Page 32 of Our Radiant Embers

“This is fantastic,” I told Adam.

“Thank you.” He wrapped a hand around his cup and glanced down, a frown ghosting across his features. “And for the record, you probably know more about my life than most.”

“That’s—uh.” I swallowed what I’d been about to say, but Adam’s humourless chuckle suggested he was well aware.

“Sad? Yeah, probably.” He shook his head. “Anyway, let’s get to work.”

I wanted to say something comforting, but nothing came to mind. It also wasn’t my place. We weren’t friends—just two people thrown together by circumstances and an ill-timed attraction that would lead us nowhere.

“Yeah.” I washed down the sour taste on my tongue with another mouthful of coffee. “Why don’t you start us off with the intro?”

* * *

We were ready.

Well. I hoped we were ready.

I’d felt pretty good about it when leaving Adam’s flat yesterday. We’d finally found a common tone and had managed two successful run-throughs along with a brief discussion on what kind of questions might come up—behold the things we could get done if we left our grudges at the door. All personal conversations had been put on hold until further notice. Honestly, it was better that way.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” Adam commented as he drew up next to me.

I turned away from the black gates that marked the entrance to Downing Street. And, uh. Adam looked…good. Like…yeah. I’d seen him in a bespoke suit before, of course—just a couple of weeks ago, in fact. But I’d been too focused on disliking him to truly appreciate the way it moulded to his frame.

“What day?” I remembered to ask.

His gaze travelled the length of my body and back up, a smile hiding in the corners of his eyes. “The day I see you in a suit that fits. Not bad.”

“Well, yes. Thank you.” I tugged on the sleeve of my suit jacket, picked up from the tailor after I’d left Adam’s flat. It was one of the two designer suits I’d already owned, only now it had been adjusted to my exact measurements. “It’s a personal meeting with the Prime Minister. And his cabinet.”

The knot of trepidation that clenched my stomach must have shown in my voice because Adam reached out to squeeze my shoulder. Was that a thing we did now? “They’re just people,” he said.

“Easy for you to say—you probably grew up having tea and scones with the Queen.”

“Oh, please.” Adam adopted his snootiest tone. “The royal family are just figureheads. We prefer to rub shoulders with people who matter. And on that note…” He dropped the posh act. “Come on. This is not the moment to be fashionably late.”

He had a point.

We presented ourselves along with our IDs to the uniformed guards, passed scrutiny, and were ushered through the gates. Somehow, I made my legs move. Old, distinguished buildings stared down at us as we moved along the closed-off road. Victorian, maybe? I was no architect, and anyway, it made no difference whether they were Victorian or Georgian or built by fucking Hobbits, but it gave my brain something to latch on to.

“If you throw up,” Adam murmured, “I’ll deny knowing you.”

“You’re a real support.” I shot him a narrow glare that he countered with a sunny grin.

“Like you don’t thrive on a good challenge.”

Oddly, he wasn’t wrong.

“I do, yeah. When I know what the fuck I’m doing.”

“Listen, man.” His voice dropped to a low level. “I’m not here to hold your hand, all right?”

I scoffed. “Well, fuck you very much.”

”At least offer to buy me dinner first, will you?” He slowed his steps, the iconic black door of 10 Downing Street looming just ahead. “But seriously, let me finish. I’m not here to hold your hand because you don’t fucking need it. What we’ve come up with? It’s the best of both our proposals, and they’d be fools not to see it.”

“Oh.” I forced a breath into my lungs and held it for a second, then exhaled. “How do I address the Prime Minister—is it Mr Sterling?”

“You’re asking me now?” Adam tucked a laugh into the words. “No. It’s ‘Prime Minister’.”

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