Page 25 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
“Wow,” she breathes. “God. I didn’t realise open marriages were really a thing.”
“Yep,” I say. “He’s slowed down now. Mostly home with Mum in Cornwall. But it doesn’t erase the years before. A different woman everyweek, it seemed.”
She’s still staring at me, and I swallow, casting my eyes to the ground, away from what is unspoken between us. We both know I’ve burned through women, too. For a long time, I told myself it was in my blood, that I couldn’t help it. Lately, that voice is quieter. I’m not him. I get to choose. And sitting here with her, I’m choosing to be different.
“Teddy, I don’t think you’re like him.”
I bark out a laugh. “The paparazzi would argue otherwise.”
“Bullshit,” she snaps. “There’s no comparison. Your dad had a woman he was committed to while using some convenient arrangement to play the field. Unless you’ve got a secret wife or long-term girlfriend stashed somewhere—which I very much doubt given the media interest in your life—it’s not the same. And if you did have someone…” I meet her gaze; her eyes are the truest blue; with that look I’d believe anything. “I don’t think you’re the sort of guy who’d parade other women in public while your wife was at home.” She smiles softly. “Or kiss strange women behind a locked library door.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“For letting you kiss me in the library?” She lets out an adorable snort-laugh. “No thanks needed. In case no one’s told you, Teddy Hargrove, you’re a fucking good kisser.”
“You know what I mean.” I nudge her with my elbow.
“I do,” she says, her expression softening, as if she’s seen I am more than the man she thought I was yesterday. Maybe a man who could be more to her if she’ll let me. She picks up the coil of fairy lights, bumps her shoulder against mine, and grins. “Now let’s whip this star into shape.”
We return to the task, quiet settling between us, but I can feel her eyes fixated on my fingers as I jerk each cable-tie in place.
“Micromanaging now?” I grin up at her frown.
“No.” A flush pinks her cheeks.
“Then why the scrutiny of my cable-tying skills?”
“You’re good with your hands.”
“Drummers’ hands.” I hold them out, the calluses catching the light, and instantly want to snatch them back. The fingertips are ridged and tough; the skin between thumb and forefinger hardened from years of sticks biting in. Little cuts and nicks score the surface, reminders of splintered wood and cymbal edges. Not the kind of hands she’d want exploring the soft places I can only imagine. God, but I want them to. “Not exactly pretty.”
“Capable hands though.” There’s a flirt in the tilt of her brow, the curve of her half-smile. “So why the drums, when your dad’s a piano player?”
I huff a laugh. “Because I was a restless kid, always banging and bashing at everything—my mum used to say I had rhythm in my bones before I could talk. But mostly…” I flex my fingers, glance down at the toughened pads. “The piano was his world. I needed something that was mine. A way to not be him.”
She nods in quiet understanding and returns to twining lights around a batten.
Two hours later, the task is complete, the leftover stuff dumped back in a box, and I’ve managed not to plummet to my death from the dodgy ladder.
“You do the honours.” I motion to the switch neatly secured alongside the barn door. She flicks it on, and pride surges in me as the lights fire into life.
The twinkling star casts ripples of light across Rachel’s upturned face, illuminating her braid hanging like a strand of gold over her shoulder. She’s so damned beautiful, with a smile of wonder lighting her up brighter than the star. Cheeks flushed pink with the cold, she glows. She grabs my hand, squeezing it, while bouncing on her toes. “We did it.”
“We did.” I murmur against her cheek.
I hug her close and lean in, lips brushing velvet-smooth skin. I’d love nothing more than to seek out her lush mouth, but in the miserable dark of my room last night, I made a decision: take it slow with Rachel.
For four years, I took whatever pretty girl landed in my lap without thinking. Now, when I’m trying to be a better man, I regret every one of the easy yeses. The notoriety I’ve earned through those hook-ups has come around to bite me on the arse.
This beautiful woman tucked under my arm knows that history, and only sees me as a good time, not a long time. In bed last night, her words to Haley played over in my head. They cut deep, not the sort of pain I’ve felt before. My reputation as a pretty playboy—something I’ve been proud to own, revelled in even—now keeps me in the shallows, skimming the surface when what I want is to dive deeper.
Maybe after two months of flying solo, I really have changed. Or maybe it’s just her. Rachel is nothing like any woman who’s pursued me before. She’s terrifyingly brilliant, sharp-tongued, determined. Add her boundless energy and she’s intoxicating. Her beauty feels almost secondary now.
Giving in to our attraction too easily means falling into my usual pattern. This new version of myself hesitates, because caving to her advances would only cement her view of me: the guy who starts fast and doesn’t stick around.
But there’s an expiry date—seven days till we leave. The old me would have been perfectly fine with that. Relieved, even. Charge straight in knowing there’s a clear ending. No complications.
Yet not starting something at all feels impossible now. I’m too far gone for her. God knows she’s up for it, but in her mind we’ll have a bit of fun and then go our separate ways after the wedding.
