Page 92 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
“Christ,” I say, “with you, Ninja-Nurse Sam, and miniature-but-mighty Liv, all on my case, I’ll have to keep my halo polished.”
Haley jerks a thumb toward the foyer. “Came to tell you.” She shouts over the music. “The record label wants another photo op—band plus better halves. Game faces, everyone.”
We weave through champagne-fuelled chatter to the foyer, where, barricaded behind the rope line, flashguns already strobe. Stacey from PR barks, “No questions—just pics!”
Ollie plants himself centre stage; Liv and Garrett flank him; Christian wraps an arm around Haley. I steer Rachel into the slot beside Haley, my palm warm at her waist. Shutters rattle in rapid bursts like hail on tin.
Rachel leans toward Haley, lips barely moving. “How do you stand this?”
Haley’s smile stays camera-steady. “Ignore the noise—fans, tabloids—none of it matters. Only the two of you.”
Liv, close enough to catch it, nods. “Trust is the trick.”
Rachel straightens, eyes on the lenses. “Then it’s okay. I trust him.”
My chest kicks like I’ve mis-hit the bass drum, but in the best way. As the flashes fire, her hand in mine is rock steady, and for once in my life, so am I.
Chapter 34
Theclear,crispSundayevening draws crowds for the Christmas carol service. People flow towards St Paul’s, its illuminated Baroque façade ablaze against the black December sky. From within, the first strains of the organ drift outward, fragments of familiar carols carried on the cold air like a promise. Warm golden light spills from the tall windows onto the stone steps as Teddy and I weave through couples and families, all in winter coats, breaths misting in the air. He steadies me with a gloved hand as a little boy ducks past us, laughing in a game of tag with another.
“Not here for us?” I nod at the discreetly placed security staff, and two tall men in dark suits with earpieces.
“No,” Teddy says, tilting his head at a black Jaguar convoy nosing around the corner. “Might be a few royals expected. A government minister, maybe. Though if the paps don’t lay off us soon, I might need to employ someone.”
“The price you pay for having a Christmas love story.” As if on cue, there’s a sudden burst of white flashes to our left. The tabloidshave crowned us this season’s feel-good story. It won’t last, so we may as well enjoy it before they decide either to turn on us or turn their attention to someone else.
A bolder photographer pushes forward, elbows wide, roughly blocking our path. Teddy shoots him a glare and steps around the man, towing me with him. Behind him, a young woman, huge camera in hand smiles at us politely. She’s kind of cute, with a Santa hat jingling and a pair of dangly snowman earrings twirling drunkenly.
“Grab a pic and perhaps a little quote, Rachel and Teddy?” she says, all youthful enthusiasm.
“Sure.” Teddy’s smile warms as he pulls me in close.
The camera clatters, but I barely notice. His hand on my waist, his cheek brushing mine, the familiar smell of his cologne. It’s all I need to anchor me when the curiosity of the outside world invades our bubble.
She pulls out a notebook. “And a quote? If you don’t mind.”
“Just here for candlelight, carols, and the woman who keeps my heartbeat in time.”
I shake my head, smiling—only Teddy could come up with that on the spot.
With her gushy thanks echoing behind us, we start moving up the steps again.
“And that’s why they love you,” I whisper.
And it’s why I think I might love him, too.
Behind the angry crash of his drum solos, this leather-jacket-clad motorbike rider is a teddy bear who’s known for never saying an unkind word. And it’s no act just for the fans and the media. Strip everything else away, and you still get the same Teddy, sweet as a box of Christmas chocolates, and I’m the lucky one who doesn’t have toshare. I’ve never known such gentleness, such tenderness in a man, until him. It’s addictive.
“Teddy!”
A striking, vaguely familiar woman detaches herself from a nearby knot of people and glides our way on impossibly long legs. The man beside her, buttoned into a peacoat that practically screams designer, eyes us suspiciously as she threads an arm through Teddy’s. A pair of perfumed air kisses hover in the space between them.
She leans back, one brow arched at me.
“So this is...” The question tapers off, as if she knows better than to guess the name of the woman on Teddy’s arm.
“Correct.” Teddy laces his fingers through mine. “This is Rachel—my girlfriend. Rachel, meet Tessa Kingsley, a friend of Briar’s.”
