

He stops me, and I hear a door open. He guides me forward, saying, “There’s a chair in about three steps on your left.” My cane catches the edge of the chair and I fall into it gratefully. The door shuts, muting the music. There’s a click, and I feel cool air on my face.

“Okay. The doors to the patio are open, and I’ve turned on the fan, too. Breathe, baby.”

As a breeze tugs at my hair, I lift my face into it, visualising the noise and the heat being carried away. I spin the ring on my thumb while I take a proper breath for what feels like the first time in the last twenty minutes. It’s a chunky platinum ring that Raff bought me with his first paycheck. There’s a chain on it that I can spin around, which helps my brain turn off.

Raff settles next to me. He puts his hand next to mine on the chair’s arm, so I know he’s near. He says nothing, because he knows I can’t string any words together. I hear the familiar sounds of him retrieving his phone, the rustling of fabric and soft breathing. He’s probably doing what he usually does at times like these—reading a book on his phone.

Gradually, the panic eases, and my breaths come more naturally. Raff stays silent, but his comforting presence eases the crawling sensation on my skin. He’s the only person who I would ever let see me like this when I’m weak.

Finally, I stir. “How did you know?” I mutter, my voice hoarse as if I’ve been screaming instead of locked in silence.

“I know you very well, Stanley. Enough to recognise when you’re not feeling good. Better now?” His voice holds its usual warmth.

I nod, and there’s a rustle and a rattle. A familiar metal tin is pressed into my hand. “Here you go.”

I take a couple of mints—he always carries them—and suck on them. My stomach is often upset during one of these episodes, and the peppermint soothes it.

“Water’s at ten o’clock on your right,” he tells me.

I nod, and we fall silent again as I drink the water and eat a few more mints.

“Fuck,” I finally say, exhaling a long, deep breath.

There’s a rustle as he shifts in his chair. He can tell it’s alright to talk now.

“That was a bad one, babe.”

“I know.” I pause. “I fucking hate it,” I burst out. Sometimes the rage inside me feels like it could split my skin with fury.

His hand comes down on mine, and my fingers twine with his.

“I know,” he says simply. He doesn’t offer me platitudes or say he’s sorry, and in his quiet acceptance and simple companionship, I don’t think I have ever loved him more. I take a shaky breath.

The thunderous knock on the door makes me jump. “Shit,” I gasp, feeling for the table and putting the bottle of water back on it. I wipe my hand where the water has spilt on it.

I hear Raff jump up, and the door opens, letting in the sound of the music. “Do you have to hammer on the door like that?” Raff demands.

“Where’s Stan?” Bennett’s voice demands, and I sigh. I could do without this at the moment.

There’s the sound of movement, and the door shuts.

“What are you both doing in here alone?” Bennett asks, the indignation in his voice a bit rich, considering he was shagging his assistant in Hamburg last week.

“The hokey cokey,” Raff responds, flippancy dialled up an extra notch. “But Stan’s shit at the steps.”

I snort, which is entirely the wrong thing to do, as I can practically feel Bennett swell with rage.

“Thank you so much, Rafferty. If I were looking for a sensible answer, I’d never have glanced your way.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

I sigh. “I had a panic attack,” I say softly. “Raff was looking after me.”

“Another one?”

I blink at the astonishment in his voice. “They’re not rationed, you know. I can have more than one a year.”

“Yes, I know,” he snaps. “It’s just I thought you’d got a handle on them now.”

“You thought he’d got a handle on it? He’s not a fighter pilot.” Raff’s voice is full of disdain.

“Oh, fuck off, Rafferty.”

“Can you both please stop this shit?” I say wearily. I struggle to stand.

“Stan?” Raff places his hand on my arm.

“I’m alright,” I say softly.

“Yes, he’s fine,” Bennett snaps. “So maybe don’t manhandle him like that.”

I reach out for Raff’s hand, and he immediately obliges. “Can you give us a minute, Raff?”

There’s a startled silence, and then he says, “Yes, of course, if you feel up to it.”

“It’s a conversation with me, not an appointment with the guillotine,” Bennett snaps.

“If I had the choice between you and the guillotine,” Raff says in a sweet voice, “I would have danced up those steps and asked them to get on with it.”

“Thank you, Raff,” I say quickly. I hear the sound of the door closing, and an awkward silence fills the room.

“So, you came?” I finally say as I listen to Bennett pace the room. “Bennett?”

“I hate the closeness between the two of you. It cuts you off from everyone else in your life.”

“What?”

“How can you form a proper relationship when he’s always around?”

“What are you talking about?”

There’s a pause, and I hear him come close. He puts his arms around me, and I stiffen. “The two of you are completely co-dependent, and it isn’t good for you.” It stuns me that he can twist a true and deep devotion so badly. “Maybe you should move out of the flat. Raff’s never going to offer you anything you need. He can’t even form an adult relationship. Good luck to anyone seeking commitment from that one. You’d have a better chance with a goldfish.”

I shrug his arms off me, my temper sparking. “No.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. No.”

“Listen—”

I bat his hands off my arms. “No, you listen. He’s my best friend, and he will always be in my life. It is completely and utterly non-negotiable, and if you can’t get on with him, then you should be the one to bugger off.” I hesitate. “Bennett, I don’t think this is working⁠—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

“But I have to. Listen, I⁠—”

There’s a knock on the door, and Bennett curses. “What?” he shouts.

I hear the door open. “It’s Leo, Stan.” Leo’s voice is sharply sweet. “I do apologise for my wedding party interrupting your life, Bennett, but Richard is about to make a speech, and we need Stan if he’s okay.” His voice softens. “How are you, lovely?”

“Fine,” I say grimly. “We’re coming now.”

“You sure?”

“Positive, babe.”

The door closes, and I turn in Bennett’s direction. “Listen⁠—”

“No, come on. We’re needed outside.”

I grab my cane and let him tug me to the door and out into the main room. Someone thrusts a glass into my hand, and when I raise it, I smell the sharp, fizzing scent of champagne. This is what happens when you make impulsive gestures like dating a stranger, I think gloomily. It leads to conversations like the one Bennett and I are going to have as soon as possible.

I don’t hear much of what Richard is saying. I know he’s funny, because people laugh loudly all around me, but it feels like I’m marooned on an island. I laugh a few times when everyone else does and even raise my glass promptly when Richard says something nice about me. But all the time, I’m fighting the urge to shrug Bennett’s arm off my shoulders. He has a way of leaning on me like I was born to be a line prop for him.

Cheers and clapping ring out, and I realise that Richard has finished his speech. “Right, I won’t go on any longer,” he says. “Let’s get back to having a good night and⁠—”

“Excuse me,” someone says, and I blink when I realise it’s Bennett. “Could I possibly have everyone’s attention?”

I turn in his direction warily. What the fuck is going on?

I can hear the sounds of people turning towards us, and then there’s a loud gasp.

I frown. Has Bennett collapsed?

I put out a hand warily and almost recoil when I touch his hair. I pat again and realise he’s kneeling. What the fuck is going on…

Oh!

I open my mouth to stop this wreck from happening, but it’s too late. The train is headed for a collision.

“I wanted to take this special occasion to ask my boyfriend a question,” Bennett says.

What special occasion? I want to ask. Is it someone else’s fucking wedding party?

“Stan,” Bennett continues. “I’ve been seeing you for a few months, and I’ve never been happier.”

I have, I think morosely.

“So, I wanted to ask if you will marry me?”

Oh. My. God. You could hear a pin drop in the room, and I want to shout: Help me! Why is this happening?

“Stan?” Bennett asks, a hint of cool warning in his voice. “Darling?” he quickly amends. “Will you marry me?”

“Ungh.” I unstick my tongue from my mouth. “Erm.”

“Stan?” his voice sounds angry now.

“Yay,” I say faintly. I don’t know what everyone else hears, because a cheer fills the room, and Bennett grabs me.

He kisses me hard, mashing my teeth against my lips, and I taste blood. I pull away.

“Take note that I’m the one who’s offering you commitment,” he whispers into my ear.

“I need to talk to you,” I say grimly. This break-up just got exponentially worse.

Taking the glass someone hands me, I throw it back and then gasp. “Oh, whisky,” I say, coughing. "Lovely. I thought it was champagne. Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure the burning will go away.”

We’re subsumed under a wave of congratulations, and I hear them all while searching for the voice of the person I need the most.

Finally, he’s here, and his arms enfold me in a tight hug. “Congratulations,” he whispers in my ear.

“Raff, no. I need to tell you something,” I say, but he’s gone, replaced by another person who wants to hug me.

It seems to take forever before Bennett and I walk back into the office. God help the manager. Maybe he’ll be able to get back to work sometime in the next millennium.

The door closes, and I spin towards him. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You said it. You said yes.”

“I didn’t,” I correct him. “I said yay.”

“Same thing.”

“Erm, no, it’s not. It has one similar letter, but that’s it.” His clothing rustles as he moves around the room, and I get dizzy as I pivot to where I hear him. “I can’t believe you just did that at Leo and Richard’s party.”

“Oh, they’ll be fine with it. Everyone loves love.”

His voice has that cavalier tone in it that I hate. I’ve heard it used a lot with waiting staff and hotel workers over the months we’ve been together, while Bennett insisted on doing what he wanted regardless of any rules.

“I don’t think Leo would agree.” I take a deep breath. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t marry you.”

“What? Why?”

The blatant astonishment is so strong that I hesitate for a second. “Because I don’t love you, and you don’t love me.” I cock my head to one side. “I think you want to take care of someone, but that can’t be me, Bennett. I don’t like being babied. I don’t think I fit into your worldview. You need someone very malleable, and even on a good day, I’m not that.”

There’s a long pause, and when he speaks, his voice is low. “I do care.”

I soften a little towards him. I hate this. “Not enough.”

I hear a rustle as he shifts position. “No, probably not,” he mutters. His voice is silky and completely cold when he speaks next, the change in emotion making me feel dizzy. “What would be the point when you love someone else, Stan?”

I flush hot. “What?”

I hear him start to pace again. “Let’s not play games. You’re in love with Rafferty. You always have been.”

“I am not.” It’s too weak and he laughs angrily.

“Yes, you are. I’d feel sorry for you if it weren’t so fucking ridiculous. You’re passing up the chance to marry me because of that manchild.”

My mouth drops open as realisation dawns. “Is that why you asked me? To get one over on Rafferty?”

“Don’t be so ridiculous.”

He sounds both patronising and incredulous. It’s not a good mix. And I know I’m right. He’s used Raff’s fear of commitment to try to separate us as friends.

“I’m not being ridiculous. You are.” The simple statement seems to stall him for a second, and I continue in a softer voice. “Marriage is about loving someone enough to spend your life with them, and I’m sorry, but I don’t feel that way about you.” I hesitate. “And you don’t feel that way about me.”

“So, you really won’t marry me?” He sounds incredulous.

“No, I’m sorry.”

“It’s because of him, isn’t it?” His voice is poisonous. “This is all Rafferty’s fucking fault.”

“Leave him out of this.” I pause to take a steadying breath and then say in a rush, “I can’t marry you and I don’t think we should even be together.”

“You’re dumping me when we just got engaged?”

“We didn’t get engaged,” I say with gritted teeth.

There’s a long pause. “You’re really finishing it? With me?”

“Yes, I’m sorry.” I hesitate. “I’ll tell everyone. Don’t worry about doing that.”

“No!”

I cock my head at the abrupt note in his voice. “No?”

“I mean, could we possibly delay telling everyone?”

“Until when?” I ask cautiously.

There are a few uncomfortable beats of silence before he speaks. “Until after Richard’s wedding is over. I work with a lot of those people out there, and I can’t face them if they know we’re not engaged.”

I hesitate. I feel so guilty that this has happened. If I hadn’t been trying to get over Raff I’d never have gone out with Bennett. This is my fault. “So, you want to what? Pretend we’re engaged?”

“Yes,” he says eagerly. “Would that be okay? Just until after the wedding, and then you can tell people.”

There’s a note in his voice that I can’t work out, and unbidden, my sister’s warning about him floats across my brain. She’d said that he doesn’t like to lose and had been very spiteful to his ex when they split up. I push that thought away. If this pretence means we can get through Leo and Richard’s special day without drawing attention to ourselves and then split nicely, it might be a good move.

I sigh. “Fine. Let’s not add any more excitement to my friends’ wedding. We’ve already attained Dynasty levels of drama as it is.”

Chapter

Nine

Rafferty

Rain falls outside the window of Confetti Hitched. I watch drops slide down the pane while beyond the glass, shoppers unfurl bright umbrellas or make dashes for the protection of shop doorways. I track the progress of one raindrop, aware of the hum of conversation behind me, the photocopier's whirr, and the phone's constant ringing. The chaos is warmly familiar to me, and I usually savour it. My workplace is like my home, but I’m not in the mood today.

I hardly slept last night, my mind racing, and now my eyes feel scratchy and tired. I can’t stop seeing the image of Bennett and Stan in the middle of the crowd of people congratulating them. I think of the moment that Stan first told me about meeting Bennett. It was when we’d been sleeping together for a couple of months, and the memory is still painful enough to make me wince. It was when everything went wrong…

“Raff, are you busy?”

I look up from the kitchen table where I’m trying to organise my diary. Pieces of paper are spread everywhere, and there are more sticky notes on the wooden surface than anything WH Smiths could rustle up.

“Not for you,” I say, smiling at him as he traces his hand over the chair back before he settles into the chair opposite me. “Never for you.”

“What are you doing?”

“Ah.” I turn a piece of paper over that’s filled with dates in my scrawling handwriting. “I think I’m double booked for a couple of weddings, so unless we can perfect cloning me in the next twenty-four hours, then I’m in deep shit with Jed tomorrow.”

“When aren’t you?”

“Fair point.”

“As is the fact that no one is ready for a clone of you. The world’s noise level would be deafening.”

His head is down, one finger stroking the edge of the sticky notes pad, and I have a sudden flash of him when we came home from the club last night. We’d come perilously close to shagging in the stairwell, and we’d barely got through the door before clothes came off, and he fucked me on the floor. It had been well worth the telling off about noise from Mrs Flynn in the upstairs flat.

I smile at him. “You weren’t saying that last night. Mrs Flynn says she’s reporting us to animal control.”

“What? Why? Hump wasn’t being noisy while we were out, was he?”

“No, but apparently, our cats were yowling and kept her awake.”

“What cats? Oh!” A flush spreads across his cheeks, but I frown when he doesn’t joke or say anything else.

“What’s up?”

He scratches the back of his neck. Then he takes a deep breath, and his head comes up. I automatically brace, but his next words still leave me reeling.

“Do you remember that bloke at the guide dog charity event last weekend? He made the biggest bid of the night.”

I bite my lip. “The one who chatted to you for ages?”

Stan would usually have been standing with me, but lately, a funny distance has sprung up between us. Our bodies might be closer than they ever have been, but it feels like he’s moving further away, and whatever I do, I can’t grab him.

“That’s the one. Bennett.”

He pauses, and my eyes narrow. “What about him?”

“Erm.” He hesitates, and then his next words come out in a rush. “He rang and asked me out.”

I stare at him, unable to break the awkward silence filling the room, mainly because I’m lost for words.

“Raff?” he finally asks.

“You gave him your number?” I whisper.

“Yeah.” He licks his lips. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

There’s something in his tone that I can’t quite parse. It’s almost like he’s asking me a question silently, but I can’t think of the right answer because I suddenly feel sick.

“What do you think, Raff?”

I think it’s the worst idea ever. I think my stomach is churning, and it feels like the end of my world is approaching. I think you should tell him to throw away your number and come to bed with me and stay there forever.

The thoughts pass quickly through my brain, visceral in their clarity and need, but I don’t say any of them. How can I? The truth is that this was always going to happen. It was inevitable that Stan would back out of this casual arrangement we have as soon as someone better appeared on the horizon. Someone who isn’t chained into a single life by their childhood. I have nothing to offer him beyond friendship. And his happiness has been my main concern since the day I met him.

“Raff?”

“Is he nice?” My voice is hoarse, and he cocks his head, his expression concentrated.

“Erm, probably,” he says almost hesitantly. “He seemed very interested anyway.”

“Of course he did,” I say bitterly and then shake myself. Stop being selfish, I berate myself. “I think—" I stop and clear my throat. “I think you should go for it then, Stan.”

His head comes up, and an expression passes quickly over his face that I can’t understand. He almost looks devastated. Then it passes, and he says in a wooden tone of voice, “You would be okay with that?”

No.

“Yes, of course, babe.” I’m proud of the evenness of my voice. “We always said we’d do this until—” I stop suddenly, unable to complete the words. My eyes feel hot, like I might cry.

“Until someone special comes along.” Stan finishes our promise, his voice completely flat. He taps the table and then stands up so suddenly that I jump. “I’ll go and give him a ring then, yeah?”

“Yeah,” I whisper and watch him go. If his image is blurred, then that’s no one else’s business.

“Rafferty Albert Kendrick.”

I jump and spin around in my chair.

“Ah, he is with us,” Ingrid says. She and Joe are perched on the side of his desk, sharing a bag of white chocolate toffees.

“Sorry?”

“We’ve been talking to you for the last five minutes,” Joe adds. “Where were you?”

I look back at the window. “I was just thinking,” I finally say, aware that the silence has gone on too long.

“Ah, I wondered where the sense of impending doom had come from.”

I glare at him. “I’ll have you know I do a lot of thinking.”

“Usually guided by your penis,” Ingrid offers helpfully. She looks in the empty chocolate bag and makes a sound of disapproval before hunting around on Joe’s desk.

I roll my eyes. “You won’t find any in there. Mr Perfect actually gives them out.”

“That’s actually what you’re supposed to do with sample packs,” Joe protests.

I open my desk drawer and chuck her a packet of lavender and rose chocolates. “Try those. They’re lush.”

“What were you thinking about?” Joe asks as Ingrid tears open the bag and descends on the contents in a manner last seen in a wildlife documentary narrated by David Attenborough. “Rafferty?”

I look up at him. “Thoughts?” he prompts.

“Oh, I was just wondering if Leo and Richard were happy with last night. I need to give them a ring.”

“They were ecstatic about the party,” Ingrid says with her mouth full. Joe and I utter sounds of disgust, and she swallows before adding, “I think they were less happy with Bennett's marital grandstanding.”

“That twat,” Joe says, ever my loyal friend. “What a cunty thing to do.”

“Lovely office language,” Jed calls through his open office door. “I do hope Mrs Bellington-Smythe is visiting. You know how she embraces counterculture.”

“Like it’s a coat hanger connected to the mains,” I say gloomily. “She pulled my hair last week to emphasise that it needed cutting.”

Joe raises an eyebrow. “She wasn’t wrong.”

“Yes, but usually hairdressers have scissors. They don’t rip out the offending article by the roots with their horrible pointy fingers.”

The doorbell chimes, and Ingrid goes to get up.

“I’ll get it,” Jed says. “I need to grab my printing.”

He walks out of the office, and we all take a moment to admire his broad shoulders, narrow hips, and an arse that’s displayed to its best advantage in pinstripe tailoring.

“Yummier than one of these chocolates,” Ingrid says, and we nod.

“And probably cheaper per bag,” I offer. “It’s like the chocolatiers imagined that they’d coated them in gold.”

She turns to me. “So?”

I blink. “So what?”

“So, did you congratulate the happy couple?”

I swallow, feeling my stomach turn over. “Yes.”

I still can’t believe this is happening. Bennett proposed, and Stan—my Stan—accepted. I’d watched it happen thinking that Stan would just smile and refuse him kindly. When he said yes, I’d felt like the ground had opened up beneath my feet. My vague fears about him leaving were confirmed, and I’m still reeling. I won’t see him every day. I won’t hear his laugh or carry his records for him, which, to be honest, Bennett would have a problem carting about without getting a hernia.

I won’t get to be the one Stan turns to.

I won’t get to love him.

I realise they’re both watching me, their eyes full of sympathy.

