Page 40 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
“Best we all eat up.” Sam seems surprisingly perky, spearing a little sausage off Ollie’s plate. “Big day today, according to Haley. Best challenge yet she says.”
Around us, cutlery clinks and chairs scrape. Loreena sloshes juice in a glass; Liv slides a stack of buttered toast over to Garrett. But Sam’s confidence cuts over the noise. I decide to bite.
“Probably not one you’re going to win, Sam. Not with him.” I nod at Ollie, who sits next to her with elbows on the table, hands over his face. He looks like he’s got the headache he deserved for being the life of the party.
“We’ll see about that,” Sam says, giving him a nudge. “Nothing that breakfast and a bit of fresh air won’t fix, eh, Ollie?”
“What?” he moans softly. Our lively frontman is nowhere to be seen, just this pathetic hungover bastard slumped opposite me.
“She said, ‘nothing that band practice won’t fix’, mate. A bit of noise to clear the fog.” I pound out a rhythm on the table, and Ollie parts his fingers to glare at me with one eye. Garrett snorts into his coffee, earning himself a muttered curse from Ollie. I smirk back.
“Fuck off, Teddy,” he snaps.
“Definitely not our usual friendly leader this morning,” I say, and stop the drumming. The guy could probably use a break when he’s going to have Sam whipping him along for the next few hours.
“The challenge isn’t going to be outside,” Rachel says. “So maybe he can sneak upstairs for a nap.”
“How do you know?” Sam’s eyes narrow, her voice thick with suspicion. I think this girl likes to win too. I imagine, although they’re friends, she and Rachel probably spar with each other the same way Sam and Ollie do.
“Saw some activity in the ballroom on my way here for breakfast,” Rachel says, keeping her voice low like it’s a secret she’s generously sharing. “Raymond, directing some of his staff with boxes. Then, when I nipped off to the loo earlier, the door was locked.”
“Spy mission thwarted,” Sam says with a chuckle. “Just as well. We don’t need you with an advantage.”
“Wedon’t need me with an advantage either,” Rachel grins. “They can throw what they like at us, but we’ll win.”
“Last night says otherwise,” Sam retorts, with a smug expression.
Rachel shakes her head, not the slightest waver in her confidence. “Get real, Sam. They can’t have this competition and not let the bride and groom win at least one challenge. Haley and Christian had their night. From here on, it’s going to be a clean sweep for us.”
Christian mutters something under his breath that makes Liv laugh, but Rachel keeps her gaze locked on Sam, unshaken.
“Tough talk there, Barbie,” Sam says, sliding from her seat and heading for the sideboard where there’s tea and copious supplies of medicinal coffee.
“Bring it on, Ninja Nurse,” Rachel calls after her.
“Barbie, huh?” I say. I can’t stop the grin sliding across my face. “Good movie, by the way. Saw it with Elodie—she made me sit through it twice.”
She shoots me a warning look. All it does is fire my need to wind her up some more.
“So, which one are you? Legally Blonde Barbie?” I raise my palms at her glare. “Thank my sisters. They love that movie.”
“At least I don’t need a Ken like you to pay my mortgage,” she shoots back.
“Scottish Barbie? May contain sarcasm and traces of single malt,” I choke out between laughs, surprising even myself with my creativity this early in the day.
“Oh, aye. Ye’re spot-on, laddie—best mind it.” She’s laid on the Scots so thick it’s halfway between a piss-take and a dare. I can’t resist.
“Whisky Barbie? Aged to perfection.”
“Now you’re on fucking dangerous ground.”
She stabs a pointy nail at my chest, and my breath hitches at the thought it might leave a mark. She’s close enough now I can catch the scent of her hair, like flowers and coconut. The image of bunching it in my hands and yanking her lips to meet mine makes my pulse kick up a notch. Her eyes glow with mock outrage.
“Really. Fucking. Dangerous,” she threatens, fisting my shirt so it tightens around my throat. My heart thumps at the thrill of her grip.
A cough comes from down the table, but I don’t turn. The whole bloody room could be watching, and I wouldn’t care.
But I can see the twitch at the corner of her mouth. She’s older than me and she owns every bit of it—doesn’t flinch, doesn’t deflect, just leans into the joke like it’s armour. So fucking Rachel.
