Page 27 of Cocky Bastard

We could still fuck, and probably would, but this wasn’t a “let’s fuck and maybe get food after” situation, this was “travel two-hundred odd miles to come and hang out with me.”

Fuck, maybe I shouldn’t have suggested it at all.

I wasn’t good at this shit.

Casual sex was one thing but anything else was completely alien to me. I mean, I’d had relationships but not good ones. Or long-lasting ones. Not that I was thinking about a relationship with Kane—we were only friends who fucked. And even the whole being friends thing felt new despite the fact we probably had been for years.

Maybe that was the problem; Kane and I had so much baggage attached to us as a pair.

We’d been teenagers together, trapped in the fucked-up world of child stardom and using each other as a means of escape. Then we’d grown up and moved on to banter-filled fucking with a side of strange animosity, biting snark, and… maybe something akin to jealousy. Although over what I had no idea.

And in the past few months we’d changed again. We still playfully sniped at each other, we fucked as hard as ever, but there was a new side to our relationship too… a friendliness and this gentle acknowledgement of our past. We’d opened up to each other a little, letting each other see things we’d kept hidden for years.

It was like we’d spent all our time together in one room and suddenly realised there was a door in the corner, behind which lay a whole castle and gardens for us to explore.

I glanced down at my phone and realised I’d sent the message. Kane had seen it too. And according to WhatsApp, he was now tapping out a response.

Too nervous to sit and wait for my doom, I swung my legs off the sofa and pottered downstairs to the kitchen. I put my phone on the counter, rummaged in the cupboard for a glass, and filled it with water. As I sipped it slowly, I tried to convince myself that if Kane didn’t want to come, it wasn’t because of me. He was fucking Jude Kane—he’d have better things to do than run off to see me. Fuck, his diary would be filled up months in advance.

I glanced down at the screen and saw two new messages had popped up.

Kane

Sounds fun! Send me your address and I’ll come up in the morning. Just let me know what time works for you and I’ll be there.

Kane

And if we’re celebrating, can there be cake?

Reading them made my chest swell with joy, like that moment on a rollercoaster right before the drop when everything was amazing and terrifying and hilarious all at once.

I didn’t know what that said about me, but I didn’t need to.

Kane was coming to see me.

It was only half ten the next morning when Kane messaged me to say he was nearly at my house. I frowned because what fucking time had he gotten up to get to York for half ten? It was over two and a half hours on the train.

Except, I realised as I hurried downstairs to do a frantic last bit of tidying, Kane probably hadn’t taken the fucking train because he was sodding Jude Kane and would get mobbed as soon as he set foot in the station. Then I’d never have gotten to see him because he’d have ended up trapped there by hundreds of fans all clamouring for him to sign shit and take selfies.

I straightened the cushions on the sofa and threw the few bits of rubbish lying around into the bin before clearing the drainer next to the sink. At least I’d done the washing up last night so there weren’t several days of dirty plates and mugs sitting on the side.

I’d managed to get Kane cake too because I’d dragged my butt out of bed before eight to get to the little artisan bakery down the road as soon as it opened. The place was only tiny, and at the weekend it usually had a queue around the block from the minute they opened the door. And even though it was only Wednesday today, I didn’t want them to sell out of anything before I got a chance to raid it.

They hadn’t had any slices of cake but I had come back with a large sourdough loaf, two slices of lemon meringue pie, some chocolate and peanut butter morning buns, and some huge slabs of chocolate chip shortbread. And even though that’d probably be enough, I’d still found myself rushing in the other direction to hit M&S and grab a Colin the Caterpillar cake, because it just wasn’t a celebration without one.

There was a sharp knock at the door as I finished stacking plates in the cupboard, startling me for a second. My heart leapt, racing wildly as I headed for the door, wishing I’d had more to drink because my mouth was suddenly very dry.

I pulled it open and almost put my hand on my chest to stop my heart from bursting out of it.

Kane was standing on the doorstep, bathed in bright sunlight. He was wearing a simple white T-shirt and jeans withan old leather jacket thrown on over the top and a pair of large sunglasses, but something about the way he wore everything made him look like he’d walked off a runway. There was a small suitcase by his feet and a blue satchel over his shoulder, and behind him I could see a smart black town car parked.

“Hey,” I said, shooting him my best attempt at an easy smile. My goddamn heart needed to chill the fuck out before it exploded. It was only fucking Kane. “You made it.” I stepped back for him to come in and he turned and waved to the driver, who I assumed had been waiting in case they’d turned up at totally the wrong place. “What fucking time did you set off this morning?”

“Oh, not that early,” Kane said as he walked inside, taking in all the details of the tiled hallway as he put his bags down and unlaced his boots. “I got a flight at nine.”

“A flight?” I bit back a laugh. “You got a fucking private jet from London?”

“No,” he said quietly, almost looking a bit sheepish. “It was a helicopter.”

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