“Twat,” Joe offers.

I blink. “Bit harsh. I thought you were my friend.”

He rolls his eyes. “I meant Bennett. I can’t believe Stan said yes to him.”

“Me neither,” I say hollowly.

“Actually, I don’t think he did.”

We all turn to Artie, who’s just gotten off the phone.

“What?” I ask.

He offers me his sweet smile. “Stan didn’t actually say yes.”

“He did. We all heard him,” Ingrid says.

Artie shakes his head. “He said yay.”

Silence falls for a few seconds. “And your point is?” Joe says slowly. “Doesn’t yay mean yes or at least a hearty appreciation for a point of view, or have I been using it wrong?”

Artie shrugs. “We say yay to lots of things like hot chocolate on a cold day or the decision to go to the fair.”

“You’re so wholesome, you should be in a BBC sitcom,” Ingrid offers.

He gives her a crooked grin. “It’s just different than yes. Yay is an exclamation. Not a lifetime commitment.”

I stare at him, feeling hope kindle in my chest. Then I slump. “Stan still went off with him.”

“Did he come back to the flat after the party?” Joe asks.

I shake my head. “He stopped off for Hump, and then I didn’t see him for the rest of the night.” I’d lain awake for hours listening out for his key in the door, but nothing. I’d finally fallen asleep to utter silence, and he wasn’t there this morning.

“I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about, Raff,” Artie says kindly.

“You don’t?” I stare at him like he’s the owner of the last lifejacket on the Titanic.

He smiles. “No.”

We all jump as Jed clears his throat behind us. “Rafferty, you have someone here to see you.”

I turn around and my jaw drops when I see Bennett coming through the door behind Jed. He’s dressed in a navy pinstriped suit and looks tanned and handsome. And smug. So smug.

The silence has gone on a bit too long, so I clear my throat. “Bennett,” I say.

“Rafferty,” he says, shooting me a smile that’s a little too wide. “I apologise for popping in unannounced, but I needed to see you.”

“Why?”

He winks, which makes him look more of a douchebag than usual, if that’s possible. “Well, you’re a wedding planner, and I’m getting married.”

I swallow bile. “Are you asking me to organise your wedding?”

He smiles. “Of course. Who else?”

“Mr Tumble,” Ingrid offers.

He chuckles and then turns to me. “Well? Would you do us the honour of organising it? I know Stan would want his best friend at the helm.”

“Does Stan know you’re here?” Joe asks in a conversational tone. The fierce look in his eyes slightly mars the politeness.

“I’m sure he’ll be very happy,” Bennett says smoothly.

“Did he say yay or yes to it?” Artie asks. When we all turn to him, he offers Bennett a saccharine smile. “It makes a difference, you see. Words have power.”

Bennett looks slightly stunned. It must be like being bitten by a fluffy hamster.

Jed clears his throat and offers Artie a pointed glance. “Thank you so much, Mr Wordle.” He looks at me. “Would you like me to do it?”

I must look very pathetic if he’s making that offer. I sit up straight and run a hand through my hair. There’s no way I’ll show myself as being pathetic to Bennett. I have my pride, if not my best friend.

“Of course not,” I say hoarsely. “I’d be thrilled.”

Jed looks at me searchingly but then nods almost reluctantly. “Why don’t you take Mr Sinclair into the meeting room? You can make a start.”

“Thank you so much,” Bennett says charmingly. “Please call me Bennett.”

“How lovely,” my boss says in a vague voice. He turns to me. “Start a file for Mr Sinclair.”

I love my friends’ loyalty, but I don’t want to do this in front of them, so I stand up and shoot my cuffs. “Let’s go,” I say smoothly, enjoying Bennett’s blink of shock. “Would you like a coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’ll get it,” Ingrid says.

I gesture Bennett towards the meeting room and stop in front of Ingrid to hiss at her, “Do not use the old coffee grains.”

“I’m very clumsy. I can’t help it if sometimes my hand slips.”

“Just don’t let it slip towards the rat poison.”

“We do not have any of that,” Jed says, horrified, coming up behind us with that catlike quiet he’s famous for. “Because this wedding planning business does not have any rats.”

“Only the one in the meeting room at the moment,” Joe calls.

I grimace at him and then head into the meeting room. Bennett sits at the massive oak table, his hands folded neatly over his leather diary. When I enter, he smiles. “Thank you for doing this. I appreciate it.”

I shake my head and sit down opposite him. “Cut the crap. You don’t like me, and I certainly don’t like you. Our common denominator is Stan, so let’s think of him instead.”

He sits back in his chair. “Do you treat all your customers in this way?”

“Only the super special ones.” I open my diary. “What date are you both thinking of getting married?”

“August the twelfth.”

I blink. “Next month?”

He nods. “I want to nail him down now I’ve got him.”

“That sounds more like a crucifixion than marital harmony.”

He rolls his eyes. “I want to do it as soon as possible.”

“Does Stan agree with that? Because the only reason for doing it so quickly would be because Edward is after you with a shotgun for compromising Stan’s virtue. And that’s unlikely because it disappeared many moons ago, and Edward would be more likely to use his baton.”

“Stan has put me in charge of everything. He says he’s happy with whatever I choose.”

Something in his voice makes me narrow my eyes at him, but he gazes blandly back at me. “That doesn’t sound like Stan,” I say slowly. “He’s not one for going with the flow.”

He examines his fingernails. “Maybe you don’t know him as well as you think, Rafferty.”

“Maybe not,” I say hollowly. “Okay, let’s get to what you want. I can go over the details with Stan when I get home.”

“No,” he says quickly. “This is to be a surprise.”

“Your wedding is a surprise?”

“It’s my present to him. And I must insist you don’t speak to him about it.”

I lick my lips. It doesn’t happen very often—in fact, it’s only happened once in my career—but I have been asked to keep arrangements a secret before. I brighten slightly as I remember the repercussions of that incident. “Okay,” I say finally, just wanting him to leave. “Let’s look at venues.”

Half an hour later I collapse into my chair.

Joe looks up from his desk. “How did that go?”

“Depends. Is a ten worldwide Armageddon?”

“Probably.”

“Then that was a twenty.”

“Ouch.”

“Yep. I’ve had to listen to his wedding plans and even the honeymoon arrangements. I’m grateful we ran out of time, or he might have gone into his plans for the wedding night.”

“I’m surprised Stan wasn’t with him.”

“Ah. Bennett’s organising the whole thing as a surprise for him.”

Joe blinks. “Is he marrying another Stan we don’t know? Because our Stan is not known for enjoying letting someone else lead.”

I have a flash of exactly how much Stan likes to be in control and push it away. “Exactly.” I lower my face to the desk. “This is a very shit week,” I say into the wood.

I look up to see Ingrid walking towards me. “Leo rang. He wants to see you at the salon after work.”

“What for?”

“He didn’t say. Maybe he wants to hang, draw, and quarter you for not issuing Bennett with a gag at the party.”

“Good job, he didn’t. I might have tied it too tight and choked him with it.”

“Maybe Leo’s going to stick your hair back on,” Joe offers helpfully, and Artie chuckles.

Ingrid wanders off, and Artie puts his pen down and looks over at me. “Are you alright?” he asks sweetly.

I grimace. “Nope.”

He bites his lip. “It’ll be okay.”

“How do you know?”

He shrugs. “I just do. I watch people.”

“That makes you sound like Sergeant Stalker.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“You’re more optimistic than Julie Andrews,” Joe says in an awed voice.

“Not really. Raff just needs to talk to Stan. Miscommunication is a terrible plot device in romance novels.”

I roll my eyes. “This isn’t a romance novel. It’s more like a horror story in twenty acts. Anyway, it’s not possible to talk to Stan. I’m on a vow of silence imposed by his beloved.”

He blinks. “Why?”

“Better ask Bennett. He’s displaying rather gorilla-ish tendencies at the moment. He just needs a tyre to swing on and a bigger chest to beat.”

“Ouch,” Joe mutters.

Artie taps his desk thoughtfully. “Maybe you’d better ask why that is.”

“The tyre?”

“No, the secrecy.”

I shake my head. “I have so many things to question that I could host Mastermind.”

Two hours later I back through the door of Leo’s salon, hefting a cardboard box. “A little help, please. I don’t have the build for weightlifting.”

“You’re more of a snowflake than the white stuff that falls out of the sky,” Micky says, coming to my aid. “Jesus, what is in this? A dead body?”

“No, it’s gift-bag samples I just picked up for the office, but I admire how your mind went to that. Does this outfit look like a grave robber’s?”

He studies my purple checked suit. “Not really,” he says rather doubtfully. “But then the dead are probably the only ones who’d appreciate your fashion sense.”

“Lovely,” I huff.

We heft the box onto the reception desk, and I look around. “Where’s Leo?”

“They’re in the staffroom.”

“They? I thought I was just meeting Leo.”

He doesn’t answer, as a customer comes in behind me, so I make my way to the staffroom. I pause at the door at the sound of ominously familiar laughter.

I take a breath and throw the door open a little too hard. The bang it makes as it hits the wall covers the sound of all the breath leaving me as three people turn to face me. Leo and Richard are here, but my attention is all on Stan. He’s wearing old jeans, a thin green jumper, and black Converse hi-tops, and his face is full of lovely laughter.

“Fucking hell, Rafferty,” Leo says, jumping up. “If you’ve damaged that wall, you’re repairing it.”

Richard rolls his eyes. “I’m sure that’ll go swimmingly, darling. Do you remember the painting party at our house?”

“When he stepped in a tray of paint and tracked it all through the house?” Leo says.

Stan laughs, and I put my hands on my hips. “You should have been sued for false advertising. A party implies a social gathering full of laughter and joy, which is the furthest thing away from the salt mine air of that particular shindig.”

“Don’t worry. It only took fifty thousand tins of paint remover to repair the damage, and we got a rug to cover up the bit that still bears your mark. Coffee?” Leo asks.

“Yes, please.”

“I’ll help you,” Richard says, leaping out of his seat so quickly that it looks like the springs have ejected him.

They head over to the other side of the room to the coffee machine, and I turn to Stan. “Hello,” I mutter, feeling awkward in a way I’ve never felt with him before.

He cocks his head. “You alright? Your voice sounds funny.”

“Oh, fine, fine,” I say, dialling down the heartiness to less Brian Blessed and more Brian Cranston. "Congratulations.”

“For what?”

I blink. “For your upcoming wedding?” I say in more of a question than a statement.

“Oh. Oh yes. Lovely.” He looks as if he’s bursting to tell me something, so I’m stunned when he sits back and says nothing. I don’t think there’s ever been a moment in our lives when he hasn’t said what was on his mind.

“You, okay?” I finally say almost tentatively.

“Of course,” he says so emphatically that I blink.

“Well, that’s good.” I run my finger along my trouser leg. “It’s just that I didn’t see you after the party.”

“I went back to my mum and dad’s.”

Relief flows through me like a river. He wasn’t with Bennett.

“I bet Rowena and Edward are thrilled,” I say.

“Not the word I’d have chosen.”

“Oh.”

Another awkward silence follows, and when Leo returns, we greet him as though he’s Robbie Williams at a Take That reunion.

He blinks. “I know I’m fabulous, but not quite that much.”

He hands me my coffee, and I cradle the cup, letting it warm my suddenly cold hands. “What’s this meeting in aid of?”

“The commitment ceremony.”

“Didn’t we cover everything yesterday? Has something else happened? And why is Stan here?”

“My sunny personality,” Stan offers. “It seems extraordinarily suited to marital harmony.”

“Yeah, that’s not working.”

He laughs, and for a second, I grin at him before I remember that I’m about to fucking lose him. I swiftly revert to moroseness. “So, why are we here?”

Leo blinks. “Your people skills are second to none. I commend you.”

“Thank you so much.”

Richard clears his throat. “The commitment ceremony is in a couple of days.”

“I am aware. It’s been in my diary for two years.”

Leo says, “And you won’t be at the wedding in Devon because it’s just close family. You’re flying ahead of us to Greece.”

“I also know this. I am a wedding planner, Leo, and in particular, your wedding planner.”

“So snippy,” he marvels. “Anyway, we need to ask both of you for a huge favour.”

“Anything,” Stan says immediately.

“Both of us?” I say somewhat more warily.

“Yes. We talked to the hotel manager last night, and we’re a bit worried about the arrangements.”

I dig out my diary from my messenger bag. “What did he say?” I demand.

“He was rather evasive on things like the group activities and room arrangements.”

“I must say I’m surprised by that. We’ve used that hotel before, and they’re usually very good. Well, I’m flying out tomorrow anyway, so I’ll check up on everything. It’ll be fine. I promise you.”

“Ah,” Leo says. “We want you both to go over.”

A stunned silence falls. Luckily Stan interjects because I’ve lost the power of speech.

“Both of us?”

Richard shoots a look at Leo, which is hard to parse.

Leo abruptly turns to Stan and says, “Yes, babe. You’re my best man. We trust you both, and it would calm my nerves if I knew you were both over there early taking care of things for us.”

Nerves? Since when? I stare at him. What is going on here?

Leo glances over at Richard, and some sort of subliminal message passes between them. Whatever it was, it must have been irritating, because Richard gives a deep and rather aggrieved sigh and says, “Yes, we want you to check the rooms, and the walking excursion they’ve arranged and the—" He falters slightly. “—and the food,” he finishes somewhat desperately.

“The food?” I echo.

He nods and then nods some more before seemingly making a conscious decision to stop before he ends up resembling a nodding dog car decoration. “Yes.”

Leo rolls his eyes, and then, catching me watching them, he offers a crooked smile. “You know how I am with organisation,” he says in an alarmingly fake apologetic voice.

“You’re more of a micro-manager than a Borrower,” I offer helpfully, and Stan snorts.

Leo’s eyes narrow. “Well, be that as it may, we wondered if you’d both go. Stan, could you manage it?” Stan hesitates, and Leo says quickly, “For us, babe.”

Ever kind-hearted, Stan nods. “I suppose Kem could manage the shop for an extra day. We haven’t got much in the diary this week anyway because we knew the wedding was coming up.”

Leo claps his hands. “I’m so happy. Thank you.”

Richard coughs and mutters something that sounds like, “Too much.”

Leo subsides, and I look between them.

“How happy I am,” Leo says again. “Are you happy?” he asks me.

“I’m more confused and slightly suspicious,” I confess, but they’re all talking now and ignoring me.

Chapter

Ten

Stan

We climb out of the taxi, and I hear the sound of a jet going overhead. “Alright?” Raff says.

I nod, extending my stick with a click.

“God, I love that sound,” he says rather wistfully. “I always wanted a cane that became a sword.”

“I seem to remember Rollo buying you one for Christmas.”

“It would have been an epic present if I hadn’t been six.”

I snort. “My mum was horrified. She took it off you straight away before we could play with it.”

“I remember. Rowena has lighter fingers than the Artful Dodger. I equally remember her pathetic excuse that she was getting it sharpened. It’s led me to a lifetime suspicion of knife sharpeners because I thought they took twenty years to do one job.”

“Well, I’m not giving you my cane,” I say lightly, glad to hear the ease in his voice. He’d been quiet in the taxi—worryingly quiet. Usually, he’s the source of all the noise, so it was alarming.

“Life is very unfair sometimes.” He taps my hand so I can grab his arm with my left hand while my right hand holds the cane. I always travel with my cane on trips abroad because it helps to clear a way through the busy airport and accounts for any clumsiness. Actually, airports remind me of a certain clumsy incident, but it wasn’t me who caused it.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, pinching my arm. “I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

“Ouch, you are vicious. I can’t help it if the memory of you taking a table of drinks out with one arm is still fresh. The irony of it happening to the sighted one of us is blissful.”

Raff has always been an arm waver when he tells a story, and he’d been enthusiastically relating a work incident to me while we sat waiting for a flight to Spain. There’d been a sudden clatter, crash, and tinkle of glass followed by a moment of silence and then an explosion of shouting.

I laugh at the memory.

He huffs. “It was very embarrassing.”

“But it couldn’t have happened to a nicer set of arsehole businessmen. I still enjoy the fact that the man using such loud gay slurs ended up with a lapful of piña colada.”

“True.”

I shift position. “Got the luggage?”

“It’s on the trolley. Yours can be seen from Mars as usual. Several people near us are now wearing sunglasses.”

My luggage is always very brightly coloured. It helps if I’m travelling alone and have someone assisting me. Telling them my suitcase is black or blue would leave us in the airport until the end of days. Being able to say it’s bright orange with a pink strap and a sticker from my shop certainly helps to narrow the field.

“What about the wedding suits?” I ask worriedly.

“On my trolley, Stanley. I have done this before, you know.”

“Do you think Hump is okay?” He’d had an appointment at the vet for his annual flea and worming treatments that I didn’t want to cancel, so we’d left him with my mum and dad. They’ll bring him with them when they fly out for the wedding tomorrow.

“He’s fine, babe.” He stops talking abruptly, and I wait. “I mean Stan. Not babe. He’s fine.”

What’s wrong with babe? I think.

“The last I saw of him,” Raff continues, “he was heading out to the garden for a spot of mayhem.”

“I’ll buy him a present,” I decide.

Raff snorts. “Maybe you’ll find something in duty-free. I’m sure he likes a good brandy.”

“Shut up.”

He chuckles. “Let’s go. If we get through customs quickly, we can have a drink ourselves.”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t stop at just one drink.”

Travelling makes me so tense, and I’m not the sunniest of travel companions, but I’m savouring being with Raff today. Not only is he my favourite person in the whole world, but it also means that I don’t have to think of everything and plan ahead. When I fly on my own, I’m usually kept awake for a few nights before I leave, planning and going over the fine details.

I fall into step beside him, sending my stick sweeping out in front of me. Warm air and a wall of noise hits us when we enter the airport, and I tighten my grip on his arm.

He keeps up his usual stream of chatter, telling me of obstacles and making low-voiced observations about the people around us while intermittently charming the staff we encounter. It makes me smile because he’s courteous and warm without fail, and the reward is the way their voices change when they’re talking to him. I don’t think Raff hears it, but I do. They have a smile in their tone like a little bit of sunshine seeped in.

I stand beside him while we’re at the check-in desk. We get priority boarding because of my blindness, and consequently, there are details to manage. It feels nice not to take care of everything on my own today. Raff is laser-focused on the travel forms, as he’s dealt with them for me many times.

As I wait, my mind wanders to where it’s been stopping since that debacle of an engagement announcement. And specifically, to what and how much I should explain to Raff. I never keep secrets from him, so this one is burning my tongue. It feels all shades of wrong that he, of all people, doesn’t know. It had been bad enough dealing with my family pretending to be happy last night when they can’t stand Bennett.

I have to keep up this pretence for Bennett for only a few more days. I’d given my word to Bennett, even though I have regrets about doing so. My word means a lot to me. People might not trust me with physical arrangements or clothing advice, but I like that they always know I’ll do what I say.

I reassure myself that Raff is my oldest, closest friend. And while this means he’ll be disappointed I’ve kept the truth from him, I know he’ll understand and forgive me when I explain everything once the wedding is over.

“Stan?”

I jerk, realising he’s talking to me. “Yeah?”

“We’re ready to go through.”

“Oh good,” I say quickly.

“You, okay?” His voice is concerned, and I shrug my worries away. It will be just us for a whole day and night, and I’m going to enjoy it.

“Absolutely fine,” I say.

Rafferty

I peer through the window at the scenery flashing past the taxi. We’re driving along a windy road that offers the view of an eye-wateringly steep drop down to the sea. Stubby trees cling to the hillside, and the sky is a perfect cornflower blue. “Leo and Richard couldn’t have picked a better place to get married.”

“Apparently, Greece is special for them. I’ve never got the details, though.” He cocks his head. “What can you see?”

