Page 43 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
Teddy’s shoulder brushes mine, and the need eases. It doesn’t vanish, but it loosens. Maybe I can let the right thing come first. We created a beautiful backdrop for Saturday’s ceremony. That should be enough. I can accept that, but I’m not there yet with the rest. The partner’s seat still pulls at me, but for the first time there’s a glimpse of other choices.
Before I can sit with that thought, Tabitha swoops in, phone raised. “Photo time! Trees, teams—squeeze in.” She shuffles us an inch left, an inch right, checks the light, and makes us do “one for the grid” and “a silly one.”
As the buzz dies down, Ollie jerks his head towards the door, and the band trails after him. The studio’s calling. The other girls drift over to the lounge, plunging into animated chatter about bridesmaids’ dresses and wedding music. I follow, but a quick glance at my watch says there are a couple of hours until dinner—time I can use to deal with everything the London office has thrown at me today.
“I could do with a nap,” I tell them, which isn’t entirely a lie.
Back in my room, I tug off my bra—sweet relief as the straps snap free.I settle cross-legged on the bed, laptop warming my thighs. My inbox overflows with the usual chaos: client demands, partner meetings, contract revisions. This house feels like a snow globe, our little world suspended in time, while outside the legal machine grinds along at its usual punishing pace without me. I can’t step off this treadmill, even for a week, or I risk the best opportunity that’s ever come my way. I will be a partner in the firm before Christmas, as long as I keep going.
My fingers fly across the keys, pausing only when my eyelids grow heavy. Just a quick rest. Just for a moment.
Darkness has swallowed the room when my door creaks open. I jerk awake, heart hammering, as a figure fills the doorway, backlit by the hallway light.
“Rachel, you okay?”
Teddy’s voice. I swipe at the corner of my mouth—definitely drool—and swing my legs over the side of the bed, trying to look like I wasn’t just dead to the world. Shit, I hope I wasn’t snoring as well. Last night was bad enough.
“Yeah.” The laptop slides onto the bed with a soft thud. “Come in. And shut the door. The hallway light feels like needles in my eyes.”
He steps inside, and the soft click of the door closing wraps us in intimate darkness. “You sure you’re okay? When you didn’t come down for dinner, I was worried.”
“Fuck, what time is it?”
“After seven.” The mattress dips as he settles on the bed next to me, close enough for me to drink in his spicy smell. “You’ve missedTommy’s pot roast and sticky date pudding. I can go get you some if you want.”
“No, I’m fine. Ate too much at lunch. That fresh bread gave me indigestion the whole afternoon.”
“Oh god yeah, me too.”
In the dim light, I can make out his profile, the way he’s studying his hands.
“How did it go? Rehearsal?”
“Pretty good, I think. Still looking for one more song for the next album. I’ve got one, but I’m not sure they’ll like it.”
At that little waver in his voice—uncertainty mixed with hope—I turn to him.
“You write too? Wow, I never knew that, Teddy. That’s amazing. So you haven’t shown them?”
He shakes his head, a slight sag in his shoulders. “Nah, I’m not the talent behind the songs. We all know Christian and Ollie make the hits.”
The quiet defeat in his admission tugs at my chest. “That doesn’t mean you can’t make one too. Promise me you’ll show them.”
The silence stretches between us, charged with something I can’t quite name. In the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains, I study the set of his jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. This isn’t the confident performer who commands the eye whenever he takes a seat behind his drum kit. It’s not the man who faces the cameras with a cocky grin. This is someone unsure, who doubts himself despite his talent.
“I mean, who says Ringo is their favourite Beatle?”
“Teddy.” My voice comes out softer than I intended.
He turns to me, and we’re so close I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. The air between us shifts, heavy with unspoken possibilities.
“What?” he whispers, and there’s so much vulnerability in that single word it makes my heart miss a beat.
I lift my hand slowly to his cheek, evening stubble rough under my palm, and he leans into the touch like he’s been starving for it.
I’m not sure why he’s allowing me into this part of him, but it makes me feel special. I cup his face and whisper against his lips.
“You’re more talented than you know.” My thumb traces the curve of his cheek.
