Page 21 of Forever, Maybe
“This,” he said quietly, “is Ryan. He’s my nephew.”
Chapter seven
December1995
Nell kissed the tip of Daniel’s nose before slipping out of bed, stretching her arms high overhead. “Fancy a glass of wine? I spotted some in the kitchen earlier.”
Her room in the halls could only be described as spartan. A single bed with a wafer-thin duvet, an MDF wardrobe, its door hanging off one hinge and a sink tucked in the far corner. But somehow, Nell had made it her own. Black gossamer draped the bed, paired with velvet cushions that screamed gothic chic, while her artwork covered every inch of wall.
Daniel particularly loved the charcoal sketches of Glasgow landmarks—the Kingston Bridge, the People’s Palace, and the suspension bridge over the River Clyde that led to the Sheriff Court—which lent the toom a gritty, romantic air.
She slipped on a pale green silk slip that skimmed her thighs and clung in all the right places. One narrow strap slid off her shoulder, as if the fabric couldn’t be bothered to do its job. In student-land, this counted as respectable lounge wear. Had it been up to him, though, she’d roam the halls in shapeless shirts buttoned up to her chin, paired with jeans two sizes too big, all under a neon sign that read,Property of Daniel Murray. Hands Off,in case any of the lads on her floor harboured ideas above their station.
He sank back against the pillows with a sigh. “Can you grab me something to eat as well? I’ve no’ had anything since lunchtime.”
Nell turned, her brow furrowing in disbelief. “Lunchtime? But it’s…” She glanced at the clock radio on the desk. “Oh. Eight already? Shit, I hadn’t realised.”
The pink streaks in Nell’s blonde hair had long since faded, which now cascaded around her face and shoulders in soft, messy layers that Daniel loved to gather in his hands. Even now, more than a year after they’d first met, he’d catch sight of her and feel his breath hitch.
Gorgeous, sexy, talented Nell.You’re mine,he’d think, though he never dared say it aloud.
Last week, they’d had a scare. She’d invited him to an art exhibition by a former graduate, hoping to mingle with people who might actually pay for her work one day.
The result? The mother of all arguments, with Nell hurling accusations at him about being unsupportive and screeching that she was tired, sick and tired, of his stupid, stupid, stupid sandwich business.
There were now three more vans making the rounds of industrial estates, alongside the Hyndland shop, with the potential to open yet another location elsewhere in the city—all of which had him and Joe running themselves ragged.
Sometimes, the spreadsheets filled him with pride; other times, with sheer panic. How was he supposed to keep it all running and what would happen if those reassuring black numbers bled into red…?
Following the argument, Nell hadn’t spoken to him for days. Four hours ago, desperate to fix things, he’d showed up at her halls with a giant bouquet of flowers and an apology he’d rehearsed with Joe so many times it felt like lines from a bad play. Somehow, it worked.
Now, a slow, blissed-out warmth spread from his groin all the way up to his chest, like he was basking in the afterglow of a hard-fought victory. And lying there, staring at the ceiling, all he could think was,Don’t screw this up again.
For someone who had come to sex much later than most of his friends, Daniel had certainly made up for lost time. After their first time together, he’d asked Nell, hesitantly, “Was that okay for you?” Her overly bright, too-quick “Of course it was!” hadn’t inspired confidence.
Swallowing his pride, he turned to Joe for advice, who handed him a well-thumbed copy ofThe Joy of Sex, its dog-eared pages and dubious stains suggesting it had seen a lot of action if only vicariously. The book was filled with all sorts of things the authors claimed women adored. Daniel treated it like a syllabus.
He tried everything on Nell. She liked some of it; he liked other things. Figuring out what worked for them both turned out to be so much fun that they enthusiastically repeated everything three or four times purely for research purposes.
“Stay there,” Nell said now, blowing him a kiss as she slipped out of the room. “I won’t be long.”
Left alone, Daniel stared at the ceiling. The blissed-out haze from earlier began to fade, and that faint sense of unease, the one he’d been brushing aside for weeks, crept back in like an unwelcome guest.
Nell would be graduating from the Art School in six months. She’d mentioned London—a casual remark tossed out over coffee that had haunted Daniel ever since. Maybe she’d apply to Central Saint Martins, the crown jewel of UK art schools. Or perhaps she’d snap up an internship with one of those high-profile graphic design studios down south.
“We’ll do a long-distance thing,” she’d said, far too breezily for Daniel’s liking, as if the prospect of being hundreds of miles apart was no bigger a deal than skipping breakfast.
Nell in London, surrounded by other artists. Effortlessly cool, chain-smoking types who probably called their parents by their first names and rolled their eyes when Nell mentioned her boyfriend back home.Yeah, sure hon. Fidelity is so… 1950s, right? Not feminist, either. A patriarchal tool to oppress women.
If he were honest, he wasn’t sure what patriarchal meant. But he’d overheard a heated student discussion in Nell’s halls’ communal kitchen area one night, where a group of women waved around their roll-ups, swigged red wine and vowed they would never, ever marry anyone.
The memory made his stomach clench.
What if… what if he asked her to marry him?
Married? Whit?!
Given that he spent so much time with Joe, it was no surprise that his closest friend and business partner’s voice was the first one to pop up in his head.