There isn’t a trace of self-pity in his voice that he can’t see the view himself, and I want so badly to stretch out and take his hand. Usually, I’d do this without a second thought, but he’s not mine now. The pain that accompanies that thought is enough to make my heart stop, and once again, I curse the fact that I didn’t appreciate what I had until I lost it through my own stupidity. I can still remember when I realised I was in love with him…

“I don’t know why you enjoy bowling,” Bennett huffs. “It’s so noisy, and the shoes are disgusting.”

“But those are the fun parts,” Stan says.

I smile at him. His grin is wide, his hair messy, and enjoyment is written all over him. The smile fades as I register the length of his muscular legs in his faded jeans and the way his old denim shirt clings to those broad shoulders. I remember holding on to them while he fucked me hard, and I want to scream.

Why can’t I turn this fucking awful awareness off? He’s made it perfectly clear that he’s moving on from our arrangement. With any of my other men, I’d have smiled and waved them off. But not Stan. I only have to stand near him and smell his cologne, and I get hard. I only have to be near him to want to touch him. And I can’t. Not anymore.

“We like it, don’t we, Raff?” Stan’s voice interrupts my thoughts.

“You just like it because you get the bumpers up,” I point out, putting a smile in my voice. “And an unfair advantage.”

“That’s completely out of order, Rafferty,” Bennett snaps in the headmaster's tone of voice that makes me want to expel him. “He’s blind. As if Stan would cheat.”

I glare at him. How dare he interfere with our jokes. They’ve been around a lot longer than him. And where the fuck does he get off dismissing Stan’s abilities? If he wanted to cheat, no one could stop him.

“What a tool,” Kem mutters next to me, and I nod and wait for Stan to rear up at Bennett.

But Stan just pats his hand. “Raff could never offend me.” He sends a naughty look in my direction. “That’s just his sour grapes talking.”

“I think you’ll find there’s enough sour grapes to fill a winery,” I point out hoarsely. “You beat me every time. I need to point out that people don’t like sports if there isn’t even the tiniest chance of ever winning anything.”

“Ha. Get used to it.”

After grabbing a bright yellow patterned ball, he taps his way down to the lane, and I watch as he slides his stick along it, gauging the width and where the bumpers are. He lifts the ball, and I groan. “Fucking hell.”

Kem starts to laugh. “It’s the zigzag.”

“What’s the zigzag?” Bennett asks, looking up from where he’s cleaning the score table with hand sanitiser.

Kem shakes his head, the beads in his dreads making a lovely soft clinking noise. “Watch and weep.”

We both catcall as Stan bowls the ball so that it bounces off each side of the barriers before flying at the pins.

“How many?” he calls, his head cocked to one side and the bright lights sparkling on his dark sunglasses.

“If I said none, would you believe me?” I call back.

He snorts. “Nope.”

“Oh well then. All of the fuckers. I might as well go home.”

He punches the air. “Have it.”

Kem shakes his head. “Is that unsporting? I’m never quite sure on the etiquette of bowling.”

Stan laughs, but as he comes towards us, his foot slips, and he lurches to the side, banging his hip on the score table and sending the drinks over. Liquid flies everywhere, and the idiots next to us cheer and holler. Stan’s cheeks flush pink with embarrassment, and I leap up to grab him but then stand like an idiot as Bennett gets there before me.

“Step to your right,” he orders. “Or you’ll slip in it.”

“Sorry,” Stan mumbles, and Kem pats him on the back as I glare at the twats on the next aisle who are still laughing.

“Why? Those wankers next to us couldn’t even aim well enough to hit the table with a ball,” I say in a loud voice.

“Oi,” one of them says indignantly, but Kem and I glare until they turn back to their game.

Kem walks past me. “I’ll just ask for a mop and order more drinks, Raff.”

I nod, unable to take my eyes off Bennett standing over Stan. He’s fussing over him, dabbing at his wet sleeve, and I wait for Stan to snap at him and order him off because he hates this sort of behaviour.

But Stan only gives Bennett a smile. “Sorry,” he says again. “Clumsy, eh?”

Bennett pats his hand. “Maybe you shouldn’t play games like this. There are far too many ways to hurt yourself at places like this, and I don’t think they’ve done their due diligence in making the place accessible.”

“Don’t be silly,” I snap, approaching them.

He’s acting as if Stan is made of the finest porcelain and should be on a shelf. I’d sympathise if it was anyone other than Bennett who was preaching caution to Stan. It never ends well. Only the other week, Kem and I had joined forces to suggest he didn’t rock climb when he had a head cold, which didn’t go swimmingly, but suggest is the operative word, because it’s Stan’s life.

“Stan loves it here,” I explain.

Bennett glares at me. He hasn’t liked me since the first moment he met me, and the feeling is entirely mutual. He’s a colossal tool.

“Well, I’d expect you to say that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you don’t think as I do.”

“Like a senior citizen with a bad hip?” I enquire, but he’s talking over me, telling Stan that he’s booked a nice restaurant for afterwards. I tune in to hear him say, “I’m sure Kem and Rafferty will be going clubbing.”

“What?” I say blankly.

Stan smiles in my direction. It’s almost sad, but it’s gone before I can examine it.

“I’m sure they will,” he says.

I stare at them as Bennett brushes Stan’s hair back. The gesture is tender, and his expression is possessive as he looks down at Stan. Stan smiles in his direction, and my stomach turns over.

How can he smile at Bennett so nicely? When is he going to realise that he’s⁠—?

I stop dead, the thought slamming into me like a truck. Mine.

When is Stan going to realise that he’s mine? I inhale a shaky breath and fall into a chair.

I love him. The realisation is as smooth as taking my next breath, but unfortunately, it’s not as easy. One second, I didn’t know, and the next, everything has changed—my whole world has altered on its axis.

How can I not love him? He’s the most extraordinary man I’ve ever met. He’s funny, clever, brave, determined, and a complete smart-arse whose smile cheers me up when nothing else works. And where before I’d have listed these attributes as belonging to my friend, now I see them with the eyes of a lover who also knows what it feels like to strain together under the sheets, fighting to get closer, panting and groaning.

“Is that okay, Raff?” Stan asks. His dark hair is spilling over his forehead, and I can see the freckles dotting his high cheekbones and the slight bump in his nose where he broke it as a teenager. And I want to grab him and kiss him and then cry because he’s not mine. I saw to that when I told him to date the fuckwit currently holding his hand like he’s going to escape at any second. “Raff?”

“Raff?” Stan’s voice interrupts my revelation. “Can you see the sea?”

His face is so close and clear in the bright light that it makes my eyes hot. “Yes.” I clear my throat. “It’s so blue, babe. And the sunlight is catching on it so that it glitters.”

He sits back in his seat, smiling. “I like that for the two of them.”

He’s taken off his denim jacket and is wearing his old khaki chinos and a white T-shirt that shows off his tight biceps. The breeze from the open window ruffles his curls, and his olive skin glows in the sunlight. He looks rumpled and so dear to me that I swallow hard.

The taxi slows, interrupting my moment, and I peer out. “We’re here.”

“Have you been here before?”

“Once for a wedding a few years ago. The owners are a gay couple, and the hotel specialises in LGBT ceremonies. You remember Margot from Confetti Hitched?”

“I do.”

“Well, she comes more often. It’s a lovely place. Very special.”

The car crunches along gravel and pulls to a stop. I climb out, aware of Stan doing the same. For a moment, I simply stand and feel the sun warm on my face. The sense of peace this setting inspired the last time I was here steals over me again. All I can hear is the breeze whispering through the plane trees and the distant roar of the surf.

Stan walks over to me, his stick tapping. “What’s it like?” he asks.

“It’s a long white building with purple shutters and window baskets full of bright flowers. There’s a terrace that runs the width of the building at the back where you can sit and watch the sun come down over the bay. The grounds run down to a private beach where they’ll hold the commitment ceremony.”

“It sounds nice.”

“It is. And the hotel is very accessible and renowned for making things easier for people with restricted sight.”

“And will they forego our bill?”

I snort. “Unfortunately, not, but they have painted more yellow lines on things than Hackney Council Highways Department.” He laughs. “No, everything is geared up for you. One of the owners’ sons is blind, so they know what they’re doing. All the outings have been designed with that in mind. That’s why Leo picked the place.”

He smiles, lifting his face to the sun. “He’s a good friend.”

The driver sets the last of the luggage on the gravel, and I smile at the porter, who comes bustling out with a baggage cart and starts loading our suitcase and bags onto it. “Well, everything seems as organised as ever.” I tap Stan’s arm, resisting the impulse to stroke his warm skin. “Let’s go and get checked in and see if any problems crop up.”

“And then a walk?”

“I’m sure it’s not attractive to be so energetic.” He snorts. “Don’t you want to just sit at the bar with a big drink, a plate of food, and an elastic waistband on your trousers?” I ask hopefully.

“Nope, and neither do you, even though you paint such a beautiful picture.”

I huff. “I suppose I will go along with you, thereby conforming to our friendship rules of the last twenty years.”

“Can I help it if you just want to please me?”

I pinch his arm, and we make our way up the stone steps. They’re in the shade, and the smell of lavender from the big terracotta pots on each step is heady. I see Stan take an appreciative sniff, and his shoulders relax a little.

The foyer is cool and quiet. A couple of guests are browsing a wall of bookcases full of brightly coloured books, and a receptionist stands talking quietly on the phone. We stop at the entrance.

“Okay, reception is directly in front of us.”

He nods and sweeps his cane along the floor as we walk towards the huge marble desk that serves as a welcome point.

The receptionist puts down the phone and greets us with a welcoming smile.

“Hi, I’m Rafferty Kendrick, and this is Stan Mortimer. I gather you’re expecting us?”

Her smile widens. “We are indeed. You’re the wedding planner for the Cooper-Salisbury ceremony?” I nod, and she turns to Stan. “And you’re the best man, Mister Mortimer?”

He smiles. “Please call me Stan.”

“Lovely. Leo rang yesterday and informed us that you were coming earlier than expected.”

“I hope we haven’t put you to any trouble,” Stan says, his face troubled.

“No, not at all.” She turns to me. “I understand you have things to discuss with Mister Doukas, the hotel manager.”

I reach into my messenger bag and pull out my diary. “Yes, I need to go over the final details, check the room allocations, and then, if it’s convenient, we need to see the walking tour you’ve prepared for the wedding guests.”

“That’s not a problem. I believe they booked the coastal walk. We should be able to slot you onto that. The only problem is that the last hike before the wedding goes out this afternoon. Would you be okay with doing that after travelling so far?”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Stan predictably says. “I can’t wait to stretch my legs.”

“What’s the terrain like?” I ask.

Her brow furrows as she looks at Stan.

I shake my head. “Oh, not for him. He’d be happy walking on the edge of an active volcano. No, it’s me. I do have the beauty of my calves to consider. I don’t want them misshapen and overly muscled like his.”

Stan laughs out loud.

The receptionist’s face clears. “I think you’ll like it. It’s a gentle walk in the hills by the sea. It's not too steep, and you’ll go out late afternoon when the sun isn’t so strong. It’s a magical light at that time. The walk was planned out so that it’s accessible to everyone. Your guide is lovely. He’s a local man.”

I actually already know this because I checked everything out in great detail when Leo and Richard suggested this hotel. As if I’m going to leave Stan’s well-being to the grace of strangers. I’d checked so many reviews I could work for Trip Adviser. It’s good to hear her spiel, though. It gives me an indication of how she’ll be with the rest of the party.

I make a note in my diary. “Fantastic. Is it possible to sit down with Mister Doukas before the walk?”

“Of course. He’s available when you’ve checked in. If you come back down after you settle into your room, I’ll show you to his office.”

I nod, smiling, and then her words sink in. “What? Room? Didn’t you mean to say rooms?”

Stan cocks his head, listening, his brow furrowed.

She looks between us, her eyes suddenly worried. “No, it’s a room, sir. The room Leo booked for you is a double. Leo said it would be fine if we put Mister Mortimer with you.” She glances at me for approval, and when I don’t say anything, she quickly adds, “It is a big room, so you’ll have plenty of space.”

“How many beds does it have?” Stan asks.

“One.” She frowns. “Is that okay? Leo made no mention of booking two rooms.”

“I just bet he didn’t,” I say grimly. I pat Stan’s arm. He must be worried about what Bennett would think. “It’ll be fine,” I say, directing my calmest smile at her. “We’ll just get another room.”

She’s shaking her head before I can finish my sentence. “Oh no. I’m so sorry, but there isn’t one available. We’re fully booked.”

“Oh my god,” I breathe.

Stan squeezes my arm in mute appeal, and I know what he’s going to say before he even opens his mouth—that kind fool. “It’ll be fine,” he says soothingly. “Won’t it, Raff?”

I think that’s highly debatable, given our situation. He’s newly engaged, and I haven’t yet been able to switch off my combustible feelings for him.

“I’m sure the room is beautiful,” Stan continues doggedly. “We’re lucky to have it, aren’t we, Raff?”

I give a high-pitched laugh. “That’s us. Lucky.”

The receptionist immediately relaxes. “I’ll get your keys sorted for you.” She walks into an office behind the desk.

“I just can’t wait to thank Leo for this beautiful gift,” I say silkily. “I’m going to thank him up close and very personally.”

Stan

Raff leads me to the lift, explaining the layout of the lobby as we go.

“Well,” I say as we wait for the lift. “That’s a turn-up for the books.”

“It’s a bigger turn-up than anything on the bottom of your Uncle Pat’s jeans.”

I laugh, but his sighing response is weary and definitely lacking his usual spark. “You, okay?” I ask, putting my hand out for his. He immediately gives mine a firm squeeze and then lets go. “You seem bothered about the one-bed situation?” I ask cautiously.

“I’m fine. More importantly, how are you with it?”

I turn in his direction, wishing I could see his expression. His tone is hard to judge. “It’s fine. It's not the first time we’ve shared, Raff. We’ll be okay.”

“Well, what about Bennett?”

“Who?”

“The lift’s here.” We step into the lift and I put out my hand to find the rail. “Bennett, your fiancé, Stan. He’s not going to be happy at this turn of events, and he gets very vocal for a lengthy period of time when he’s not happy.”

I wave my hand dismissively. “He’ll be fine.” The lift judders into motion, and I immediately grab the rail to keep my balance.

“There’s that word again.”

“What word?”

“Fine.” His voice is tight. “I think I’d like a little more for you than that state of being, but I suppose that’s in the hands of your fiancé now.”

I open my mouth to blurt out the whole sorry story, but luckily, the lift stops, and I don't break my word. I hear the doors slide open, and I smell lavender and furniture polish.

“This way,” Raff says, and I set my hand on his arm to follow him out. His muscles are tense as if he’s clenched his fist, and I tap his wrist.

“Let’s get in, unpack, shower, and change. You’ll feel better then.”

He sighs. “If you say so. Okay, are you ready? Our room number is fifty.”

I nod, and feel him at my side as I move slowly along with my cane tapping, pausing to touch the room plaques on the doors that have braille on them. I finally come to a stop. “Lucky number fifty,” I say, trying for levity and he obligingly chuckles.

“The room-card machine is to the right of the door. Wave the fob, and it’ll let you in.”

I do as he says and there’s an electronic beep, and the door clicks. He tugs me through the door, and the breeze hits me with the sound of the sea. It’s loud.

“Wow,” Raff says. “It’s fucking lovely, Stan.”

“Tell me.”

His voice sounds normal when he speaks next, full of his usual undercurrent of vivacity. “It’s full of light because of the bi-folding doors, and the décor is very simple—white with blue accents to echo the sea. We’ve got a terrace with a hammock on it, which should please you.”

“Only if I could see when you fall out of it.”

“It was just the once. Has anyone ever told you that you are very hard-hearted?”

“Yes, many times. Go on.”

“The terrace is to your left.” His voice fades slightly as he walks away. “There’s a sofa in here on your right and a coffee machine that will put a smile on your face. The bathroom is lush. There’s a big rolltop bath in front of a huge window that looks out on the sea and a shower big enough for two. Or even ten. They could hold the ceremony in there.”

I swallow hard at the thought of being naked and wet with him and say quickly, “I can hear the sea. I love that sound.”

“Me too. We can leave the terrace doors open tonight.”

And just like that, the awkwardness is back. My cock stirs at the thought of being so close to that lithe body of his. He’d been like fire in my arms, full of heat. I burst into speech. “Okay. Where’s the bed?”

“It’s straight ahead of you.”

“Okay.” I count the steps across the marble floor until my feet hit the bed. I stretch out my hand and press the mattress. The sheets are cool under my hot fingers. “Good firm springs,” I say.

He snorts. “You’re so full of positivity, Stanley. You’d have commented that the seawater would keep the wine cool on the Titanic when it sank.”

I grin, happy to hear humour in his voice. “There’s nothing wrong with a little bit of positivity.”

“Well, I eagerly await your sunny take on your fiancé coming after me with a shotgun.”

“He’s not good at sport. Anyway, it’s highly unlikely that he’ll even be bothered.”

“Why? I’d be fucking furious if you shared a bed with another man.”

My mouth drops open. “You would?”

“Yes, I bloody would.”

I swallow at the note of possessiveness in his voice. It’s fierce and hot, and I have to count backwards to avoid an inconvenient hard-on.

I hear him come close and feel his sweet breath on my face. I inhale the scent of his cologne and a light trace of sweat. I sway into him, and his hands land on my arms.

“Yes,” he says softly. “I couldn’t bear it, Stan.” There’s a pause, and when he speaks next, his voice sounds flat. “But then, it’s not me in this scenario, right?”

I open my mouth, but he moves away before I can beg him to kiss me.

“I’m going for a shower,” he says briskly. “You take the right side of the bed as usual.” I swallow at the knowledge that we have our own sides. “The bathroom is directly on your left.”

There’s a pause as he waits for me to respond. “Okay,” I finally say and swallow as I feel his fingers run through my hair. They twine in the curls, tugging one affectionately.

“It should be annoying that you’re so endearing, Stanley.”

I swallow hard. “Should it?”

He taps my nose. “Yes.”

He moves away, and I hear the sound of a zip and the soft thwomp as fabric hits the floor. The knowledge that he’s taking off his clothes nearby sends heat through me.

“Raff?” I say, the hoarseness in my voice obvious in the room's hush.

I think his footsteps come closer to me and I can almost feel the warmth of his skin. Then he says softly, “Let’s not play those games. I won’t be long.” He steps away, and his voice is brisk when he speaks again. “The luggage has been delivered. It’s at the bottom of the bed. Leave the cases. I’ll unpack before I go down.”

There’s the sound of a door shutting, and the shower starts. I stay still for a long second, willing my heart to ease. If I’d reached out, I could have touched him, and I know where I’d have started—on his full mouth. I’d have traced the sweet bow with my finger, and then I’d have slicked it with my tongue before kissing him.

I sigh. And we both know where that would have ended—on the mattress, burning up the sheets again. I curl my fingers into a fist because I’ve never wanted to do that more, and Raff stopped it.

And there’s the rub, because nothing is really different between us. I’ve been falling more deeply and seriously in love with him, while he’s always remained his usual casual self. The only thing that’s changed is that now I’m fake engaged. And if he seems upset about it, it’s because he’s always disliked Bennett.

I tap my way towards the balcony and the sound of the sea. Casting my hand out, I find a chair and settle gingerly into the cushioned depths. I gaze into the murky land of shadows and half-light that’s all I can see and try to work out what to do.

Chapter

Eleven

Rafferty

I close my diary and smile at the dark-haired man behind the desk. “I think that’s it, Giannis. Thank you so much.”

The hotel manager smiles and gets to his feet. “It was no problem. You are happy with everything?”

“Totally.” I’m also confused about why Leo was so concerned and wanted me here early.

I’ve been shown all over the stunning property and seen more of their hotel rooms than their cleaners. Everything is perfect, and Giannis has been calm and methodical, with a tight grasp of every aspect of the wedding.

I have no doubt that everything will run as smoothly as fate allows. All wedding planners factor in the vagaries of rain, illness, and family warfare. It’s what gives us grey hair. But we’re super tuned in to organisational problems, and I’ve seen no sign of anything like that here despite Leo’s worries.

