Page 39 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
“We girls like to keep you on your toes, that’s all,” she laughs, nudging Solly towards the archway.
The horses, being creatures of habit, head off in our usual direction. The sun is dragging itself above the stick figures of the bare trees, and the hedgerows are alive with the sound of birds. I inhale the fresh country air.
“I could get used to this,” I say.
“Me too,” she says. “Imagine waking up to this every day.”
“Maybe I should buy myself another house,” I wonder out loud. “In the country. Not that I’d get to enjoy it very often, with how mental the band’s schedule is. But Ollie’s place in Somerset is bloody nice.”
“It is. You should just do it. I’m sure you can afford another house, Teddy.”
“Would you come visit if I did?”
“What—weekends at Lord Theodore’s mansion? Yeah, stable a few horses there and I’d visit.”
The idea is instantly appealing. The thought of Rachel and I doing this together in the future, these early morning rides, the easy conversation—but that presumes something different to what I’ve had with other women. A friendship. A relationship even. More than a quick hookup and some great sex over a few days. It feels like some next evolution of myself, one I want, and I’m ready for.Yet while I sense with Rachel it might be in my reach, there’s the frustration of how to get there. Right now, she seems hell-bent on leading me along my usual path—a no-strings bit of fun and then we move on to someone else. If I give in to her invitation, is it possible to turn this into something more?
“Of course, we don’t have to wait.” I jerk my eyes to hers, their summer blue deepened to darkest navy, the pupils wide. “I’d be happy to visit you here in your room…or you can visit mine. I know you want to.” There’s a provocative quirk in her brow. Her mouth tips up in a seductive smile, lips wet, her cheeks flushed pink in the cold. She’s fucking irresistible.
“Come on, Teddy,” she says. “I’ll admit I was a bit pissed last night, but not enough to forget what I said. Or what you said, too. I’m holding you to your promise.”
This is it. I need to take the first step. Where we start isn’t where we need to end up. It’s not how Rachel and I begin; it’s how we end that matters—and maybe we don’t have to end at all. That’s up to me.
“I’m a man of my word,” I say slowly. Her smile broadens.
“Good,” she says, and with a nudge at Solly’s flank, they’re off down the meadow. Bodie springs to life without warning, but I’m ready for her as we blast off in pursuit. Different day, same thing: I’m racing after Rachel MacDonald, still hoping to catch her.
As usual, we let the horses graze beside the thicket. Over the enthusiastic sound of teeth tearing tender grass, I keep an ear out for marauding peacocks.
“See you made the news again today, Theodore.” Rachel’s voice drifts across, a casual taunt in her tone.
I rip my phone from inside my jacket. I know where to look first—The Sun. And there it is. Fucking Damien Hollis strikes again. This time it’s a rehash of a piece he wrote six months ago about me and some bloody model. A friend of Briar’s. We had a drink. One drink. But apparently that counts as a sordid fling worth reprinting. Christ. The man must be desperate, clinging to his job. Lazy bastard can’t be bothered to find a fresh victim, so he drags my past out again, just when I’m trying to prove I’m not that guy anymore.
Rachel leans closer, peering at the screen. “Nice headline.” She reads it out, amused:Runway to Riot: Teddy’s Catwalk Crush.A grin tugs at her mouth. “Better thanLove Rat Riot, don’t you think?”
She says it lightly, teasing, like it’s all a joke. But it isn’t a joke to me. Not when the papers seem determined to freeze me in place as the playboy I’m trying so hard to leave behind. The truth is I haven’t touched anyone in months. I want to tell her that, make her see I mean it. But all I manage is a shrug that feels as fake as the story splashed across the screen.
Rachel lifts a brow. “Thought you’d want to know. If you ever get sick of Hollis, I’ve got a friend who does defamation cases.”
The offer sounds offhand, tossed out like she’s talking about fixing a parking ticket. It hits a nerve. Part of me wants to take her up on it, to burn Hollis to the ground. Instead, I force a laugh and shake my head.
“Nah. Let him write what he wants,” I mutter, shoving the phone away, though my chest is burning.
I gather up Bodie’s reins and turn her from the grass, pushing her into a reluctant walk. Anything to end this humiliating moment. I need a way to prove—to Rachel, and maybe to myself—that I’m not the bloke in that headline anymore. Garrett told me, one day at a time. Fine. I’ll keep showing up, every bloody day, until she realises I’m more than the mess splashed across the papers.
Breakfast is a full British fry-up. Exactly what I need to take the edge off after Rachel catching me in my latest tabloid fiasco. Everyone else looks like they need it too after last night’s piss-up. I’m easily the least affected; after leaving Rachel, I was too wound up to join them chugging cocktails. I still scoff my food. Rachel doesn’t look like she’s any worse for wear either, sitting at my elbow, loading more bacon onto her plate.
“Oh, this is so fucking good,” she moans, eyes closed. “I think I’m taking Tommy home with me as my personal chef.”
The man really is a wonder. He doesn’t do it quite on his own; I’ve spotted a couple of staff in the kitchen, but Tommy seems to run it like a kinder version of a Gordon Ramsey restaurant, turning out incredible meals for the ten of us and watching us dispose of them with a toothy grin of pride.
“You might have to help me into my dress come Saturday,” Rachel says to Sam while stabbing at a piece of black pudding. “There’s noway thoughts of fitting a bridesmaid dress will make me pull back from this.”
I love a woman with an appetite. I’ve sat across from too many girls terrified of food, watching them chase lettuce around a plate with a wary eye, as if calories could navigate the air between food and their mouths. My sister, Briar, has fought hard against being one of them, but it’s not easy. You can’t be a star of the West End and not have some fuckwit journalist think they’re entitled to comment on things they have no right to. Once the media fixes its eye on you, everything—your body, your family, your life—is always the subject of their speculation.
Another hurdle I’ll have to cross with Rachel. I want her in my life beyond this week; but that would mean throwing her straight into the world Briar and I already live in. One public appearance together and it would be all on—the cameras, the headlines, the speculation. Would she meet it with the same ‘don’t give a fuck’ attitude she’s showing now? Or would the glare chip away until the confident woman I see in front of me was just a shadow? I don’t think I could live with being the reason she broke.
It’s selfish to want her anyway—selfish to ask her to sign up for that life just so I can keep her in mine. The press has crushed tougher people than Rachel MacDonald. But maybe Hollis has done me a favour. His latest shitty stories have already slapped my past in front of her. She’s not naïve; she knows if she were with me, it would be her face in the photos, her name in the headlines. I need to trust her intelligence. If Rachel dives into the deep end with me, she’ll do it knowing exactly what sharks are lurking in the water.
