Page 64 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
Bianca Chomondley-Smith, reminding me that she’s on her way back from Indonesia and suggesting we catch up for a drink. Again. The second time today. For the past two months, I’ve been fobbing her off with short, bland replies, and she still hasn’t taken the hint. Two months of celibacy while I tried to figure out what I actually wanted from life, from relationships. Two months of turning down easy lays because I thought I was ready for something real.
Then, Rachel walked into that house and proved me right. When I kissed her, she kissed me back like she wasn’t performing for an audience. We could give each other shit and joke around, but we could also talk about the hard stuff in our lives. She actually listened when I told her about wanting to write songs for the band instead of just being the drummer—didn’t laugh or tell me to stick to what I’m good at, like everyone else had. I thought I could convince her we could face that stuff together. I had more meaningful conversations in one week with Rachel than all my other girlfriends put together. For the first time, I felt like someone was seeing me, not just my rock star reputation and healthy bank balance.
And then she told me it was just a bit of fun. That we should leave it there.
Bianca’s a nice enough girl, sure. Predictable, safe, the kind who’d be thrilled to be seen out with me. Nothing like the models and influencers I usually go for, which I thought was the point. But after Rachel, the idea of settling for someone I don’t feel that spark with feels like giving up.
Still, maybe that’s what I deserve. Maybe Rachel’s right and I should just go back to what I’ve always done. I could post a story with Bianca, watch the gossip rags celebrate the return of ‘Heartbreaker Hargrove’. Show Rachel I’m moving on just fine, thanks.
I start to type a reply to Bianca, something casual about meeting up at a pub, but before I can hit send, Briar’s footsteps sound on the stairs. I look at the words on my screen—charming and flirty, but shallow, and everything I swore I wouldn’t be anymore.
I delete the message and shove the phone in my pocket. My sister needs me, and right now, I’m just going to be the person she can count on.
Chapter 23
WhendidIbeginto hate Mondays? I stare at the calendar on my screen: Monday the 8th of December is shaping up to be the worst yet. Two days after the wedding, and one since I cut Teddy Hargrove out of my life. I prop my elbows on my desk, cup my forehead in my hands, and close my eyes for a moment, wallowing in regret.
First, there’s regret about how I’ve managed the man sitting opposite me, totally intent on the tablet in his hand. Last Friday, I thought future me would appreciate the seemingly impossible list of tasks I gave to Henry, my paralegal, to attack in my absence. Today’s me is yelling, “What the fuck were you thinking?” while Henry proudly drones on and on, detailing how he’s completed every one of them.
“I’ve catalogued the Elliot discovery documents—eight-hundred and forty-seven emails—and found three inconsistencies in the defendant’s timeline,” he says, scrolling carefully.
He’s so damn meticulous and pedantic, earnest about his work—all good qualities in a paralegal—and incredibly fucking boring.
Not that boring is all bad. There’s no drama with Henry. Turns up early each morning and reliably does his job, and does it extremely well. Goes home to his mum and his cat, Toffee Pop, and turns up again the next day. I think he’s had like one sick day in the three years he’s worked for me. But right now, I wish he’d phoned to say Toffee had coughed up a fur ball or his mum needed to go to the podiatrist, or something, anything, so I could have a day’s peace.
“Rachel, are you okay?” I snap my head up and meet his concerned gaze. I hadn’t really noticed before, but Henry’s got nice eyes—soft, kind, and right now oozing empathy.
The realisation hits like a punch to the gut. Maybe it’s because my brain is now wired to notice that exact shade of brown. The same dark chocolate as a certain drummer boy who I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about at all.
That’s my other—and way bigger—regret this morning: pushing Teddy away. He wanted more, and god knows I wanted it too, but common sense whispered no. I’m not ready to gamble my heart on the hope that he’s changed, or that he could change for me. I don’t trust myself to believe he’d fight for us when the shine wears off and things get hard. He told me himself everything’s always come easily to him; he’s never had to prove he could stay when it mattered. He doesn’t fix hard; he replaces the girl. That’s what I’m scared of—being the girl he replaces when easy runs out. Better to step back now, before I tumble further. Still, every time I try to set him aside, a knot tightens at my temples, my body betraying what my mind insists is the wiser choice.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I shake my head and force a watery smile. “Just tired.”
Henry swipes at his tablet before laying it on the edge of the desk between us.
“We can leave this. I’m sure you’ve got enough to be going on with. And it’s all in the document I sent you.”
I nod. “Thanks Henry. You’re the best.” I mean it. Henry is the best, and I was damn lucky to have him reassigned to me when a partner retired.
“Let me get you a drink of water. Paracetamol. Coffee?”
“All of the above, please. Thank you Henry. And great work on the Elliot case, by the way. Appreciate that.”
His modest smile makes me ashamed of my less charitable thoughts about him moments earlier.
As Henry steps out, I catch a flash of colour amongst the crisp white-on-white decor of our offices. There’s someone standing in reception in a pink puffer jacket over a set of hospital blue scrubs. Even with her back to me, I recognise Sam’s familiar mop of dark curls restrained in a neat bun.
I quickly push my feet into the pair of heels under my desk and try to walk as fast as I can without drawing attention to myself. Luckily, there’s someone ahead of her occupying our receptionist.
“Ah, Samantha,” I say a little too loudly, giving her my best welcoming smile, as if she’s a client. Not the best cover, since most of our clients turn up in suits. “Thanks for calling in.” Before she can respond, I grab her by the elbow, steering her towards the nearest interview room. Sam gives me a bemused smile but plays along with the charade, allowing me to bustle her along.
Inside the room, with the door firmly closed, she flops onto the small sofa, and I take the chair opposite.
“What’s with the big act?” she says, rolling her eyes at me.
“My boss is intolerant of personal interruptions in the office,” I sigh. “And while this has to be a first for me, I still can’t afford to appear anything but work-focused when there’s a vacant partner’s seat.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know how much that means to you. Don’t want to get you in trouble, but I had to come.”