Smiling, I say, “Well, I’d better go and find my best man.”

He blinks. “Yours?”

I run back over my words and blanch. “No, sorry. Leo’s best man. My best friend.”

“Ah, I wondered for a second if you were getting married.”

“Not today, Satan,” I say grimly.

He laughs. “You are a wedding planner. Do you not want to get married?”

“It’s a bit like The Wizard of Oz. I’ve seen behind the curtain.” I shudder. “And there are more troubles in marriage than a little old man with a slide projector. I believe in matrimony, but mainly for other people.”

“Maybe that will change for you.”

“Maybe if a gay miracle happens.” He laughs, and I grin at him. “Are you married?”

“Yes. For twelve years now. We have four children.”

“Lucky you,” I say lightly and completely insincerely. A childhood spent witnessing Rollo and Saoirse stomping all over the marriage sacrament with their designer boots and then a working life witnessing marital meltdowns on an industrial scale has soured me.

I dismiss my dark thoughts, shake hands with Giannis, and return to my room. It’s cool and shady, and the open patio doors send the gauzy curtains rippling in the breeze. There’s no sign of my surprise roommate.

I look around as if he’s going to pop up like a surprise pixie, but nothing. Then I hear a familiar laugh and a splash from outside and go to the balcony. The swimming pool is below our window, and I spot Stan sitting on the side dangling his feet in the azure water.

He tilts his face to the sun, a smile hovering on his full lips, and I swallow hard, my mouth dry. He’s so funny and wise and just my Stan. Sometimes I miss his beauty because we’re together so much, but he is gorgeous, and I notice a man standing to the side staring at him as well.

He's standing in the shadows, so I can’t see his face, yet there’s something familiar about him. He strolls over to the pool edge and says something, and Stan laughs again, and a jolt of recognition startles me. It’s Chris, one of Stan’s old boyfriends.

I haven’t seen Chris in a few years, which was fine with me. I’d tried to get on with him, but he couldn’t stand me, and if I were in a room, he’d scurry away as if I were a mass murderer. Their relationship lasted a few months. When Stan finished it, I’d breathed a sigh of relief.

My fingers twinge. I’ve fisted my hands so tight that my knuckles are white. Chris is now crouched low to talk with Stan. I’m in motion before my brain catches up, striding out of the room and taking the stairs in my rush.

The bright sun dazzles me when I exit by the pool. I fumble for my sunglasses and after I put them on, I note guests dotted around the pool. Unlike other hotel pools that tend to resemble rugby scrums as guests scramble for sunbeds, this setting is tranquil and peaceful. Another laugh sounds out, and I grit my teeth. Stan is now standing holding his cane and talking to Chris. He’s wearing pink patterned swim shorts that are hanging on his narrow hips, showing off his long brown legs, and he’s bare-chested with sweat gleaming in his chest hair.

I pace over. “Stanley,” I say.

“Raff, there you are,” Stan says, turning in my direction. The smile he gives me appeases me because it’s my smile, the one that is unguarded and sweet. “One of the hotel staff showed me down to the pool. I knew you’d find me.”

Chris rolls his eyes at me. “I thought you wouldn’t be far behind,” he drawls. “It’s as inevitable as the rain in England.”

“Raff, you remember Chris, don’t you?”

“Vividly.” I force a smile and hold out my hand. “Nice to see you again.”

His clasp is as firm as usual. I wince. He’s now crushing my fingers. He always used to do that. I wiggle free, shaking out my hand, and he offers me a smug look. He’s a good-looking bloke—tall with broad shoulders, thick black hair, and brown eyes. It’s a shame his personality spoils the overall effect.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He makes a show of looking around. “Holiday?” he offers.

“How simply wonderful,” I say. “It’s just spiffing to see you again.”

“It is a lovely surprise, isn’t it?” Stan says, ever the nice person in the equation. “I haven’t spoken to Chris in ages.”

“That’s a tragedy,” I mutter, and Chris offers me a cold smile.

“I couldn’t believe it when he came over,” Stan continues like a Chatty Cathy. “He’s here on holiday with his family. They’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Oh no. So soon.”

Chris smirks at me. “But I’ll be going with Stan’s number. I don’t want to lose touch this time.”

“Perish the thought,” I say, giving him the wide grin that always used to irritate him. Gratifyingly, his mouth tightens. I turn to Stan. “I think we have to go for lunch now, if we’re going to make that thing later on, Stan.”

He nods and taps over to the lounger, where I see a white T-shirt lying.

“You’re going somewhere?” Chris calls to him.

“Yes. Don’t let us keep you.” I make a gesture with my hands that, unfortunately, looks a little too much like someone throwing out the rubbish. “I’m sure you’re very busy with the people you’re away with.”

“Raff,” Stan chides. He turns his head toward Chris. “We’re going on a hike later this afternoon.”

Chris cocks his head, his face still showing that stupid smile. “Well, that’s a nice coincidence. So am I.”

“What?” I say.

Stan drowns it out. “Well, that’s great. We can catch up some more. Isn’t that great, Raff?”

“It’s super,” I mutter, watching as Chris moves closer to Stan, staring at him like he’s the last Yorkie bar in the Mackintosh factory.

Chris smiles. “Then let me treat you to lunch. I want to hear more about the shop, Stan. I remember you had so many plans for it.”

We set out on the walk an hour after the most infuriating lunch I’ve ever had. Chris slobbered over Stan more than the Mortimers’ old red setter, and I sat to the side coping with Chris’s Olympic-scale passive aggression.

Kostas, our guide for the walk, is a young man with dark curly hair and a wicked smile. He barely looks old enough to drink, let alone guide walkers, but I’m reassured when, before we start out, he talks with us to check for any potential problems.

The group comprises eleven people—three older couples, two younger girls who are friends, Chris, and us. I muse that Stan and I are between the two categories—more than friends, but not a couple. The thought is extraordinarily painful. Ahead of me, Stan’s stick is tapping, and Chris is at his side. He’d neatly edged me out as we’d walked on a narrow stretch of the path, and I’d fallen farther behind, trapped behind one of the old couples who seems to want to look at every flower along the path.

Chris says something, and Stan laughs. It’s his hearty laugh where his face creases up in an insanely attractive way and makes my stomach clench with longing.

“Your friend is very good.”

It takes me a second to realise that I’m being spoken to. “I’m sorry,” I say, turning to the speaker. She’s one of the two friends—girls in their twenties. They’ve spent most of the trek giggling, so I’m a little wary. It was when Stan’s sister laughed the most that she was at her most dangerous.

“Your friend.” She points at Stan. “He’s very graceful.”

“Ah. Yes, he is. But then he loves walking.”

“Is he fully blind?”

I hate these types of questions because they start off relatively benign before quickly heading downward into something that wouldn’t seem out of place in an interrogation room. “Yes,” I say shortly, keeping my gaze on the scenery rather than encouraging more conversation.

The seaside gravelled track is a little rough, but it’s bordered by a sturdy, low fence painted with a bright yellow line. Stan is handling it easily, conquering the track’s steepness without any shortness of breath. In fact, I’m the one breathing like a Hoover on its last legs. I make a mental note to leave off the cake samples when we get home.

“Really?” the girl asks from beside me. “Is he with Captain Hottie then?”

“Who?”

She nods at Chris. “We’ve been speculating all week who would be his type.”

I grit my teeth. “Well, Stan’s definitely his type.”

“They look really good,” she says, her gaze on Chris and Stan. Chris has his hand on Stan’s arm as they continue to talk. “Like they belong together.”

I lick my lips and offer her one of my professional smiles. “How are you enjoying your holiday?” I ask, knowing that one of life’s certainties holds true. Most people would far rather talk about themselves than anything else.

She starts to tell me about the last holiday she and her friend took, and I offer up automatic responses as my mind occupies itself with its usual thoughts of Stan.

It makes sense I never liked Chris, because I never liked any of Stan’s men. A bitter flavour fills my mouth as I acknowledge what my subconscious has been shouting all these years. I can’t bear Stan’s boyfriends, because I want him for myself.

I startle as I realise the girl is now discussing a sexual encounter she had with twins at a club. “Lovely,” I say politely and go back to my thoughts.

Of course, I’ve always wanted for Stan to be happy. I want his happiness more than I want my own. But what would happen if Stan and Bennett split up? I’d never stand between them—that’s not me—but if Stan were suddenly free again, could I tell him that I love him?

Sweat tracks down my neck and back as we continue to trudge upward.

What if Stan doesn’t love me back? Oh, I know he loves me, but it’s as a best friend, which is no longer the way I want or need. If I admitted my feelings for him and he didn’t feel the same way, he’d be kind, but then a distance would grow between us. In the end, we’d drift apart, and one day, we’d be nothing more than strangers who’d occasionally meet on a holiday or in passing. Like him and Chris.

So, I could confess my feelings for Stan and still lose him. Great. Having feelings is fucking shit.

My companion’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “And then we fucked in a toilet cubicle, and my foot went down the pan.”

“That’s great,” I offer and then quickly return to my feverish thoughts.

We stop at a table by the side of the path that’s manned by one of the hotel staff. The guide hands out bottles of water and sliced fruit, and I take mine with a smile of thanks, my partner still talking avidly about the logistical difficulties of fucking twins. I don’t know why it’s such a palaver. I did it once, and it was a decidedly subpar experience.

I settle my hips against the small fence, stretching my legs out and feeling the sun beating on my head. It’s still hot, but there’s a constant breeze from the sea, and the late afternoon light touches everything with gold. Beside us is the vast expanse of the sea moving restlessly as it churns over the rocks below.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Chris stands before me, indicating the fence to my side.

“It’s not mine,” I say levelly. “Do help yourself.” I look around. “Where’s Stan?”

“He’s talking to the two girls.”

“Oh dear. He’s about to become a lot more sexually informed.”

Chris sits beside me, and there’s a peaceful silence as we watch the ocean.

Unfortunately, he stirs and breaks it and says, “I don’t like you.”

I choke on the sip of the drink I’ve just taken. “You don’t say.”

“You knew.”

“I did. I just never knew why.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Come off it.” He leans closer and I resist the impulse to push his face away. Frowning suddenly, he says, “You really don’t.”

“I know I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. I’m a bit too free and fabulous for that, but I never could figure out why you hated me at first sight.”

“You’re a bit too full of shit.”

“Yes. But it usually takes a few hours for that reaction to kick in.”

A frown mars his perfect face. “You had everything, Raff, and you never realised it. You just danced along with all your gorgeous hair, making stupid fucking jokes.”

“Maybe you should get to the point,” I say levelly. “Before we grow old and die, or I can’t remember how to deliver one of those stupid jokes.”

He gets up abruptly, walks away a few steps, and then comes back to me, his whole demeanour agitated and mean. “You keep him on a string, and you just don’t care, do you?”

I stand up, wary that he might take a swing and send me tumbling to the rocks below. “What are you talking about?” I hiss. I glance around, making sure there are witnesses to my impending murder. I see Stan and relax when I note that he’s smiling and speaking to Kostas. I turn to Chris, letting my dislike fill my voice. “Tell me what this shitty behaviour is actually about.”

“My shitty behaviour?”

I fold my arms. “I’m not the rude fucker in this scenario, Chris. Today, and back then. You took every opportunity to be a cock towards me in my own home.”

“That’s because I wanted Stan,” he says furiously.

My eyes widen. “And you had him. It’s just a shame your personality hitched a ride, or you could have kept him.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“No, you fuck off. Stop blaming your deficiencies on me.”

“I blame it all on you. I fell in love with him, and you ruined everything.”

“How?”

“He was in love with you.”

The world swings to a stop, and everything goes quiet. “What?” I croak, feeling completely winded.

“Oh, don’t try and pretend you don’t know, you twat.”

“You’re talking about Stan? My Stan?”

“Yes, your Stan. He was always that, wasn’t he? I should have seen the writing on the wall when I saw him with you. I fell in love with him without realising all his attention—all his love—was always on you.”

“What?”

“Maybe it was all for the best that I broke up with Stan. Anyone who loves you is obviously in need of a mental health intervention.” He gives me a slow survey from head to toe.

“No, you’ve got that wrong. I—” He’s walking away from me, obviously completely done with the conversation.

Stan was in love with me—back when he was dating Chris? That was years ago. “No, that’s not even possible,” I mutter, staring off into space. “Chris has got that wrong.”

“They say that talking to yourself is a sign of great intelligence.” The sex-obsessed girl cocks her head as she observes me.

“Then I must be a fucking genius,” I say.

Laughing, she holds out a bottle of water. “You look hot.”

“Well, you know how it is.”

She sits down next to me and nudges me. “Cheeky.” She starts to talk, but again, I can’t concentrate enough to listen to her. My heart is pounding like it’s trying to escape my chest, and my hands are cold. I wonder idly if I’m having a heart attack.

“Raff?” Stan’s voice breaks into my thoughts.

I look up, using my hand as shade from the sun. “Here,” I say hoarsely.

He walks over the gravel cautiously, using his stick for guidance. “You’ve been very quiet,” he says when he stops before me. “Are you alright?”

A sunbeam halos his head, making him look like a naughty saint. “I’m—” I clear my throat. “I’m fine.”

The girl stops talking, and I introduce her to Stan. There’s a tricky moment when I can’t remember her name, but I think I recover nicely and let her introduce herself.

“Nice to meet you,” Stan says politely. He turns back to me, and I flinch as he reaches out to smooth my hair. I feel like I’ve been doused in petrol and his fingertips are sparks. I ease back, dislodging his hand. “Space,” I squeak. “Personal space.”

He frowns. “Since when? And where’s your hat, Raff?”

I scratch my ear. “Back at the hotel.”

He groans. “You’ll get sunstroke. You’ve got red hair.”

“Strawberry blond,” I say primly.

A smile hovers between us, and it feels normal. But then I’m immediately searching his face for any signs of the feelings Chris mentioned. I’m not sure what I see on Stan’s lovely face. If it’s love and not simply affection, I don’t know whether to be jubilant and turn cartwheels, or to shudder with acute fear, so I settle for a nauseous mix of the two.

“Are you going out with Rafferty, then?” the girl asks.

I inhale some water and start to cough.

Stan’s frown deepens. “No, whatever gave you that idea?”

She rolls her eyes. “I can’t even begin to imagine. Silly me.” She offers me a wry smile and I return it. “See you in a bit,” she says. She returns to her friend, who is flirting furiously with the guide.

“I’m not forgetting the possible sunburn,” Stan says firmly. “Here, take my hat.”

I make a muttered protest as he whips off the straw fedora he’s wearing and offers it to me.

“Where’s this from, anyway?” I ask. “You don’t own anything like this—just twenty thousand baseball caps.”

“Oh, it belongs to Chris.”

“Really? Well, I don’t want anything of his on my head, thank you very much.” I shove it back into his hand.

He frowns. “What does that mean?”

I stand up. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“What is the matter with you?” Stan says, his tone becoming annoyed.

“Are we ready to move on?” Kostas, the guide, calls.

Everyone gathers their stuff, and I join the back of the queue. Stan comes to my side. Even though I’m cross with him, I stand still so he can take my arm. The scent of his cologne makes my head spin, as usual.

Kostas comes over. “Are you enjoying the walk so far, Rafferty?” he asks in a charming and polite voice.

“It’s wonderful,” I say hoarsely. “So brilliant. More brilliant than anything.”

He eyes me curiously, and Stan smiles at him. “Don’t worry. Raff’s behaviour is completely normal for him.”

Usually, we’d both laugh at this sort of comment. But today, rage kindles in my belly.

How dare he smile at Kostas so nicely when he’s in love with me? When he’s mine. I scan his handsome face and his beautiful body. He got changed before the walk and looks cool in a pale blue shirt, a pair of green jersey shorts, and old blue Gazelle trainers. It’s a simple outfit, but to me, he glows like he’s under a spotlight. We could be in a room full of people, and I would only see him.

And if what Chris said is true, then Stan and I could’ve been sharing love all this time. Instead, my fear and obliviousness made me throw away all those years, all that love.

“Raff, are you alright?” Stan asks, tugging at my arm to get me moving. His sunglasses cover his eyes, and the wind blows his curls about.

I take a protective step back, and he frowns, his hand dropping away.

Emotions whirl inside my chest like a tornado, all my protection and preconceived notions blowing away like Dorothy’s house, leaving me with one solid, immutable fact in my head.

I love and need Stan, and I don’t want him to marry Bennett.

I want him to be mine because, somehow, I’m his, and that will never change.

It’s the single most terrifying thing I’ve ever felt because Stan just gave his forever to another man.

“Shit,” I whisper. “Shit,” I repeat for good measure.

“Raff, have you had too much sun? You’re not making sense, and your forehead was hot when I touched it.” Stan’s brows arch and his face is full of concern.

I step back again. Apparently, my body thinks I need distance from these fucking feelings he’s inflicted on me. Maybe if I walk away, the feeling will go.

“I’m fine,” I whisper.

“Oh, Mister Kendrick, wait,” Kostas calls.

“Perfectly fine,” I say again loudly. “Completely and utterly tickety-boo.”

“Mister Kendrick, you’re too close to⁠—”

“Raff,” Stan says. “You’re moving away from me. Are you okay?”

“I’m so fine I can’t even tell you,” I say brightly.

Then I take another step back and fall off the fucking mountain.

Chapter

Twelve

Stan

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask for the fiftieth time, putting my hand on Raff’s forehead.

He pushes at my hand. “It isn’t my forehead that’s broken. It’s my sense of dignity.”

I try not to laugh, but a snort escapes me. “Sorry, sorry,” I say as he huffs indignantly. “I’m not laughing, honestly.”

“Then what was that sound, Stanley?”

“It was a commiserating noise so you don’t feel so alone in your embarrassment.”

“Oh really? And were you with me when I fell off a mountain?”

“No, but I think it was actually more of a hill.”

“And were you with me when my archenemy Chris had to carry me?” he says loudly.

“No. I did walk behind, though. And if it’s any consolation to you, he said he wished he could have thrown you off the side.”

“And were you with me when he shook his manly hair, straightened his manly shoulders, and took most of my weight in his arms?”

I bite my lip. “Not that I remember,” I say meekly.

“I didn’t think so. He never even broke a fucking sweat, Stan.”

I feel around for the damp towel, and he huffs and shoves it into my hand.

“Thank you,” I say politely, pressing it to his forehead again.

“I can never show my face in this country again.”

“That’s a bit dramatic, babe. It was you, me, and a few old-aged pensioners.”

“Who never fell off the mountain.”

“It was a hill, according to Kostas.”

“How would he know?”

“He’s the guide.”

“Hmm.”

“Oh, and the two girls were there as well.”

“Do you mean the two girls who laughed at me?”

“I don’t think they laughed for long, Raff.”

“Really? It was like a pack of hyenas serenading me to my eternal rest.”

I snort again. “They stopped laughing pretty quickly, anyway. By the time we came down the hill⁠—”

“Mountain.”

“Okay, by the time we climbed down from Mount Etna, one of them was telling me a particularly stellar story about when she had a threesome in a broom cupboard.”

“I’ll have to avoid Greece from now on.”

“I didn’t even see you fall,” I add quickly. “So, if I didn’t see it, it never happened.”

“I believe that only works in preschool, but thank you for giving it the great British try.”

I give in and start to laugh, the sound loud in the hotel room. “I wish I had seen it. I wish it so much.”

“You’re such a twat.”

The crossness in his voice makes me laugh harder, and soon, I’m lying on the bed holding my side with tears running down my cheeks.

He pokes a finger into my ribs, making me squirm, and I get myself under control. “How are you really? Kostas said you fell quite far.”

“He’s too kind. It was more of a backward roll followed by a commando crawl back up to the fence.”

I reach out, feeling for his hand, and pat it. “Well, you do like going commando.”

“You would see the silver lining in a tornado.”

