Page 31 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
“Well, I’ll be leaving you to it, then.” Now my eyes have adjusted, there’s no mistaking Poppy’s wink, or the knowing expression on her face. “See you in the morning. That’s if you’re not too tired to ride out.”
We dissolve into choked laughter as she wanders back out of the stables, but when her footsteps fade, we’re left staring at each other in the dim light. The spell is broken. The urgency and desperation of moments ago now feel awkward.
“I’m sorry,” I splutter, my hands still pressed against his chest. “I don’t think I can do this here, now. It was bad enough when I thought the horses knew what we were up to.”
“Me neither,” he laughs. “Let’s go back over to the house.”
The walk back feels longer than it should, both of us quiet, the cold air doing nothing to cool the heat still thrumming between us. As we shrug off our coats in the hallway, my smartwatch buzzes insistently against my wrist.
I push back my sleeve, and the screen lights up with a cascade of email notifications—all from Marcus, my colleague turned rival. No doubt he’s spent his Hong Kong weekend playing in the boys’ club with our client, while firing all the real work my way. He’s likely promised miracles by morning, confident I’ll pull them off. He’ll be tucked up sleeping off the whisky while I’ll be earning the win thatlands on his desk. Want the seat? Do the work. Do the work? Make him shine. That’s the kicker.
“Oh, fuck,” I breathe, the familiar knot of work stress forming as I scan the subject lines.
“What’s wrong?” Teddy’s eyes widen with concern, and he steps closer, his hand finding my shoulder.
“Just work,” I sigh, kicking off one boot with more force than necessary. “I have to sort this out now. Four hours until my colleague is meeting our client in Hong Kong, and they want amendments to the entire bloody contract.” I dispose of the second boot, each movement sharp with frustration.
The weight of choosing work over this—over him—is like a stone dragging me under. Here I am, after two months, finally letting myself want something, someone, and my phone pulls me back to the life I’ve built around deadlines and billable hours.
“Can’t someone else handle it?” Teddy asks with the resigned tone of someone who already knows the answer.
“I wish,” I say, and I mean it more than he could possibly know. “Tell the others I went to bed with a headache.” I hate how easily the lie comes, but I can’t let Haley know work is dragging me away from her wedding fun—not when she’s already worried I’m not taking enough time for myself.
“Sure,” he says quietly, but there’s something in his expression I can’t quite read. Disappointment? Understanding? Both?
I head for the stairs, each step heavy with the knowledge that I’m walking away from something that has an expiration date. With only seven days left, I’m wasting precious hours on contracts and emails. What should have been a simple fling feels like it’s already becominganything but simple, and I’m running out of time to figure out what I actually want.
Behind me, I hear Teddy’s voice as he spins my cover story, and the others make sympathetic noises about my supposed headache.
In my room, I sit on the edge of the bed with my laptop open, the contract pages blurring on the screen. Through the window, I can see the stables, where we almost crossed the line into something more than partners in a stupid contest. But “almost” seems to be the story of my life—almost married, almost in love, almost brave enough to choose something other than work.
Chapter 10
Mondaymorning’srehearsalisa dose of a drug I never knew I needed. I haven’t picked up my sticks for two whole days. While spending hours of my time with Rachel on these challenges has been the best, I still needed this. Maybe it’s the relief of satisfying a physical need, in place of that other, pent-up craving—the one I keep trying to shove down every time she presses herself against me.
Inside the makeshift studio, we’ve been at this for two hours, though it feels like minutes. Eyes closed, cans on, and I’m totally in the zone. My shoulders are alive, my arms energised by the sweet ache of muscles reawakened, and my whole body is down deep in conversation with my drum kit.
A trickle of sweat inches down my spine. I should be freezing in just a T-shirt—it seems to be the only room in the house without a gas fire—but the solid workout and the pleasant burn in my forearms are a buffer against the cold.
Beyond the windows, a heavy ceiling of low cloud makes it feel more night than day. Rain slashes against the panes, and I’m glad to drown out its unwelcome clatter with my instrument.
Rachel’s 7am text woke me before my alarm this morning.Too wet. No riding today.
My heart sank even as my sex-crazed brain plunged to another low. I blame my Irish mate Fitzy’s overuse of that particular slang for the image that blasts across my brain every time I think of the word ‘riding’ and Rachel in the same sentence.
I sent her back a crying emoji and the wordsTomorrow then?She could probably hear my pathetic hopefulness in that lone question mark.
When she responded,See you at whatever painful challenge Haley’s plotted for us todaywith a laughing emoji, I sent her back a thumbs up and then spent an hour second-guessing my reply. I really need Briar to give me lessons in the subtleties of talking in emojis.
Now she’s invaded my thoughts again, it’s hard to shake Rachel off, but I pull myself away and focus on the job. We’re halfway through ‘December Promise’, the Christmas single due out in two weeks. We’ll be totally sick of hearing it on every fucking radio station and playing it at every damn appearance by the time December twenty-fifth rolls around, but it’s a smart financial move for sure.
Christian wrote it for Haley last year, part of their Christmas fairytale love story. Sending it onto the charts at the same time as the photos of their wedding hit the headlines will trigger thousands of pounds pouring into our record company’s coffers—and ours, too.
We’re just a few bars into the second chorus when, abruptly, Christian’s vocals falter. The guitars fade, and my eyes fly open. The reason for this sudden interruption stands in the doorway.
“They’re ready for you now,” Haley singsongs, eyes sparkling with excitement while inwardly I groan. “In the library.”
One session of trying on monkey suits in London wasn’t enough. We’re scheduled for another round, and it looks like it’s time. I set down my drumsticks and trudge after the other guys.
