Page 6 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
“Maybe.” It’s the best I can stutter out, although I accompany it with what I hope is an enigmatic grin.
Normal Teddywouldturn around and follow her to see what’s on offer, but Rachel’s got me so flustered with only a few words Ikeep moving in the opposite direction. Normal Teddy wouldn’t be wasting time on conversation, too keen to get her into bed.
Immediate regret at a lost opportunity nips at my heels. An hour ago, after our first encounter, I’d already decided I need more time with Rachel than what the wedding prep allows. I left the seat on the sofa beside her, planning ways to make that happen. Women usually chase me, not the other way around, but the instant our eyes locked across that room, an unexpected predatory urge overtook me. The way she jerked away from me—after I checked she wasn’t about to choke to death before my eyes—I’d assumed a long pursuit, one that might take days, perhaps the whole week. Yet now I think maybe I’ve got it wrong. Maybe this woman wants to be caught. If I play it right, tonight might spark a fire that doesn’t fizzle out.
Even more reason to use the time over dinner to accelerate things between us.
Two steps inside the dining room and I know that’s not happening.
“Teddy.” Christian waves me over to a seat between him and Garrett, past the remaining empty space, which has to be Rachel’s.
Now I get it—everyone’s had the hard word from Haley. She’s already engineered the seating arrangements, so I’ve got Garrett separating me from Rachel like the Berlin Wall, while Ollie’s settled in the place opposite her where he gets to gaze into those baby blues across the table. Haley trusts her brother not to hit on her friend—but not me.
She is, of course, spot on with that assessment of the situation, but I’m not deterred. Haley may have thwarted my plans for now, but I doubt she can keep it up. Once she gets caught up in her wedding prep, cock-blocking me will be the last thing on her mind.
I slide into the seat consoling myself with the knowledge this is only the first night, only one dinner, and I have nine more days of opportunities to get close to Rachel MacDonald—and I think she might want to get close to me, too.
I’ve just poured myself a glass of wine when Rachel arrives back, slipping into her seat with a shake of her golden mane. The movement wafts her perfume my way, the heady spiciness like an airborne drug. I close my eyes and inhale the scent of her presence, drawing it deep into my lungs. Not only can I smell her, I can feel her nearness. It’s as if an electric current flows between us, undeterred by Garrett’s bulky form in between. It prickles at me, causing goosebumps to rise on my forearms. I tug down my rolled-up shirtsleeves, covering the evidence of her effect.
“So, Teddy, who’re you backing in the match-up tomorrow—Arsenal or United?” The East End accent booms from the top of the table.
I turn to our host, Tommy Bunt. The unlikely lord of the manor grins at me expectantly, his face flushed with one too many whiskies before dinner. The Man U shirt stretched across his chest leaves no doubt where his loyalties lie.
“United all the way,” I reply tactfully, leaving it at that as the others chime in, predicting outcomes for the weekend’s football games.
Normally I’d be in the thick of the noisy conversation at this end of the table, the men all clustered down here talking football. Keeping up with the national obsession is more of a learned skill than something that came naturally. Growing up with an artist for a mum and a musician for a dad, the only clashes that mattered in our house were creative ones. Individual expression was encouraged, praisedeven. Team endeavours? Not so much. Choosing music made me the golden child—though I doubt banging on drums and running off with a rock band was quite what they had in mind.
These days I don’t mind tossing around football talk with the guys during breaks from a recording session. None of us are huge fans, but it’s a pastime that oils the wheels of male conversation in this country. I’m always up for a little friendly rivalry and trash talk about the teams we pretend to support.
Tonight, however, I’m mostly a spectator, only speaking when I have to answer a direct question, while keeping my ears tuned to the frequency of Rachel’s voice, hoping to grasp snippets of her words amongst the twittering laughter of the women gathered at the far end of the table. They’re all a little drunk—too many cocktails before dinner—and it’s near impossible to separate Rachel’s conversation from their chatter.
“Teddy, please, you need to eat more than that. My husband spent the afternoon slaving over a hot stove for you all.”
A husky laugh brushes my ear. Loreena Bunt hovers at my shoulder, a platter in one hand, silver serving tongs clasping chunky slices of meat in the other. Without waiting for an answer, she loads up my plate.
“Thanks, Loreena,” I say, my best manners on show for the woman who’s invited us—and the circus that’s a rock star wedding—into her home. I gaze at the heap of food with no enthusiasm. How the hell can I avoid insulting both hospitable Loreena and her amiable husband?
Normally I’d be scoffing down the lamb and pigging out on roast vegetables. I’m always ravenous after a day with the band, rehearsal sessions like a gym workout, the physicality of drumming consumingboth my body and my mind. Tonight, I pick at the food like a fussy toddler, racked by a different sort of hunger.
Nothing is normal anymore. Not after my latest encounter with Rachel MacDonald.
The last time I saw her—at some party at Ollie’s place, I think—she was attached to a bloke in a suit. He looked daggers at any guy who so much as glanced in her direction, all possessive glare and puffed-up chest. Meanwhile, he couldn’t seem to keep his own eyes—or hands—off every other woman in the room. Not that it mattered to me then. I was with someone, and one thing I guarantee: the girl I take to a party always has my full attention. And now, out of nowhere, Rachel has mine.
I hear it—my name, on her lips.
“Teddy can ride?No.You’re shitting me.” Laughter bursts from her. She plants a hand on Garrett’s chest, long fingers with red-tipped nails pushing him back in his seat. “Really?” she says around him, her plush mouth open wide, incredulous.
“Yeah—” Before I can finish my sentence, fucking Ollie jumps in.
“Really, he can,” he says. “There’s evidence. Have you seen the video for ‘Ember’?”
‘Ember’ is one of the band’s few ballads. Starts slow and builds with a ‘Stairway To Heaven’ vibe. Not my favourite, since the drums barely get a look in over the guitars—but shooting the video up in Scotland was brilliant. Okay, the weather was shit—damp and moody, which you’d think the director must have ordered specially—but I had fun.
Rachel’s head flicks back towards Ollie. Crap, the bastard’s stolen the only crumb of her attention I’ve had sinceshe sat down. Thankfully, Garrett pushes his chair back, so at least I can see the conversation that should be mine.
“No. Never seen it.” She shakes her head, and the long blonde strands ripple like waves across her shoulders. “But I know the song.”
“So,” Ollie says, leaning back in his seat, ready to tell the story. “The director wanted a brooding feel, and this time travel theme running through it. We’re on set in Scotland, up near Glencoe. It’s pissing down most of the day, foggy in between.”