“At least you’ve had a shower now. That’ll have cleaned the cuts. Are there many, babe?”

“They’ll be okay. I had worse in the ball pit when I was five.”

I snort. “Was that the time Rollo took you and left you there all day?”

“Do you mean when he actually forgot his own child?”

“That was it.”

“It was like Lord of the Fucking Flies in that ball pit, Stanley. Civilisation's natural rules were off the table, anarchy in their place. At one point, I remember being wedgied over the edge of the big slide. It’s left me with a lifetime distrust of big drops.”

“I can’t believe he forgot you.”

“His dick was screaming louder than his child, so he sidled after our headmaster’s wife, who he apparently fucked in the ballpark car park.”

“He didn’t.” I’m scandalised and sit up. “Really? Mrs Chester, the maths teacher with the wolfhound?”

“That’s her. Do you remember that fucking thing? It was a bit too much wolf for my comfort, and when you were called to her classroom, it used to stare at you like you were dinner.”

“It used to walk to the betting shop on the high street on its own.”

“Thereby explaining Mister Chester’s sudden exit from his job a few months later under a cloud of suspicion about the misuse of the tuck shop funds.”

I shake my head. “Rollo shagged her in the car park. I can’t believe it.”

“Do you think that’s why I failed maths in Year Three?”

I chuckle. “If you want to think that then who am I to quibble?”

His voice is once more full of that sweet humour that I love so much. I settle against him on the bed, feeling his weight against mine. I can smell his shampoo and his body wash. It’s something expensive, as Raff is addicted to high-end body and face products. It’s impossible to move quickly through the beauty department of Harvey Nicks when you’re with him.

Quietness settles in the room, disturbed only by the constant rush of the waves on the shore.

“What time is it?” I ask idly.

“It’s about six o’clock. Where’s your watch?”

I shrug. “I left it here when I got changed earlier.”

“Ah, when you set off to talk with the delectable Chris.”

His voice sounds tight once more, and I turn my head on the pillow, looking for his blur. However, the room is getting dark, so I can hardly see anything now.

“You never got on.”

He sniffs loudly. “I think it was more that he hated my guts when he first met me, and it was downhill from then on.”

“I liked him when we went out.”

“Of course you did.” His voice is strained.

“You, okay?” I ask, suddenly worried. I sit up as a thought occurs to me. “Did you bang your head?” I ask fiercely.

“No.”

“Rafferty Albert Kendrick.”

“Oh my god, what?”

“Did you hit your head when you fell?”

“Maybe when I came down the slope, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s fine.”

“It is not fine. We need to get you to a doctor.”

“I don’t need one of those.” He’s characteristically outraged. The medical profession would have an easier run of it if there were only Raff in the world. He hates feeling like he’s messing people about.

“Well, if you won’t go, you know the drill.”

He groans. “No.”

“Yes. We need to wake you up every hour.”

“Oh, joy of joys. Could this holiday get any better?”

“Let me feel your head.”

“I’ve had better offers.”

“Stop being so flippant,” I growl, fending off his hands, which are trying to stop me.

“Now you sound like Bennett.”

“That’s not the nicest thing you’ve ever said.”

I win in the end, and he gives up with a dramatic sigh. I run my fingers through his hair. The waves are soft, his scalp a little damp, and the strands slip through my fingers like honey. Before I know it, I’ve levered over him, straddling him so I can examine him more thoroughly.

“Stan?” he says in a hoarse voice.

“Hush,” I say, feeling the delicate contours of his skull and inhaling the scent of his cologne, which is heady in the warm evening air. He moves into my touch, pushing closer, and I swallow hard. “Raff,” I say softly. “Tell me if it hurts anywhere.”

He huffs and moves away, leaving me suddenly cold in the warm room. “Nowhere you can help with, that’s for sure,” he mutters.

Panic sears me. “What do you mean by that? Where are you hurt?”

“I mean, I’m fine, Stan. Get off me.”

I resist his urging and tighten my thighs around his legs like a monkey sticking to a motorbike. “No. Let me help. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me where it hurts.”

He stops dead. “You really want to know?” he snaps.

I frown in his direction. “Yes.”

“Okay then.”

Strong hands seize my hips, lining me up, and I flail before he settles me back over his lap and his… I groan. His very hard cock. “Oh god,” I whisper.

“Well, you did ask. Now get the fuck off me so I can go calm down.” I swallow hard as the silence grows. “Stan?” His voice is a question as I tighten my grip. “You have to let me go,” he says hoarsely.

“What happens if I can’t?” I whisper.

There’s a moment of startled surprise that seems to last for an eternity, and then he says in a goaded voice, “This.”

Raff

We spent months doing a hell of a lot more than just locking lips, but right now simply kissing him feels dizzyingly right.

His lips are soft and full, and I clutch the back of his neck, keeping him close as if he might run away.

My body is battered and bruised, and I’m going to feel it tomorrow, but all that is lost in the joy of having him in my arms again. I feel like everything’s right again in my world, as if he contains some potent form of magic that allows me to be my true self. Happiness and arousal are a dizzying mix, making my head spin.

I make a garbled sound of protest as Stan pulls away.

He pats my face. “I’m not going anywhere, Raff.”

His body shifts, his obvious goal my dick straining against my shorts, but I grab his shoulder, staying him. “No, Stan. Let me⁠—"

“You’ve been hurt. I want to look after you.”

“It works both ways. Please,” I beg. I want nothing more than to bring him the most pleasure he’s ever had. We spent all that time having sex, and I thought we were close, but I never knew what it felt like to love him in bed openly and joyfully because my head was too clouded by worry and what-ifs.

“Yes,” he whispers, and jubilation fills me.

“Lie on your back, baby.”

His head cocks, confusion crossing his face at the endearment, but he obediently lowers himself down to the mattress a lot more gracefully than I’d probably manage.

“You are very overdressed,” I point out. There’s a familiar tenderness in my tone, and he must hear it, because he suddenly relaxes.

“Then get busy,” he says, flapping his arms like I’m his servant.

“Very Downton Abbey,” I say approvingly, and he snorts.

The laughter dies as I unbutton his shirt, spread the soft blue cotton, and reveal his broad chest dusted in soft dark hair. I drop a chain of kisses over the expanse, pausing to lick and suck at his nipples. He goes rigid and then arches toward me. I strip off his shirt and throw it over the side of the bed before turning my attention to his shorts. After removing them, along with his briefs, my mouth waters as his cock hits his stomach with a meaty thwack.

He’s nude, stretched across the bed, and I sit back on my heels to look at him. I never took my time with him before. I was so intent on rushing towards sex in case he changed his mind. He’s so beautiful—long, lean, with golden skin and messy hair. He’s magic in the quiet room, like a creature created by the moonlight and shadows.

“Now you.” Stan’s words break the spell, and he’s once more my Stan, his face full of life. He sits up and pats across my chest until he finds the buttons on my shirt. He nimbly unbuttons them, tracing a path over my chest with his fingers. My sharp intake of breath acts as a starting pistol, and he moves with shocking speed to rip away my clothes until I’m naked.

When he starts to kiss my shoulder, I push him back. “Let me,” I whisper.

He cocks his head, a funny smile on his face before he nods and lowers back to the mattress.

I lean over him, trailing my fingers over his face before fitting my lips to his. I kiss him slowly, sucking on his tongue and listening to his breathing get faster. His neck and chest are next for some attention. I nuzzle under his ear, licking and making him shiver before I drop kisses across his torso like daisy chains. He jerks and groans when I lick his nipple, and I watch as it pebbles. Then I suck harder, giving it a gentle bite that makes him jump.

“Wanker,” he whispers.

“Your wanker,” I correct him and move on down to his ribs.

He wriggles and curses as I lick and nibble at his rib cage, tasting the sweat salty-sweet on my tongue.

Then I kiss my way down his happy trail, hearing his breath hitch, feeling anticipation thicken. He arches up and groans as I bury my nose in his bush and inhale. The scent is spicy and dark here, and I rub my face against his cock, making him jerk.

“You’re a tease,” he mutters.

“Never. I always come through.”

“Like a… Ah!” He gasps as I suck the head of his dick into my mouth.

I pull off. “Like what?

“I don’t know. I think you just sucked all my brain cells out of my dick.”

He moans as I lick a line down his cock, coming back up to suck the juicy plump head into my mouth again. It’s wet with precome, and the taste explodes over my tongue like a supernova. I close my eyes and pinch the head of my own cock to quell my arousal. I suck him down, feeling the fat head against the back of my throat. Needing some pressure, I straddle his leg and lower myself, still sucking so I can hump the long muscle.

He cups my head, urging me on. No gentleman now. It makes me fiercely glad.

“Take it,” he grunts. “Use me.”

I rub feverishly, the hair on his leg abrading my cock in a way that makes my eyes cross. I swallow around his dick, and he grunts.

Suddenly, he’s pushing me away and sitting, all the muscles in his body moving in a very distracting way. He taps my leg, and I obey his unspoken urging and scrabble into his lap.

“What now?” I whisper, straddling him.

He smiles. One hand around my neck draws me to him so he can kiss me. The other roams down my back before gripping my arse and tucking me tightly into his lap. I feel safe and unbearably turned on, so I kiss him, my hands roaming along his muscled arms, and then kneading his shoulders while I writhe in his lap, rubbing against his cock.

Stan’s fingers trace my crack, and I gasp in a breath of sex-scented air. I pull back, resting one hand on his hairy legs and arching my body. With the other, I grab his hand and place it on my torso.

Stan explores my happy trail and then tickles the inside of my thighs, his expression full of concentration as he learns my body again. I cry out when he fists my cock. It’s wet with early seed, making the glide sublime, and I push into him a few times before pulling off and sitting back.

“What are you doing?” he asks, furrowing his brow. It’s unbearably erotic that his concentration and focus are being aimed at me.

I push him onto his back gently. “Lie back,” I whisper. “I need to get ready.”

“I’ll do it.”

“No, you’ll lie still and let me love on you.”

Everything stills. “Love?” he asks.

I kiss him, forcing those words back into my mouth. When he’s focused on sex again, I pull away and reach for the lube in my toilet bag on the bedside table.

“Tell me,” Stan demands.

“My fingers are covered in lube. It smells of vanilla. I’m warming it because no one likes cold lube. It’s like drinking cold tea.”

His mouth quirks. “This started off erotic, but it’s going rapidly downhill.”

“Rather like me.” I rise to my knees, and my breath catches as I trace my hole with my finger.

“You’ve gone quiet. Tell me,” he orders, the note of command in his voice turning me on even more.

“I’m rubbing my hole.” I stop to groan. “God, it’s so good. Makes all my body tingle.”

“Put your finger in,” he orders, and his smile is harsh as I groan. “That’s a good sound.”

“I’m opening myself up,” I gasp. “Getting ready for your cock.”

“You’ll need more than one finger.”

This cocky confidence is so hot on Stan that my fingers slip and it takes me a moment to get back to the programme.

“Two fingers now. The stretch is so fucking good.”

“You like the burn, don’t you?” he says hoarsely.

“It’s the best bit,” I whisper. “I love it when you put your cock in me, and it hurts.”

“Slow,” he orders, settling into the mattress and fisting his cock. The precome is wet on his fingers. “Make it last,” he orders, and I groan as he takes my cock in his hand, using his own juices to slick the way.

“Shit,” I whisper as I move back onto my fingers, sliding a third one in and then shoving forwards into his fist in an endless cycle of pleasure.

The tingle in my balls tells me this could be over before we get to the main event, so I knock his hand away and climb fully into his lap, his cock knocking against my passage. “I want you now,” I mutter.

He lifts his hand to stop me. “Wait. What about the condom?”

“What do you think about no condoms?” The thought is extraordinarily erotic to me—to have his dick naked inside me and to feel his come wet between my thighs.

“Raff?”

“I want to feel you bare. I’ve never…” I stumble on the words. “I’ve never let anyone have that of me, and I want it with you.” I pause. “But only if you do.”

His shudder rumbles through his body like summer lightning. “God, I do,” he says fervently. “I’m clear of everything,” he says.

I want to smile at his earnest expression, but I need him too much, and the desperation is riding me. “I’ve never done it like that either.”

A fierce jubilation roars through me. In this thing, he’s all mine.

“Stan.” I hesitate. The words “I love you” are on my tongue, but I won’t say them for the first time now—not while we’re fucking.

Stan reaches for me. I put my hands in his and let him pull me down for a kiss. It quickly goes wild as we suck and lick until our lips are sore and the air is full of moans and groans.

Then I sit up and, holding his cock steady, I lower myself down. The head pops in, and we both pause. It’s shockingly intimate to feel him bare, and I wonder if I’ll even get him all the way in before I come.

“God, Raff.” Stan’s voice is almost reverent. “You’ve no idea.”

“Oh, I have,” I vow. “It’s amazing.”

I wriggle and push down, and he slides in slowly until his balls bang against me. Then I stop, sitting on him stuffed full, relishing the burn and stretch. He lets me centre myself with his big body strung tight under me and his hands kneading at my thighs.

“Fuck why is it always so good with you?” he mutters.

“It’s magic,” I gasp and start to move on him.

When I’m underneath a man, I love a cock thrusting into me with the slippery advance and retreat, but when I’m on top, I’m all about grinding. I want to keep his dick inside me and just rock on it, never letting him slip free. And from the way he grunts and jerks as if he’s been electrocuted, I’m guessing he enjoys it too.

I keep up the rhythmic movements, and he groans, raising his hands to cup my arse, guiding my movements, and I fall blissfully into his control—no thinking or second-guessing myself over his pleasure. I don’t need to. It’s as if we’re linked mentally, and I can feel his pleasure echoing mine in the way our voices join in moans and curses.

The pace becomes more fierce, his cock hitting my prostate full-on, making me see stars. The nub feels swollen, and pinwheels of pleasure arch across my skin, and I shiver and cry out. He fists my dick in one hand, the other tight on my hip, steering the motion while he pummels me with commands in a tight, hard voice.

“Yes, ride me. God, you’re so fucking sexy, Raff. Your hole is so tight and hot. I’m going to fill it up with my come until it runs out of you.”

“Oh fuck,” I sob. Lightning travels up my spine and I’m done. “Stan⁠—"

“Yes, come.”

I sit back, making his dick go high, and I give a high-pitched wail as he jacks my cock and pounds into me. My balls tighten, and I writhe, clutching his leg hard as my come spurts, catching on the ridges of his muscles and sliding down, glistening in the moonlight.

He grunts, his face screwing up, and I carry on riding him, slapping down on him, my fingers curling into his chest like claws. “Give it to me,” I groan.

“Oh shit,” he shouts, all his muscles tightening.

I moan as hot liquid spurts into me, his thick cock twitching as it empties. I carry on slowly, gently milking the aftershocks until he whispers, “Come here.”

We both groan as his dick leaves me, and I snuggle one leg over him as if he’s going to escape at any moment. He strokes my hair, the movements sleepy and tender and such a contrast to the previous fierceness.

“I can’t believe I came in you,” he mutters. “I’ve never done that before.”

I clench my cheeks, feeling the wetness there, and incredibly, my cock stirs. “It’s so sexy,” I whisper.

He lowers his finger to trace between my thighs and makes a sound of approval. Then he pulls me close, wrapping his arms around me. “Don’t clean up. Let’s just lie together,” he says.

I keep snuggling gladly. After a few seconds, I realise his muscles are tense, and I raise my head, trying to see his face in the dark. “Stan?” I say hoarsely. “What’s the matter?”

Is he regretting this? He hesitates, and his next words come out in such a rush that they’re incomprehensible.

“What did you say?” I ask.

He huffs a cross sigh that makes me smile. “I love you.”

“What?” My smile disappears. I struggle up on my elbows and snap on the lamp, hissing at the brightness. Then I cup his face, feeling the sharp bones under my fingers. “What did you say?” I repeat. My heart feels as if it’s coming out of my chest.

There’s a flush on his cheeks, and his mouth is full and pink, swollen from my kisses. “I said I love you. I can’t help it, Raff. It’s always been you.”

Chris was right.

Happiness bursts inside me, brighter than New Year fireworks. And then incomprehension. “But why?” I whisper.

He cocks his head. “Why do I love you?”

I swallow hard. “I’m chaotic and silly on the best of days. I’m flippant. I run away from any form of commitment.” I want to punch myself in the throat because he just said he loves me, and I’m trying to persuade him not to. “You could do so much better than me.”

“No, I couldn’t.” He takes my shoulders in his big hands and shakes me gently. “You are kind and funny and empathetic. Just being near you makes me feel…”

“What?”

“Loved.” He takes a deep breath. “I feel loved when I’m with you.”

“You’re amazing. Do you want to know why?” He nods, and I lean in, wrapping my arms around him and bringing my lips to his ear. I’m fizzing all over as if I’ve swum in champagne. “My Stan is incredibly clever and the most determined man I know. He’s overcome barriers that others would have fallen at. He’s funny, sarcastic, kind, and outspoken. And I feel safe with him.”

“You do?” he says softly. The lamp's low glow illuminates his face.

“I absolutely do. There’s no safer place for me than with you.”

And then he’s kissing me, and the world spins away in a carousel of stars and fireworks.

Eons later, I come to. We’re lying tangled together in the still of the room. Outside voices drift from the restaurant, along with the faint sound of music. Here in our room, all I can hear is the rushed sound of our breathing and the quiet thunder of my heartbeat.

The words are out before I even think about them. “Do you really want to marry Bennett?”

The question makes his muscles tense again. My love haze vanishes as I wait for his answer.

“No,” he says immediately, and the surety in his tone is a relief. “What the fuck? Of course not.”

My smile feels like it might break my face. “That’s all I need to know.”

He comes up on his elbow. “But it’s more complicated than that, Raff. You don’t know everything that’s gone on with Bennett.”

“I don’t need to,” I say quickly. “You don’t want to marry him. That’s the hard bit. The rest is simple.” I don’t know where this calmness comes from, but it’s settled over me like a warm blanket. He’s mine now, and all my doubts over what sort of partner I’d make for him have vanished—blown away by the terror of nearly losing him to another man.

“I’m not sure anything about this is simple,” he mutters.

“Ssh. Come here, Stan.”

I nudge him, and obeying my urging, he nestles against me, and I hug him close, feeling the length of his body against mine. The sheets smell of us. It’s a lovely scent, and it surrounds me like one of Stan’s hugs, and we fall into a silence that’s content.

“Raff?”

“What?” I mumble sleepily.

“When we’re more awake I need to tell you something.”

I haven’t slept properly in weeks, and now it’s catching up with me. “That sounds good, babe. I’m absolutely knackered.”

I drift off to sleep with the sound of the sea and Stan’s soft breathing next to me.

Chapter

Thirteen

Stan

I come awake to a hot body pressed against me and lips trailing down my neck. Happiness pulses through me like a heartbeat. Rafferty.

I stretch, pushing myself into his body and feeling his stiff cock. “Mmm, who’s this in my bed?” I mumble.

Raff pauses, and then I hear the sound of his deep chuckle. “Just me, Goldilocks,” he chides, his voice still hoarse with sleep.

“It was Daddy Bear,” I correct.

“Is that what you’re into, Stanley?”

“I think you know what I’m into after last night.”

Raff stills, and I regret introducing a solemn note to the morning.

He tugs at me until I’m lying on my back, then nestles into me with his cheek pressed to my chest. “Raff?” I hug him tightly and note how fast he’s breathing.

“We need to talk about last night,” he says. “I hate that we cheated on Bennett.” He takes a deep breath and says fervently, “But I don’t care. I don’t fucking care about Bennett.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk with you about this morning.”

His phone’s ringtone makes us jump. I put my hand out to stay him as the bed shifts.

“Don’t answer. We need to talk,” I start to say, but then my ringtone chimes. “Leo calling,” it announces.

“Why is Leo calling both of us at once?” Raff says. “Has something happened? Oh fuck.” There’s the sound of movement and then a thud.

“Did you just fall off the bed?” I enquire, my lip twitching despite the urgency that seems to be taking over the room.

