Page 14 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
“The thing is, Teddy, they were all deserving charities, but they’re the lucky ones. In the spotlight where the posh crowd throws money at them. What if we chose something different? Smaller, maybe? A charity where twenty thousand pounds will make a real difference.”
“And nothing if we lose.”
Her chin lifts. There’s a determined fire in her eyes. “Good thing we’re not going to lose.”
I know a group who could use twenty grand. I swallow down the lump in my throat that rises whenever I think of my niece, Elodie, and how close we came to losing her. Memories of a sixth birthday party we thought would be her last. Gratitude for the people who made something so ordinary as a family birthday celebration seem extraordinary. I blink it back. My favourite kid is still with us.
“There’s this charity I’ve worked with—Memories That Matter. Not big, just a handful of core volunteers, really. Most people haven’t even heard of them. But they do amazing stuff for kids with cancer.”
“Oh?” Rachel tilts her head. “Like rides in fancy cars, or trips to Disneyland?”
“Nah, nothing flashy. Simple things. A birthday party. A family day at the beach. Making the memories that really count—” My throat tightens. My voice catches. “The ones families will remember most.”
Her expression softens, eyes like two gentle blue pools. She stretches out her hand, lays it on my knee. “Oh, Teddy. I’m so sorry.”
“No, no, it’s not what you think,” I assure her. “We’re one of the lucky families. My niece—Elodie—she’s a real little fighter. We still get to make memories with her. Hopefully, for a long time.”
Her face brightens, but she leaves her hand on my knee, and I soak up the contact.
“That’s good to hear. And yeah, that charity sounds perfect.” A grin tugs at her lips. “Plus, extra motivation—you’ll fight harder if you’re chasing something you actually care about.”
I’m probably reading way too much into that quirked eyebrow. Is Rachel inviting me to pursue her? She didn’t shy away when I touched her this morning. But with a pat on my knee more friendly than flirty, she’s on her feet and moving. I instantly hate the loss of connection.
First back in the lounge, I chase more of it. I grab a seat next to Rachel and chance a casual arm along the back of the sofa, bringing her alittle into my orbit.
The others file in, and one by one we announce our choice of charity. No surprise that Haley and Christian have opted for Canine Haven Dog Rescue, which Haley used to work for before she left to study at vet school. Sam and Ollie are playing for a support group for victims of violent crime. Liv and Garrett’s choice is a mental health awareness charity. When it comes to our turn, Rachel gives me a nod and a gentle nudge.
“We’re playing for Memories That Matter, the child cancer charity.” There’s a chorus of appreciative murmurs from my bandmates. They stood beside me when cancer tried to snatch Elodie from my family. They know how much that birthday party meant.
“Right, we can get started.” Loreena stands, placing a hand on one of the boxes. “The first game needs a little building skill. Inside each box is everything you need to create a gingerbread house.” It’s going to be a mansion if the size of the box is anything to go by. “Slabs of gingerbread, icing, sweets for decoration. You have three hours. You need to be back here at one with your completed house. Tommy and I will look them over and give you a score out of one hundred.”
Three hours seems a long time to slap some pieces of gingerbread together and stick sweets all over, but as it’s not something I’ve ever done before, I suppose I should be grateful for a generous time allowance. Loreena dispatches us to our workplaces, various spaces across the estate set aside for us. The cumbersome box digs into my fingers, forcing me to readjust my grip every few steps as I follow Rachel.
In the cottage next to the stables, Poppy has sacrificed her kitchen for the cause and is evidently brave enough to leave us unsupervised. “Just make sure you clean up after yourselves,” she calls through theopen window of her Land Rover, engine rumbling outside. “I’m off to town.”
I should be focused on the competition, but as I watch Poppy drive away, all I can think of is the three uninterrupted hours alone with Rachel.
Chapter 6
InsidePoppy’skitchen,Idump the unwieldy box on a table, whip out the little pocket knife on my keyring and slit the tape. Rachel and I plunge into it, setting out the contents on the broad wooden worktop. There seems to be everything we need except for one important item.
“No damn instructions.” Rachel stands, hands on hips, glaring at the array of items in front of us. “Not even a drawing of what a finished house should look like. Have you ever done this before? Because I haven’t.”
“No, sorry, never.” Growing up in an unconventional family, we didn’t do all these cute, traditional things.
“But your mother’s a sculptor, surely—” She stops, and a flush of colour roars up her cheeks. Caught her out again. I’m more flattered than I should be. I obviously made enough of an impression last night for her to do some real digging. Then my mouth sours. What else did that research turn up? A miracle she made it past thecircus—the parties, the drinking, the women—and found the ordinary truth: where I’m from, my family.
Even now, after two months with no one in my life, my past still fuels the tabloids. It’s like when I stop handing them fresh scandal, the hacks dredge up the dirtiest old stories, rehashing them with innuendo and half-truths to flog a few papers. Last Saturday’s ‘Love Rat Riot: Teddy’s Top Ten Conquests’ splattered acrossThe Sun. Their reporter, Damien Hollis, has made shadowing me his personal career. That article was a new low, even for him. For a minute I was tempted to call up someone from the long-forgotten contacts list, take her out, and feed him an anonymous tip—just to give him something else to write. But I didn’t.
And now, for a week, that story has been everywhere. The thought that Rachel has to have seen it makes me sick, but I push it aside, clinging to the hope she hasn’t.
“Yeah, Mum’s a sculptor. Give her some clay, or a lump of marble, and she’d know what to do. But that doesn’t mean I do. Anyway, this looks more like a job for a builder. Or an architect. An engineer maybe? Again, not me.” Music is the only thing I’m good at. Totally useless for these stupid Christmas games.
With an exasperated huff, Rachel whips a slim case from her back pocket and perches a set of glasses on her nose. She looks so damn smart and sexy I’m tempted to suggest we forfeit this challenge entirely and disappear to my room—but then Memories That Matter gets nothing. We have five tasks to complete, and the rules are clear: miss even one challenge and there’s no payout, regardless of how many we’ve won. I won’t sacrifice their shot at £20,000 for a moment of weakness, no matter how distracting Rachel looks right now.
Besides, I have an entire week to see if this heat between us could become something more than just another quick hookup. Rushing her into bed before we’ve barely begun to know each other would be exactly the kind of mistake I’m determined not to make again.
And let’s be honest, Rachel would never go for it, anyway. She’s obviously so competitive she’d rather die than bail on a challenge. Whatever’s sparking between us comes second to crushing the competition.