“Maybe and maybe not.” He groans. “Oh my god. They’re here.”

“What?”

I hear frantic movement and clothes rustling, and when he speaks next, his voice is high. “The wedding party is here.”

“I didn’t think they’d be here until eleven.”

“It is eleven.”

“No. It can’t be.”

“We overslept. Shit. I need to go down to meet them.” He pauses. “Oh my god, I have sex hair, Stan.”

I snort. “Good.”

Footsteps sound, and I jump as his hands cup my face. He pulls me to him, and his kiss is achingly sweet. “I have to go,” he whispers. “They’re waiting downstairs.”

“We need to talk as soon as possible,” I say urgently.

He pulls back and then drops another kiss on my mouth. “Alright, but I’m going to sort this,” he says, his voice fervent and fierce. “I don’t want you to worry. I’m going to fix everything.”

“Oh no. Raff, we should discuss a few things before⁠—”

“Got to go. Don’t worry.”

The door slams, and I fall back into the tumbled sheets. “Oh my god,” I groan. I run my hands through my hair. “This is a disaster. Shit!”

I need to get down there before Raff launches into one of his schemes.

I scramble out of bed, taking a second to get my bearings and find my stick before lurching towards the shower. The knock at the door stops me in my tracks. “Yes?” I clear my throat. “Who is it?”

“Bennett.”

Fuck..

“Stan, are you opening this door?”

“Coming.” I pace out the steps to the bathroom and fumble until I find the robe hanging on the back of the door. After tying the belt, I tap towards the door. Before answering, I run fingers through my hair. I am about to meet my fake fiancé with sex hair and Raff’s come on my chest. It’s enough awkwardness for thirty people. I take a breath and fling the door open.

“Hey,” I say as Bennett pushes past me. “Oh no, do come in.”

I shut the door and lean back against it, listening to him walk around. “I knew it,” he says, his voice icy.

I attempt a light tone. “Knew what? Is it that giraffes are thirty times more likely to be hit by lightning than people?”

“Don’t try to be funny,” he snaps. “I knew you and Raff were fucking.”

“We weren’t.”

“So, how do you explain the state of this bed, Stan?”

I tighten my grip on my cane and move over to the sofa, where I sink onto the cushions. “I said we weren’t. Past tense. I never slept with him when we were together.”

“Oh, and as soon as we weren’t, you did. The sheets were barely cold,” he snaps.

I cock my head at his audacity. “Stop gaslighting me. I think playing the wounded lover is a bit beyond you.” I’m unable to help the iciness of my voice. “You were shagging other men throughout our relationship.”

“So?”

“What do you mean so?”

“They never meant anything.”

“Oh, I do beg your pardon that I didn’t quite grasp the subtle nuances of your shagging. Is it Code Blue if you knew their name but Code Yellow if you were only acquainted with their arsehole?”

There’s a stunned silence. “Don’t be so crude,” he finally mutters.

“Well, don’t be a hypocrite,” I shoot back.

“Raff is your best friend, so it’s different,” he persists.

I sit back on the couch and consider his words and his angry tone. Taking a deep breath, I say, “It seems to me that this is more about you than me.”

“What?”

“You don’t love me. You never did. This is about you liking to win in every aspect of your life. I’m just a piece of steak that you’re currently fighting over.”

“Fuck off.”

“It’s true. You never took the time to know me so you can’t love me. Name my favourite song. Or how about what food I’m allergic to? I’ll give you a clue. It’s pink with a tail, and you’ve ordered it for me for every meal.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“And you’re acting like this is a tragedy and I’m the bad guy, but I’m not. I’m simply the wrong man for you.”

“You’re certainly very opinionated. It’ll be a relief to be free of that.”

I bite my lip to hold in my smile. “I thought you liked the fact that I had opinions.”

“I didn’t realise you had so many.”

I want to laugh but it might make the situation worse. Bennett has a temper and can be volatile if thwarted.

“Well, I’m going downstairs,” he finally says. “I’ll let you wash the twat’s come off you.”

“That’s very considerate of you. I’ll be down soon.”

“Don’t forget our deal, Stan. You’re not making a fool of me in public or private. You’ll do as I asked.” He sounds smug and angry.

“Oh, will I?”

“Yes. You don’t want to make a fuss in front of people. Or to ruin your friends’ big day,” he says silkily, the threat clear in his tone. “I’m leaving straight after the ceremony anyway.” He pauses. “In the meantime, do something with your hair. It’s like your opinions. Too much. You look feral.”

On that masterful riposte, he sweeps out of the room. The breeze from the slammed door blows back my “feral” hair, and I snort out a laugh.

Bennett’s right that I won’t ruin Leo and Richard’s wedding with Bennett’s petty drama. But he’s wrong to think I won’t tell Raff the details of that stupid arrangement I agreed to.

Raff is too important to me to have him upset. He hadn’t said it in words last night, but his body told me everything I need to know. He’d held me like there was nothing more precious in the world to him.

I stand up and tap my way to the shower. I need to find him.

That proves easier said than done. Showered and dressed in my suit, I make my way downstairs. The lobby sounds loud, with lots of voices and sounds of movement, so I guess everyone is checking in.

I hover awkwardly and then turn when someone shouts my name. I hear footsteps come closer and then a familiar voice says. “Stan, how are you, mate?”

I cock my head. “Pat?”

“That’s me.”

I grin, all my worries falling away as soon as his hands cup my shoulders and the familiar scents of Kouros, cigarettes, and a faint whiff of dope wash over me.

“How are you?” he murmurs.

I collapse into his arms as he hugs me. “I’m fine,” I whisper.

He hugs me tight for a second and then lets me go. Pat’s always been an oasis of serenity for me, where only the scratch of a needle on a record and a passionate discussion about the song playing mattered. I could lose myself in his little world and come away refreshed. And probably a little high from second-hand weed.

He cups my face. “Looking good, Stan.”

I smile. “You lie. You think my hair is too short.”

“Don’t conform to the Man, mate. Long hair is a two-fingered salute to the government.”

I scrunch my face up. “I’m not actually sure whether the government is bothered by hairstyles.”

“Yeah. Maybe I meant society.”

“That would be it.” I reach out to touch Pat’s hair. “Talking of that, where are your own long tresses?”

He snorts. “Makes me sound like Rapunzel.”

I stroke the strands over his ears. “This is really short, Pat.”

“Yeah, make that a sad Rapunzel. If I were her, I’d have had to stay in that tower for at least another three years until I’d obtained suitable hair growth.”

“Did you have a wild moment and decide to cut it off?” I bite my lip to hide a smile. “Or did you finally conform to society’s norms?”

“Hush your mouth,” he says immediately. “Nah, I had a dope-related accident.”

“It isn’t the first one. We still remember you standing in the pond in the garden proclaiming your love for the koi carp.”

“Did I?”

“Yep. I’m afraid to tell you the fish didn’t share your sentiment.”

He gives his rich laugh. It’s like liquid sunshine on the air.

“So, what happened?” I ask.

“Oh, Flora had just plaited my hair with wildflowers. We were totally naked in a meadow communing with nature.”

“Oh god,” I breathe. “Did the police catch you again?”

“No, but I got a lit joint caught in the knots and it singed the ends. Flora tried to cut it, but she’d had a bit too much of the green and ended up giving me a Bon Jovi.”

I start to laugh. “Well, it didn’t do him any harm.”

He hugs me again. “It’s so good to see you. I miss you. When are you and Raff coming to stay?”

Nerves fill my belly. “Oh, I don’t know.”

He pulls back. “What’s this?”

“What’s what?”

“Your voice is funny.” There’s a pause. “And where is Raff? He’s usually only a foot away from you at all times.”

“Erm, he’s probably doing his job. He’s organising the wedding you know. Although he’s off to a late start because we had to share a room because of Leo, and—” I stop talking, already knowing I’m in too deep.

He gives a low whistle. “Did you share a bed?”

“Pat.”

“Stan, I taught you not to be embarrassed. Sex is a beautiful expression of feelings. It’s a tension releaser and it fills up your spirits. When your penis comes, you’re shooting out bliss into the world.”

I clear my throat. “I’m not exactly embarrassed. It’s just that we’re standing in the foyer talking about bliss spunk.”

“I never thought I’d see the day.”

I snort. “Well, I certainly haven’t.”

He starts to laugh and nudges me. “Good one, mate. No, I never thought I’d see the day when you and Raff were finally one.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Of course you do.” His voice sounds suddenly serious. It doesn’t happen very often, but it usually includes some pearl of wisdom. I’d learnt very quickly to listen to Pat. “It’s like swans, mate.”

Yeah, sometimes it’s a bit of a miss. “What is like swans?”

“You and Raff?”

“Wet and snooty?”

“Nah. Swans are beautiful, and they make life look stunning. They glide along making everything look smooth and easy, when in reality, they’re paddling frantically underneath out of sight.”

“I don’t make anything look smooth.”

“Yes, you do.” His voice is firm. “You’re the most incredible human being, Stan, and you always have been. Even as a little boy you burned brighter than anyone else, and Raff is the only one who’s ever matched that energy. It stands to reason.”

There’s a long pause. “What stands to reason?” I ask cautiously.

“Why you’d fall in love with each other,” he says simply, and I swallow. “Swans mate for life, Stan. There’s no one else for them once they meet their other half.” He hums a little tune. “Yeah, that’s beautiful. Okay, I’m off to the bar. I left Aurora and Bear with your mum and dad.”

I clear my throat. “Who are Aurora and Bear?”

“My current lovers.”

“That’s nice.” I reach out, and he puts his hand in mine. “I love you, Uncle Pat.”

“Love you too, mate.”

He squeezes my hand, and I cock my head as his footsteps get lost in the noise. The foyer is ever louder now, full of laughter and excited talking, and I try to quell my feeling of nervousness.

“Stan,” a voice calls.

“Yes?” I say warily, turning in the direction it came from.

“There you are.” The voice gets closer. “It’s me Leo.”

“Hey,” I say in relief. “Have you seen Raff?”

“Five-foot-eleven redhead?”

“Strawberry blond,” I correct automatically.

“Sure, and I’m Eric Bana.”

“You wish.”

“I do indeed. To be honest, Rich might wish it more, but he’s stuck with little old me. You’re looking very spiffy, Stanley.”

I glare in his direction. “It was a trick, considering how little space I had to get dressed. Sharing a room was unexpected.”

“Oh.”

“Yes—oh. What were you thinking, Leo?”

He grabs my arm and steers me away. We end up outside. The sun is already warm, and the sound of the surf is loud. “Well?” I snap.

He sighs in an aggrieved manner that makes my mouth twitch. “We thought it would help.”

“Help what? My travel budget?”

“You and Rafferty. We thought it might accelerate things.”

“I’m not a bloody car. And why are you making me sound like a parrot constantly repeating your words?”

“Say, ‘Pretty Polly’.”

“Fuck off.”

He snorts and grabs my hand. I can feel the warmth of the ring on his finger and the scratch of the diamonds. “We wanted to speed things up between you and Raff,” he huffs. “The two of you were moving like decrepit tortoises.”

I pause, my heart hammering. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure, you do, Pinocchio.” He pinches my nose. “You’re in love with each other. You’ve been in love with him for years, Stan.”

I don’t even bother to deny it again. Leo knows me too well. “So? That doesn’t mean Raff needs to be dragged into your ridiculous plot.”

“It wasn’t just mine.”

“This has your sticky fingers all over it. You’ve been reading the bonkbuster books, haven’t you?”

“I can’t help it if they’re the only things airport bookshops sell. It was either E.L James or Colleen Hoover. Be thankful I’m not making you live in one of the latter’s plots. Your dress sense would be terrible, and you’d be dreadfully depressed.”

“This conversation is getting me there very quickly.”

“It was a good idea.”

“Leo.”

He sighs. “You know very well that Raff is in love with you.”

My heart hammers. “I have zero idea what you’re talking about,” I say breathlessly. I’m not discussing Raff’s feelings unless it’s with him. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m really not, but you lean into that.”

“I’ve just had a very unpleasant conversation with Bennett.”

He snorts. “I bet. Did you record it?”

“You’re very hard-hearted.”

“I know you and Raff love each other, and neither of you could see it. I also knew you weren’t engaged and that you’d finished the thing with Bennett.”

“What? How?”

“Richard overheard it.” His tone becomes anxious. “Please don’t think he was eavesdropping. He didn’t like Bennett’s tone and wanted to make sure you were okay. He didn’t stay for the entire conversation. Just long enough to know you were safe.”

“Oh my god.”

“I just think Bennett’s a wanker to you.”

“Well, he’s now very upset about Raff and me.”

His voice sharpens. “What about Raff and you?”

I’m struck dumb. I forgot he didn’t know. Isn’t the fact we slept together written over my face?

“Oh my god.” His voice is closer. “You slept together?” he whispers.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I bet it’s the first time he’s never mentioned just being friends.” My silence is the answer, and he hugs me. “This is amazing.”

“Bennett definitely doesn’t think so.”

“Pooh. He’s been shagging half of Central London. People in glass condoms shouldn’t throw sexual health lectures.”

“That makes absolutely zero sense.”

“I’m so happy you slept with him.”

“Leo, it’s your wedding day. Shouldn’t you be happy about that?”

“We’re already married. This is epic.”

“Nothing is settled.”

“It will be. I know Rafferty. He takes fucking ages to know his own mind, but once he does, there’s no stopping it.”

“Bennett wants me to pretend we’re still in a relationship,” I say, relieved to speak the truth even if it is to the wrong person.

“Weren’t you always doing that, Stanley?”

“Oh, shut up.”

He huffs. “That fucker. Ignore him anyway. He has no rights.”

“I know that,” I say crossly. “I need to find Raff to tell him.”

“Good luck. He’s in full wedding-planner frenzy. Last time I saw him, he was down on the beach asking for it to be swept level. Raff was very worried we were cutting it fine with our arrival and the timing of the ceremony but neither Richard nor I could get any more time off. It seems to have sent Raff over the edge.”

“Shit.”

I take a step away, and he grabs my hand. “He’s not there now. It’s empty.” He pauses. “Apart from one man who appears to be sweeping the sand and cursing in Greek. Come and have a drink. Your family are in the bar with Hump.”

I follow his urging and cock my head, suddenly paying attention. He sounds nervous.

“How was the wedding?” I ask, suddenly ashamed of myself. This is my close friend’s special day, not mine.

“Oh, lovely. Richard’s parents didn’t know what to do with my family, especially when my cousin tried to share a spliff with Rich’s grandad.”

I snort despite my worry.

“But Rich’s grandma is hilarious. Her knickers fell down on the steps of the registry office, but she just shrugged, scooped them up, and put them in her pocket.”

“His grandma went commando at your wedding?” I say, awed.

He laughs. “It seemed like a good omen. After all, I was commando when I met him.”

His voice is lighter now, and I know I’m right. Leo’s nervous about the day, and it isn’t the time to burden him with my drama. Raff’s right to be busy, and I’m pretty sure he’s shelved his plans to sort out my relationship with Bennett.

I relax. We can wait until later. It’s only a few hours. But he’d better be ready. I’m going to tell him the truth. Nerves flutter in my belly like tiny drunk birds.

Chapter

Fourteen

Rafferty

The florist collects her empty boxes. “Is that alright, Rafferty?”

I look at the lily and sunflower arrangements that line the aisle. The pretty scent combines with the tang of the ocean. “Totally gorgeous. You’re a genius.”

She smiles her thanks and walks back to the hotel. I turn back and survey the beach. It’s a beautiful sight. Rows of chairs are positioned under the shade of a huge cream canvas awning that leads to an arch festooned with flowers. Beyond all this, the sea glitters blue-green in the sunlight. It’s blisteringly hot, but there's a refreshing breeze this close to the water.

I step closer to one chair and fasten the loose bow properly. It joins the others flapping in the breeze, so it looks like the chairs are doing a Mexican wave.

“Ah, there you are.”

My stomach tightens and I turn to face Bennett. He’s dressed impeccably in a grey suit, his dark sunglasses turned towards me.

I adjust my own Ray-Bans, glad of their tortoiseshell cover. “Here I am,” I say warily.

I’ve spent the night fucking this man’s fiancé. I search for my shame. I spent my whole childhood watching Rollo and Saoirse being unfaithful in their many marriages. I’d always sworn I’d be different and kept my word until now. Until Stan.

Later, after Leo and Richard’s wedding, I’ll tell Bennett that Stan is mine. But I will not ruin this occasion by arguing with the twat in the grey suit.

I force myself to smile. “Can I help you?”

He paces towards me. “I'm just getting a feel for the aisle. After all, I’ll be walking down my own in a month.”

I grit my teeth. Over my dead body. “How lovely,” I manage to say, but there’s an edge to my voice, and I know he’s recognised it when he cocks his head.

“Everything okay, Rafferty?” he asks silkily.

“Just peachy.”

“Have you done anything towards my and Stan’s wedding yet?”

Other than shagging the groom last night? I think I’ve said it out loud for a wild second, but he remains serene, so I manufacture a fake grin. “Not yet. I’ve been arranging Leo and Richard’s wedding, obviously.”

He grimaces at the bright yellow ribbons. “My choices will be much less gaudy. I can’t imagine what Richard is thinking.”

I grit my teeth. Richard insisted on the ribbons, saying the bright colour reminded him of Leo. “Well, I think it’s pretty.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

I put my diary down on one of the chairs. “I’m afraid I’m at work at the moment. Maybe we could discuss this at another time?”

Which will be never.

He hums, tracing his finger over a sunflower. It leaves a trail of pollen on his fingertip, and he rubs it off. “I just want the absolute best for Stanley.”

Before I can respond, a voice sounds from behind us. “What a lovely sentiment. Just what a father likes to hear.”

I breathe out a sigh of relief when I see Stan’s dad standing there. His suit is a little creased, his hair is wild, and there’s a piece of paper with musical notes scribbled on it peeping out of his pocket. The sight of him immediately grounds me. “You look nice,” I say.

He grunts. “You’re more full of horseshit than a tractor’s trailer.”

“Okay, you look nice for you.”

He laughs. “Thank you, Rafferty.” He turns to Bennett, and his voice cools a little. “I don’t want to keep you, Bennett. I just need a word with Rafferty.”

Bennett directs a chilly smile at him. “I look forward to discussing marriage with you.”

“Goodness, that’s a bit forward. I’m already tied down in matrimony, and Rowena won’t even share her KitKats, let alone her husband.”

I bite my lip to hide a smile, but Bennett just shrugs and walks away.

We watch him go, and then Edward tuts. “That man has a very spiteful side to him.”

“Really?” I raise my eyebrows. “What makes you say that? I thought you liked him?”

“I warned Stan about him a while back.”

“Did you come to rescue me?” I say lightly.

He gives me the wide, warm smile that creases his eyes. I love it because it reminds me of Stan. Smiling is always a rare occasion with my parents due to all their Botox, and I like that Edward’s eyes show a life full of laughter and contentment.

“And if I did?” he asks.

I shake my head. “You and Rowena have been doing it for most of my life.”

He turns and extends his arm for me. I tuck mine with his, and we wander up the aisle.

“We look like two grooms,” I observe.

“You would probably have made a very good husband. I wouldn’t have had to clean my study, and our parties would always have been well-organised.”

“That’s not much competition. I remember the panic when Rowena forgot Vinnie’s christening. She must have been the only mother in church that day wearing slippers and a curler hanging from her hair.”

He chuckles and then pauses, making me look at him. “It’s been one of the great honours of my life to have been given the chance to look after you, Raff. You were an unexpected and very welcome addition to our lives. I’m very proud of you, my boy.”

I swallow hard, my eyes stinging. “Thank you.”

“Thank me by grabbing your own happiness.”

“What?”

He smiles at me. “You can’t expect happiness just to come along and stick to you.”

“Can’t you?”

He taps my nose. “Happiness is like a huge bunch of balloons filled with helium. They’re pretty and full of life and energy, but if you don’t hold on tight, they will blow away, and you won’t get them back.” He brushes his hair back. “Well, I must be off. I think I was supposed to be getting Rowena a buttonhole. Either that or a croissant.”

He nods at me and walks away, leaving me staring after him. I shake my head and grab my diary. The next stop is the kitchen to check on the food.

The wedding is beautiful, if I do say so myself. The guests are all dressed in rainbow colours, as requested. The women’s bright dresses shine brightly in the sun, and their fans flutter in the heat like paper butterflies, as one of my best friends commits his life to the serious but kind man he brought into our lives.

Leo and Rich look very handsome, but I can’t stop staring at Stan. He’s standing at Leo’s side in a dark grey morning suit and with Hump at his side. The breeze blows his curls, and dark sunglasses cover his eyes. He stands straight and tall, his attention focused where it should be.

Not me. My attention should be on making sure the drinks are ready, overseeing the reception afterwards, and checking whether the cake is still standing, but all I can think is how right it felt last night to feel him inside me, his body over mine pressing me into the mattress. It felt like my world had stopped its frantic spinning and finally settled into the right axis. Like I was a boat drifting and had finally found my anchor. And when we’d lain together afterwards, I’d felt safer than I ever have, because it was him.

There’s a cheer, and I jump up from my seat and make my way to where the waiting staff are standing with trays of Kir Royale. I grab a glass, smile my thanks, and take a sip of the sweet, tart drink.

I find Giannis, the manager. “Photos first, and then we’ll be ready for lunch,” I say. “You’ve outdone yourself, Giannis. The setting was absolutely perfect.”

His dark eyes smile at me, and he brushes the sleeve of his jacket, getting rid of a piece of confetti. “They are a lovely couple. I’ll circulate with the guests and make sure they all have a drink.”

I nod. “I’ll give you the nod to get them seated, and then we’ll bring Rich and Leo in.”

He nods and melts away, and I throw myself into organising. The sun is hot on my head, and the next hour is a blur of images—confetti filling the air in splashes of yellow and pink; Leo and Richard kissing; the click of cameras; the excited chatter and laughter of guests over the crash of the surf. But above everything, I’m focused on Stan as if there’s an invisible silken rope tying my thoughts to him. I smile when I hear his deep voice and want to hide it from everyone. Acknowledging my feelings is so delicate and new, like a flower popping its head over the soil and seeing the sun.

Finally, we’re done, and I watch as Stan walks back over the beach arm in arm with Rowena. Hump paces at his side wearing a harness decorated with flowers. My best friend looks tall and so handsome, the sun shining on his black curls. As I watch, he and his mum stop to talk to someone, and the way they cock their heads is so familiar and dear.

Someone clears their throat, and I turn back to realise that Leo and Rich are watching me. Both have smiles tugging at their mouths.

“Sorry,” I say quickly.

Leo winks. “Oh no. Do carry on staring at Stan’s arse. It’s not as if we haven’t got anything important to do today, Rafferty.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. That would be more convincing if you didn’t look like you were trying not to laugh.”

They burst into laughter, and I huff. “Pack it in.” I pause. “I wanted to say congratulations,” I say seriously, and they stop laughing. “I’ve seen many couples marry, but I’ve never been so sure of a pair as you two.”

Rich smiles at me. “Thank you.”

I shrug. “There’s just something about the two of you. I know you’ll be together forever.”

Leo’s eyes are bright, but then one eyebrow rises. “What do you say to the ones you know won’t make it?”

“Well, I always hope they will,” I say earnestly, and he nods. “I pretty much say the same thing, actually.” Rich starts to laugh, and I push him. “I mean it this time, though.”

“Thank you so much,” he says, wiping tears out of his eyes. “That was a mixture of sweet and serious mixed with undertones of psychopathy.”

“Well, I do try,” I say modestly. “Come on. Let’s go and eat.”

The meal is lovely, but I’m too busy to appreciate it. As the guests eat and talk loudly, I move around, directing staff where needed and nodding at the photographer to take candid shots. I snatch a couple of canapés and down a glass of wine, but there’s no time for more.

I stand against the wall, out of the way of the staff serving the lemon tart dessert. As usual, my eyes shift to where Stan is sitting. He’s on the same table as me and his family and two people who Vinnie told me are Pat’s current plus twos. One is a beautiful woman with long red hair and the other is a slender man with a goatee beard. They’re talking to Stan’s grandma who looks a little confused.

I grimace as I realise that Bennett has taken my empty seat. He’s hovering close to Stan, and even as I watch, he runs his hand down Stan’s arm. I tense, but Stan grimaces and moves so that the hand falls away, and I subside. Stan immediately turns back to the conversation he’s been having with Pat and his parents. Laughter rings out.

“Oi.”

I look around to see Leo beckoning me. I wander over obligingly. “I presume you’re summoning me with that noise.”

“You’re giving off Red Setter energy, Raff.”

“Thank you.”

He rolls his eyes. “Only you would think that was a compliment. Go and sit down.”

“Should it be on the naughty step with that tone of voice?”

“No, but don’t tempt me.” He pats my hand. “You haven’t eaten yet, and everything is fine now. Sit down and relax.”

“I’ve still got things to do. To be honest, I don’t think you hairdressers know what real work is.”

“I know it might involve being in a conversation with you.”

Richard snorts, and I grin at them. “I just need to check the arrangements for the cake-cutting first.”

“Oh, leave it.”

I stare at Leo. “Not until you say the words, ‘Rafferty, you are the world’s best wedding planner’.”

He groans. “Must I?”

I tap my chin. “I really think you do. And add ‘Throughout time there has never been a better one’.”

“Rafferty, you are the world’s best wedding planner.” I cup my hand behind my ear, and he grimaces. “In all time.”

“Thank you. I’ll sit down in a minute.”

“Good because Stan is starting to look a little worn thin.”

“What?” I jerk my head to look over at Stan’s table. Bennett is talking to him, and Stan’s face is set.

Leo taps my hand. “The cake is fine. You’ve gone over everything at least ten times, Raff. Please go and sit down.”

I nod. “Yeah,” I say, drifting off, aware of Leo still talking behind me.

I’m about ten steps from the table and can already feel the tension. Rowena, Edward, and Stan’s grandma have moved and are talking to a guest at another table. Wolfie is sitting on Rowena’s knee, attempting to cram what looks like a whole piece of lemon tart into his mouth while no one is paying attention. Lottie—along with Alex, and Pat and his partners—are still seated and looking at Bennett coolly, and Stan’s jaw is set with a little tic pulsing away. I’m startled by the wave of possessiveness that roars through me. That man is mine, and he needs to know it as soon as possible.

I come up next to them. “You’re in my place,” I say to Bennett, meaning it in every way possible. It should be me next to Stan, holding his hand and laughing with him, and I’m not spending another day simply wishing for it.

Stan’s head turns my way, and I squeeze his shoulder. The tenseness in the muscles relaxes a little.

Bennett cocks his head. “But maybe it was my seat before you, Rafferty. It’s too comfortable to leave.”

Stan frowns. “I do hope you’re still talking about an inanimate piece of furniture, Bennett, because otherwise, we’re going to have a problem.”

“What else could I be talking about?”

Pat drags a spare chair over, positioning it on the other side of Stan. He’s already lost his tie, and his grey-flecked, short hair is messy and wild. “Pull up a pew, mate.”

“Thank you.” I smile at him and slide into the chair.

“Well, look at that,” Bennett drawls. “You’re the filling in a man sandwich, Stan. You should be into that. Getting a bit of attention for once in your life.”

“I’m getting bad vibes,” Pat offers. “Pay attention to the sun, Bennett. Breathe through your nose.”

“Yeah,” his girlfriend breathes approvingly.

“Bennett’s nose is certainly big enough,” Lottie says sweetly. “But watch he doesn’t take everyone’s share of the air.”

I lean forward to address Bennett. “Stan’s always had attention,” I say through gritted teeth. “He doesn’t need to grab for it with stupid comments like some people I could mention.”

Bennett rolls his eyes. “Oh dear. That was like being bitten by a gerbil.”

Pat holds a hand up, looking alarmed. He hates rows or tension. “Whoa, mate. Don’t diss the world’s small creatures. Gerbil bites can be a serious thing. It might be a small creature, but its teeth are huge. I knew a man who had his penis bitten by one. The damage was freaky, and he definitely didn’t attempt naked yoga after that.”

“Poor Nigel,” Pat’s other lover says, crossing his legs.

“Perhaps you’d have been bitten by one, Bennett,” I say sweetly. “But there isn’t a gerbil microscope strong enough to locate your dick.”

Wolfie wanders over. “Did someone mention a gerbil bite? I know a lot about them because we have one at school. I don’t think gerbils get rabies, but I will check on that,” he says resolutely. “I’ll ask Grandad.”

“Thank you,” I say, smiling at him as he runs off to the next table. The smile drops away when I turn back to Bennett. “Leave Stan alone,” I warn.

Stan’s hand lands on my thigh, and he squeezes it. I’m not sure whether it’s support or warning. Knowing Stan, it’s probably both. He always sticks up for me, but feels free to slay me afterwards.

“Why should I?” Bennett shoots back. “He doesn’t deserve my loyalty.”

Stan’s head shoots up, but I put my hand on his arm to stay him. “He deserves far more than you ever will as you cruise through life fucking up people left and right. I’m sick of you, bitching and—” I stop and look at Wolfie, but he’s still talking to Edward about gerbil illnesses. Edward looks a little confused, which is probably due to the amount of wine he’s drunk.

“And how do you intend to stop that?” Bennett sits back, arms folded, a tic going in his cheek. "I’ve been good to him. He’s a responsibility, but I coped. Other men wouldn’t even look at him.”

“Fucking hell,” Lottie mutters, and her husband nudges her quietly.

My mind goes white hot with rage. I’m dimly aware of Stan’s hand on my arm, but I take no notice, all my attention on the twat opposite me. “And that’s where you went wrong,” I say furiously. “Stan isn’t a responsibility. He’s everything good. He’s loyal, kind, clever, and funny. He’s the best man I’ve ever known.”

I stop talking, sucking in a breath, slowly becoming aware of the silence around us. I realise with a lurch that I’ve been far too loud, and people are watching us.

“Hmm,” I say, and when I hear clapping, I twist around and see that it’s Leo.

“Oh, well done,” he calls. “I’ve been waiting bloody months for that.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, it’s always about you,” I snap.

He laughs loudly.

I throw my napkin down on the table. “Outside,” I direct Bennett.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Ooh! Are you going to be duelling Bennett, Uncle Raff?” Wolfie asks. We all turn to look at him, and he shrugs. “I’ve been doing knights at school, and they duel with big swords.”

“Maybe not with swords,” Lottie says, patting her son’s head. “But Uncle Rafferty’s tongue is very sharp today.”

“It would be better with swords,” Wolfie says wistfully.

I make another get-up gesture at Bennett.

He rolls his eyes and stands up. “Is it pistols at dawn?”

“Do you know that Stan made me watch a documentary on manifesting?” I say conversationally.

He frowns. “Your changes of subject are as ridiculous as your brain.”

“Well, I’m manifesting now. I’m manifesting punching you in the fucking face.”

“Ooh,” Lottie breathes happily.

Stan shakes his head. “I knew you weren’t paying attention. Manifesting was about peace and joy.”

“Well, punching him in the mouth will bring me joy, and then we’ll all get some peace.”

Pat snorts, and I shake my head, marching away, aware of everyone staring and unable to give a shit. Leo and Rich are married now. Real life is here.

“Come on,” I shout.

Chairs squeak behind me, and when I turn, I’m unsurprised to find Stan standing too. I edge back and tap his hand to see if he wants my arm and he takes it. “Why can’t you let me deal with him?” I say softly.

He shakes his head, a smile playing on his lips. He looks almost radiant.

“You have no idea what you said a minute ago, and I will never leave you on your own, Raff.”

Somehow, I know he means more than this moment with the wanker he’s engaged to, and I let that feeling flood through me—the knowledge that he always has my back.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”

I lead him out onto the patio, explaining where we are as we go.

Bennett waits on the patio’s edge, his face impatient and cold. “Well?” he snaps.

I come to a stop and set Stan’s hand on a nearby chair in case he wants to sit down.

“I called you away from the table, because I wanted to finish this away from the celebration.” I take a deep breath and then say firmly, “I want you to release Stan from your engagement.”

“Oh, Raff,” Stan says with a sharp breath.

“Why?” Bennett demands.

“Because I’m in love with him,” I say boldly, and there’s a crash as Stan’s cane falls over.

“Sorry,” he calls, his voice wavering.

“You alright?” I ask, frowning.

He swallows. “Yes,” he says, his voice shaking. “Go on. You’re in love with me?”

This makes me grin. “Well, of course I am,” I say.

“Oh. I love you too,” he says, and my heart feels like it might climb out of my chest.

“Excuse me.”

I turn to find Bennett glaring at me.

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I’m in love with him, and he’s in love with me. You’ll need to break your engagement. Right fucking now.”

“Really? And why should I do that? He said yes to me.”

“He said yay, actually,” I state.

He steps closer. “He said yes.”

“Bennett.” Stan’s voice holds a funny note of warning, and I look between the two of them as Bennett huffs.

There’s a long moment where I feel like I’ve stepped into a boxing ring and the crowd is waiting in anticipation for me to knock this man out. Too bad I’ve always been a lover and not a fighter. I wouldn’t know an uppercut from Upper Boddington. Still, my fingers curl into fists, and I bravely take a step forward.

Bennett is not impressed. He rolls his eyes at me, in fact. “Whatever. You two deserve each other,” he mutters before stalking away.

I stare after him in stunned silence. Everyone else seems to be silent too. “Wait,” I say in sudden panic. “Does that mean he’s broken your engagement?” I turn to Stan. “Oh fuck.”

I fall into a chair aware of him coming to sit beside me. “Shit,” I mutter. “I just rode roughshod over everything, Stan. I can’t believe I just made a fucking scene at the wedding in front of all those people.” I swallow hard. “I feel sick.”

“Thank you,” Stan says, his voice firm and steady.

“What?”

He cocks his head, a smile hovering on his full lips. “I don’t think you’ve ever done that in your life, Raff, and I’m honoured that you did it for me.”

“What?”

“You spend your whole life making other people happy with your sweet nature and big heart, but you never ask for what you want.”

“But I just did the opposite! I demanded things, and I shouted. That is not attractive.”

“It was actually glorious.” He holds up his hand. “Admittedly, I will not be happy if you ever try to talk for me again.”

“God forbid. I’d have more luck doing that with a puffin.” I shake my head. “I just broke up your engagement at someone else’s wedding and—” I pause. “And you’re smiling about it?”

He grimaces. “Yeah. Remember that thing I wanted to tell you earlier?”

“Yes?” I say warily. My heart starts to pound at the seriousness in his face.

He offers his hand, and I take it gratefully, feeling his warmth and strength.

“Rafferty, you know me.”

“Well, I thought I did,” I say slowly. “Now I’m not so sure.”

“Try to think about that statement.”

“I hate it when you say that. It’s like you’re waiting for me to get a crossword clue.”

“That hasn’t happened this millennium. Now think. What does it mean that you know me?” he says patiently.

“That if you tell me the earth is square, I’ll believe you.”

His mouth quirks. “On a less important navigational note, ask yourself about cheating. I know you don’t cheat, but what about me?”

“You don’t ever do it,” I say. I swallow hard, staring at his calm, beautiful face. “But you did it with me. Oh my god, I’ve corrupted you.”

“I’m not marrying Bennett.” He hesitates. “I wasn’t ever actually engaged,” he says in a rush.

“I beg your pardon.”

“I was never engaged. I told him no straight after he proposed.”

Relief rushes through me, hot and thick as lava. I clutch his hand. “Oh my god, I’m so relieved.”

“You’re not angry? I couldn’t tell you, because he made me promise.”

I pet his hand. “I know your word is important to you.”

“Not that important. I tried to tell you last night, but you fell asleep.”

“You did that for me?” I breathe.

He smiles gently. “I would do anything for you. The same as you would do for me.”

“I didn’t want to be like my parents, or I think I would have come to my senses about you much sooner.”

“And yet you’ve done all this, even so.”

“Of course,” I say simply. “It’s you. You’re my exception in life. The exception to all the rules because you’re mine.” I shake my head. “Artie was right all along,” I say slowly, and then something occurs to me. “So why the hell did Bennett come and ask me to arrange your fucking wedding?”

He jumps to his feet. “He did what?” he growls, his brows meeting in a frown.

I get up, hovering close to him. “He said it was a secret and not to tell you.”

“That motherfucker,” he whispers.

I shake my head, dismissing Bennett without a second thought. Happiness fills me so suddenly that I’m dizzy, and I raise my hand, pushing his curls back from his tanned forehead. “I can’t believe you’re free.”

He hesitates. “And does that mean something to you? I mean,” he says quickly before I can interrupt, looking suddenly shy. “I know you said things in the heat of the moment to Bennett, but if you don’t mean them, then it’s fine.”

“Is it?”

He shakes his head, his white teeth tugging at his lower lip. “No,” he finally whispers. “I need to hear them said to me again now it’s just us.”

I step closer, and his hand comes up, finding my wrist and drawing me nearer.

“Do you remember when we first slept together?” I ask.

He cocks his head, seeming confused by the change of subject. “Yes, of course.”

“We always agreed that we’d sleep together until we met someone special.”

A ghost of old heartbreak crosses his face. “Yes?”

“The idea that it would happen for me was ludicrous because there’s no one more special than you.” His face relaxes a little, and I carry on talking. “Then, when we stopped, I was always looking for a way back to you, wanting us to go back to the way we were.” I bite my lip. “I was such a twat. Because I got scared when you asked me about dating Bennett. I wanted you so much, but the idea of being with you and then going through hell like my parents did just paralysed me. I couldn’t have borne hurting you. Not you, Stan. Never you.”

His breathing is shallow. “You are not them, love.”

I cherish that tiny endearment—four little letters that mean the world to me when he uses them. “I know, but it took me far too long to work that out, and then I realised something much more important.”

“What?”

“The difference from me being like my parents is you, Stan. You make me a better person. And if someone as good as you thinks I’m okay, then I must be.” I lick my lips. “You won’t let me fuck up. It’s not just me in this, and you’ll be my guide.”

I stop talking because he’s kissing me, and the sun is hot against my eyelids. I don’t know whether the roaring in my ears is the surf or my blood—maybe a bit of both.

When Stan pulls away and laughs, his high-boned face is gilded by the late afternoon sun as if nature decided to highlight it.

“What?” I ask. “Is my courting funny, Stanley? I can’t say I’ve had any complaints so far.”

“How on earth did they find the time to complain in the twenty seconds between you hitting and quitting?”

“Everyone is a critic,” I huff, pulling him close and loving that I can. “What were you laughing about?”

“It just occurred to me that we are now the scandal du jour of the wedding season.”

“What?”

He snorts. “I’m pretty sure we’ve taken over from the groom-shagging woman of last year’s wedding circuit. I am now the engaged best man who was shagging the wedding planner.”

I wind my arms around his neck, feeling his silky curls on my fingers. “The formerly engaged best man. Bennett never really had you,” I say fiercely.

“Oh really?”

“Absolutely not.” I cup his face. “You’re my something borrowed,” I say slowly.

“Like a blue lacy garter?”

“You are much prettier. I let him borrow you for a little while because I never dared to face what I really knew inside me.”

He smiles. “And what was that?”

I run my fingertips over his lip. “That you’re mine. You always have been, Stanley, and you always will be. You’re everything to me, and my life isn’t any good without you.” I take a huge breath and say the words I’ve avoided saying to anyone, because as a child I learned they were useless: “I love you.”

It comes out far too fast and ungraciously, but his face lights up as if I’ve recited poetry. I know what he’s going to say before his mouth opens, but he still rocks my world with the words.

“I love you too.”

I know now that those three words are incredibly powerful. They can topple worlds and make me so happy that I could burst.

He kisses me, and I taste Kir Royale and happiness. “And you’re mine too,” he whispers. “Only mine.”

“Of course.” I stroke his cheekbone, feeling the sharpness of the bone against my skin. “Stanley, I may take a while to make a decision.”

“A while? We once spent two hours in Selfridges while you tried to decide between two moisturisers.”

“But,” I say, talking over his laughter-filled voice. "Once I do, I’m like glue. I stick no matter what.” I take a breath. “I don’t ask for much, but I want to be with you.”

“Done,” he says promptly. “But I hope you learn that you can ask for much more from me, Raff. You can have anything you want from me.”

I take a breath and step off the edge I’ve hovered near all my life. I’ve avoided it for so long, but now I have to wonder why.

It’s incredibly easy to say, “How about forever with nothing borrowed?”

“Somethin’ Stupid” by Frank Sinatra starts to play inside, the music flowing out to us, mingling with the sound of the sea and becoming a part of this sunlit, slumbering afternoon. I start to sway with him, loving the feeling of him against me.

He turns his head, kissing me, and when he pulls away, his words are like an enchantment—a bit of simple magic like the sunbeams dancing on the sea, the music of the cicadas, and the sound of the wind in the pine trees. “You can certainly have that, Rafferty Kendrick. It would be my pleasure.”

Epilogue

Stan

“Where do you want this box, Stan?”

“Sorry,” I say into the phone. “I won’t be a second.” I reach out and feel over the box for the braille label. “That’s for the bedroom,” I tell my brother. I skim the label underneath that, which tells me what’s in it, and bite my lip. “Maybe don’t open this one, either.”

“Oh god. I’ll be emotionally scarred by the time we’ve finished moving you.”

“That’ll make up for all the trauma you’ve inflicted on me and Lottie.”

“Preach it,” my sister calls. “I’m afraid I’ve run out of the light boxes. What a tragedy. Shall I dust something instead?”

“How about the whole house?” Vinnie suggests. “It’s like Miss Havisham’s home minus the wedding dress.”

“And the mouldy food,” my sister adds.

“I could actually manage that,” Vinnie says mournfully. “I haven’t been fed since seven this morning.”

I hear footsteps, and my mum’s voice says, “You’re not at the zoo, Vinnie, where someone’s going to throw food at you. There’s a shop only twenty yards away.”

“Yes, but it’s Stan’s job to feed me after I gave up my entire weekend to move him and Raff.”

“You gave up six hours. Quit whining,” I instruct him and turn back to my phone. “Sorry to keep you. Yes, that is the right gas meter reading. My father did the reading.”

“Oh dear,” my mother mutters, making me smile.

When I’ve finished the call, I slide my phone into my jeans pocket. “How’s it looking?” I ask her.

Her footsteps sound closer, and I smile as she slides her arms around me, imbuing the air with her scent. She’s been wearing Bulgari’s Pour Femme since my dad bought it for her on their first date. He’d taken her for afternoon tea and then perfume shopping, and according to her, he had her at the first fruit scone.

“It’s lovely,” she says quietly. “The perfect house for you and Raff. It’s got such a warm and serene feel to it. You’re going to be so happy here.”

I reach out and pat her head. “We’re happy anywhere, though.”

“True, but it’s nice that Rollo finally did something half decent as a parent.”

We’d been considering moving for a while, wanting to give Hump a garden to run in. At some point, he’ll retire, and I’m not giving him up, so Raff had declared we needed more room for the army of active and retired guide dogs we will have. When Rollo found out, he called on us and announced that he was giving us this house. Raff had protested, but Rollo had insisted, saying he was doing nothing with it.

It’s an old Edwardian terraced house with the original wood flooring, and Raff says there's a Milton tiled entranceway. It’s perfect for us. My shop is a couple of streets away, and it’s near the tube for Raff and the park for Hump.

“Do you think it was a nice gesture or a tax break?” I say.

My mum snorts. “Best not to ask. Just accept the flow with Rollo.”

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that, because it usually involves some sort of drama worthy of EastEnders.”

“Tell me about it. He came to dinner with his current wife last Sunday and split up with her over the treacle sponge. It was better than watching Columbo. I still can’t believe he actually fathered Raff.”

“Well, he’s got his charm.”

“I still persist in the notion that Raff was a particularly charismatic cuckoo who hopped into the wrong nest.” She kisses my cheek. “Thank goodness he’s found the right one now.”

Raff

“Are you sure you won’t stay for some cake, Raff?”

I shudder at the thought of actually eating a slice of the thing, especially since it had taken five tasting sessions before they’d picked this one.

I turn to the bride and smile. “I’m absolutely sure, lovely, but thank you anyway. Are you happy?”

She gives me a wide grin that’s fuelled by champagne and happiness. “Blissfully.”

“Then my job is done.”

She pouts. “You’re going, aren’t you?”

“Only if you don’t need me for anything else.”

I hold my breath in case she thinks of something. Brides usually can, but this time, she shakes her head. “No, of course not. You get off. I know you’re moving today, and we’re so grateful you still did the wedding.”

“Of course,” I say immediately. “I wouldn’t have missed it. At the least, you got me out of moving the boxes.”

She laughs. “Happy to be of service. Well, say thank you to Stan and give him a kiss from me for letting me borrow you today.”

“Will do.”

She floats away to a crowd of friends, and I cast one more eye around the reception. The cake is cut, and most of the guests are now half-cut. Perfect.

Satisfied that everything is as it should be, I leave the hotel in long strides, tugging off my cravat and feeling a welcome breeze on my throat. Spying a taxi, I flag it down and slide in.

“Where to, mate?” the driver says, and I blink.

“Nigel!” I say in delight.

“Sorry?” He peers in his mirror. “You.”

“Yes.” I wave. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

He looks warily around. “Where’s Joe?”

“Oh, probably moving hundreds of boxes at the moment,” I say, smiling at the thought of Joe’s face.

“He’s not going to join you, so you can get dressed again in my cab? It took ages to get the smell of aftershave out.”

I shake my head. “Nope. I’m a reformed man, Nigel.”

“What does that mean?” he asks cautiously. “Will you be taking any item of clothing off? I need to be prepared.”

“Not a stitch. I’m actually going home.”

“And where’s that?”

I start to give him my old address and pause. “Silly me. That’s not where I live.”

“You don’t know where you live? That doesn’t exactly surprise me.”

“Oh, you,” I say playfully. “Your sense of humour kills me.” He rolls his eyes, and I give him my new address. “That’s my new home, where I live with my boyfriend and our dog.”

His eyes twinkle in the mirror. “Well, he’s a brave man.”

“That he is, Nigel. That he is.”

Half an hour later, I stand on the street and wave to Nigel as he drives away. Then I turn and look up at our new home. It sits in a patch of late afternoon sunshine, and the windows are glinting. A smile tugs at my mouth, and I feel a wave of warmth and happiness.

“Are you going to be standing there all day grinning like an idiot?” an acidic voice enquires.

Startled, I turn to look over my shoulder. Leo is standing on the pavement behind me, clutching a box. His usually pristine appearance is rumpled, and he has a streak of dust across his face.

“Did you know you have a little something on your…?” I falter at his glare. “Oh, silly me. What was I thinking? You look lovely as usual, Leo.”

“I look sweaty. Why did you pick the hottest day of the year to move house?”

“Serendipity,” I offer. “My bride was happy, anyway.”

“Thank you for that information, Count Dracula.” He huffs. “Do something useful and order some pizza. Stan’s brother is getting hangry.”

“He’s not the only one,” I mutter. “Where’s my beloved?”

“Directing operations in your lounge.”

“He’s so sexily bossy, don’t you think?”

“I’m finding it more just bossy, but you keep going, Casanova.”

We grin at each other, and then he proceeds up the small tiled path to the house and vanishes into the darkness of the hall.

“I think that’s done. The van is empty now and we can do the last lot tomorrow.”

I turn around to find Stan’s dad grinning at me.

“Really? I missed it all. How sad I am,” I say, making an expression that I hope looks like sadness. In reality, I’m thrilled about my time management skills.

“Oh really?” He arches his eyebrow, a wry expression on his face that makes him look so much like Stan that I hug him.

“Thank you so much for helping.” I grimace and step back. “You’re rather sticky.”

“That’s what happens when you move twenty packing cases. Not that you’d know. The heaviest lifting you’ve probably done today is a glass of champagne.”

“It was ice cold, and I did think of you.”

“Did you?”

“Not really.”

He breaks into laughter, and then his face turns serious. “This is a lovely house, Raff. You’re going to be very happy here.”

“Is this the part where you warn me about treating Stan right?”

“Nah. You’ve been doing that for the last twenty years, and I can’t see it ever changing.”

I stare at the man who’s been the real father in my life all these years. If fatherhood is counted by time, advice, love and laughter, then he has the job. “Thank you,” I say quietly.

He comes closer and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Love each other and hold tight because this world has ways of tugging you apart. Don’t go to sleep on an argument and always, always let Stan make the emotional decisions in your life.”

He breaks into laughter as I shove him, and we smile at each other.

I have so many things I could say to him, but I’ve already said them all, and as he looks at me with twinkling eyes, I’m sure he knows anyway.

“Pizza?” I say quietly instead.

“Perfect,” he replies, and we make our way into the house.

He walks up the stairs, and I pause in the living room doorway. It’s a big room with a bay window and a scratched wooden floor, but I hardly notice it as my whole attention is on the man standing in the window. He’s bathed in early evening sunlight and covered in muck and a fine sheen of sweat. His curls are wild, and he hasn’t shaved today, so the stubble is heavy on his square chin. He makes me smile every time I see him, and I can’t envision that ever changing.

Hump gives a short bark, gambolling over to me, and I scratch his head.

“Alright, love?” I say.

Stan grins at me. “Welcome home, babe.”

I shake my head. “I’ve been home for a long while, Stan, and it’s never been a house.”

He doesn’t get a chance to reply as family and friends swarm into the room demanding food in exchange for labour, but I see the smile on his face, and that’s enough.

The next couple of hours are spent eating greasy slices of pizza and drinking warm wine from plastic cups amidst loud talking and even louder laughter, but in the end, Stan’s dad gets to his feet. “Let’s leave these two here for their first evening in their new house.” He strokes Stan’s curls back. “We’ll be back in the morning to help again.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Stan says, getting up and hugging him.

The others trickle out in a wave of goodbyes and hugs while I stand at our new doorway with my arm wrapped around Stan’s waist and Hump a warm weight on my foot.

Joe’s the last, holding hands with his husband, Lachlan. “Good luck in your new home,” he says, kissing Stan and then turning to me. “A new start,” he says happily. “I love those.”

Lachlan grimaces at me. “Just know that if you ever need shelves built again, I have changed my phone number and moved to the Seychelles.”

“True friendship knows no limits,” I tell him.

“Lose my number,” he replies. He offers me a rakish smile, and then they’re gone, and we’re finally alone.

After shutting the door, we wander into the living room, a frown of concentration on Stan’s face as he works out the contours and angles of the room. Finally, we settle down on the old wooden floorboards.

“Tomorrow, we get the new sofas,” I say, resting my head on his lap while he leans against the wall by the fireplace. “I’ll be able to help.”

“Oh dear, were you hoping for another wedding?” he enquires, a wry look on his face.

“I must say I think it’s very inconsiderate of the church not to do them on a Sunday.”

He bursts into laughter, and I grin at him, lifting my fingers to his lips. He kisses them, and I settle back, feeling his hand stroking my hair. The repetitive motion is lulling and seems to become a part of this sun-filled empty room.

“It’s not a new start,” I say idly.

Stan blinks awake from whatever daydream was in his head—probably a world of free vinyl—and I reach up to take his long fingers in mine. “Joe was wrong. This isn’t a new start.”

“It isn’t?”

I shake my head. “Nope. That started twenty years ago when I walked up your drive.” A smile tugs at his full lips, and I elaborate. “This—you and me—we’re a constant timeline, Stan. We’ve always been together. We just didn’t realise it for a while. And life will happen all around us, but it’s just us on that line walking together. Always together for however many years we have on that path.”

He grins. “I like that image.”

“I’m full of good ones like that. I should have been a poet,” I say modestly.

“It just would have been more realistic if, while on that path, you’d stopped walking and demanded a taxi because you were tired.”

I snort. “Who brings realism into a romantic metaphor? You’re a monster.” I look up at his face. It’s so indescribably dear to me. “You’ll never guess who was at the wedding.”

“Tom Holland.”

“You wish. No, Bennett was there.” I add slyly, “With his new husband.”

“You’re joking.”

I start to laugh. “Nope. They got married last week. I find it heartbreaking that he didn’t ask me to organise the wedding.”

He laughs and then shakes his head in wonderment. “Wow. What’s the husband like?”

“Very pretty. He’s an accountant with a good stock portfolio, and his hair is very tidy.” He snorts, and I eye him. “Are you bothered?”

“God, no.” The incredulity in his voice relaxes a tiny part of me that I hadn’t realised was worried. “I’m actually really happy.”

“Surely not for the current Mister Bennett? Thoughts and prayers would be more appropriate.”

He pinches me. “I’m glad he’s found someone. I hope he’ll be very happy.” He smiles. “Like us.”

“You're mushier than E.L. James on a bad day,” I inform him and pat his hand, which has stopped stroking, to indicate that he should resume his duty. I yawn sleepily after a few minutes. “We’ll go to bed in a minute. I don’t care if it makes us look like eighty-year-olds.”

“That’ll be an accomplishment as it isn’t set up yet. Joe was doing it and gave up when it didn’t magically assemble itself.”

“Okay, we’ll go up to lie on the floor soon.” He chuckles, and I smile up at him. “Let’s just sit here for a while, then.”

“Why not, Raff? It’s just you and me to please in this house.”

“Well, that augers well for the future. I’m easily pleased, and you’re too distracted most of the time to notice.”

He chuckles, and the sound follows me into sleep.

Stan

I feel Raff’s body grow heavier and know he’s asleep, but I keep up the motion of my hand in his hair. It’s soothing to me, and despite the jokes, I know he’s tired. I was able to take a week off work to move us and had an army of helpers, but Raff had three weddings this week, and he’s worn himself ragged as usual trying to please everyone.

I inhale, gathering in the scents of our new home, and immediately stifle a sneeze—there’s a lot of dust. Raff stirs, and I freeze, but his breathing evens again.

I sniff a little more cautiously this time, and my reward is the faint scent of the wax on the floorboards, the sweet smell of honeysuckle that grows up the side of the house, and the ghost of Raff’s cologne.

Hump whines, and I reach out, find his head, and tug his ear gently. He gives a grunt of contentment.

“Home,” I say with satisfaction. He settles against me on the other side of Raff’s long body, and I sit happily in silence with the two counterpoints that keep me steady on my life’s path.

Things will happen in our lives. I know my sight is getting worse, and there will be other tests along the way for us, but here and now, I don’t care, because I’m happy and I have Raff. I’ve learned that I can’t control the future. We’ll deal with whatever comes together, and that’s all that anyone is really gifted with—someone to tread the path with them and hold their hand when the going gets rough.

I am a good friend, a happy lover, a loving son and brother, and a blind man. I like the scratch of old vinyl, the smell of rain on dry earth, and the soft silk of Raff’s velvety old coat that he keeps saying he’ll throw out because he looks like an extra from Bridgerton. I’m complex, impatient, and not always easy to be around, but Raff is the person who sees and loves all of me. And that’s good because I’m proud to be the person who makes him happy. With him, I can be anything I want. There are no limits or conditions to his love, so I am the luckiest man I know.

Outside, an ice cream van tinkles its siren music, and children’s voices sound on the street. And Raff and I sit with our dog on the empty floor of our new home. Together.

Author Note

A couple of years ago, we got the news that my son was going blind. He has a genetic eye condition just like Stan and it was worsening faster than previously expected.

As you can imagine it was a terrible shock. My son is only in his mid-twenties and is a fiercely independent young man. Luckily, he was able to have a couple of operations that we’re hoping have arrested the deterioration for now. He will never be able to see very well, but we’re so thankful for the wonderful gift that his surgeon and doctors have given him.

It made me think, though, and I wanted to create a character who was blind but also fierce and funny, and Stan is definitely all of that.

This book is very much a tribute to my Nat who faces every day with humour and a dry wit. He may never read this, but he always knows how much we love him. This story is after all just a tiny paragraph in my lifelong love letter to my baby.

I sought help writing the book and any mistakes made are entirely my own.

If you’re interested in reading further, a lot of information can be found on the wonderful Royal National Institute of the Blind’s website here. They’re always very grateful for any donations too.

You can find more information about guide dogs at The Guide Dogs for the Blind Association. It cannot be said enough how wonderful the people are who train the dogs. These animals are friends as well as guides and lights in the darkness for a lot of people. You can find more information about the work they do here as well as a link to sponsor a puppy if you’d like.

Do you want to read Joe and Lachlan’s story? The first book in the Confetti Hitched series can be found here.

Joe Bagshaw doesn’t believe in love or marriage anymore, which is rather a hindrance for a wedding planner.

His own marriage was a whirlwind affair that ended before the ink could dry on the wedding certificate. Nevertheless, even with his divorce pending, he’s getting by. Or at least he was until he finds himself snowed in at a remote Scottish hotel with the wedding party from hell, a terrible ABBA tribute band, and his soon-to-be ex-husband.

Lachlan has missed Joe from the second his husband walked away. He wants Joe back and is prepared to do anything to get him. Being snowed in together seems to offer the chance Lachlan needs, but does he have what it takes to get Joe to trust in love and their marriage again?

From bestselling author Lily Morton, comes a romantic comedy about love, matrimony, and the best of second chances.

This is the first book in the Confetti Hitched series.

Newsletter

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As subscribers, you’ll get monthly editions of Model Clinic which is the snarky advice podcast run by Mal, Dean, and Pip from the Model Agency series.

Newsletter subscribers will also have access to the free short stories, ‘3 Dates’ and ‘Best Love’.

Acknowledgments

The members of my Facebook readers’ group, Lily’s Snark Squad. You make my group such a friendly and lovely place. You’re an amazing bunch of people.

To all the bloggers who spend their valuable time reading, reviewing, and promoting the books. Also, the readers who liven up my day with their messages and photos and book recommendations. I love being a part of this community, so thank you.

Lastly, thanks to you for taking a chance on this book. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I never knew until I wrote my first book how important reviews are. So, if you have time, please consider leaving a review on Amazon or Goodreads or any other review sites. I can promise you that I value all of them.

About the Author

Website: www.lilymortonauthor.com

This has lots of information and some fun features, including some extra short stories.

I’d love to hear from you, so if you want to say hello or have any questions, please contact me and I’ll get back to you:

Email: lilymorton1@outlook.com

If you fancy hearing the latest news and interacting with other readers do head over and join my Facebook group. It's a fun group and I share all the latest news about my books there as well as some exclusive short stories.

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Also by Lily Morton

Mixed Messages Series

Rule Breaker

Deal Maker

Risk Taker

Vow Maker

The Finding Home Series

Oz

Milo

Gideon

The Close Proximity Series

Best Man

Charlie Sunshine

After Felix

The Model Agency Series

The Sunny Side

French Fancy

Confetti Hitched Series

Confetti Hearts

Something Borrowed

Black & Blue Series

The Mysterious and Amazing Blue Billings

The Quiet House

Something Wicked

Arcana Books

The Sceptic

Holiday Books

Merry Measure

On a Midnight Clear

Other Books

The Summer of Us

The Cuckoo’s Call

Beautifully Unexpected

Short Story Collections

Short Stack

Short Stack 2

Collections

The Complete Mixed Messages Series

The Complete Finding Home Series

The Complete Close Proximity Series

Short Stories and Novellas

Playground Games

Spring Strings

The Stopping Place

My Darcy

Newsletter Exclusive Short Stories

3 Dates

Best Love