Page 41 of Surrender
I still remember when our father moved us all out of the Manchester flat. It was tight quarters with four kids plus newborn Booker, but it was cosy and happy. It was a place I was excited to go home to.
Then Mum got sick and Dad suddenly uprooted all of us to live permanently in the enormous Chigwell house he had purchased in East London. They hadn’t owned the property long, so Mum never got a chance to furnish it before she became bedridden.
After she died, Dad got rid of as much of her memory as he could, including everything from the Manchester flat. The Chigwell house was so barren and cold, I remember the boys loved playing with their cars in the foyer because their voices echoed off the walls and marble flooring.
We all still congregate in that house for Sunday dinners despite the fact that we don’t have many great memories. The truth is, the only good ones I have of that home are when we sat around the kitchen counter, using tomato sauce bottles as players to go over football formations with Dad. Those were the only times he ever spoke to us with any sort of care.
Needless to say, my kitchen counter doesn’t have stools. But furnishing this house was all for naught because Dad has never stepped foot back into the city of Manchester since Mum died, let alone Astbury. And my siblings rarely visit. Probably because I never invite them.
The longer I live here, the less I want them to visit. Like a proper masochist, I find myself going back to London and staying in the home I swear to hate. A therapist would have a field day with me. It’s only recently that I realised the life I’ve built for myself here in Manchester seems to be more and more pointless.
I leave the kitchen and find Sloan wandering in the sunken living area to the right of the curved staircase. She’s running her hands over a mirrored credenza in front of a huge glass window on the west wall. The sun casts down on her long, chestnut locks as she watches Dorinda’s car drive away.
I clear my throat, drawing her attention to me. “Well, you’re here now. What do you want to do with me?”
Sloan’s eyes rove over my body, and the smile that plays on her lips is almost wicked. What has been running through that head of hers while I was talking to Dorinda? Gone is the insecure, hostile woman from outside. The woman standing before me, sliding the short black scarf around her neck back and forth, is a bloody siren calling in ships from the sea. It’s enchanting. On the surface, she’s peaches and cream with a sweet, pleasing sort of nature. But there’s a fire beneath the surface of her that cannot be denied.
“For starters, I have a gift for you, Harris.” She nods her chin over to a sconce on the sitting room wall where there’s a garment bag hanging. “I was up most of the night making that for you. It seems when I’m pissed off, I’m kind of productive.”
She giggles to herself as I stride over and unzip the bag to see a deep navy suit inside. I run my hands down the fabric, relishing in the signature softness of everything Sloan buys for me. My voice is awestruck when I croak, “You made this?”
I look over and she shrugs. “Freya did most of the sewing but, yes, I designed it.”
I pull out the shoulder on one side to get a better look. “I had no idea you were capable of this kind of work.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Gareth.”
I turn to look at her big brown eyes blinking rapidly like she’s not sure herself of who she is. Well, I hope whatever we’re about to embark on helps her with that because I know she’s a hell of a lot more than she lets on.
“Do you want me to try it on?” I ask, hoping this will be our foreplay because, for me, it sounds about as hot as a student, professor scenario.
Her nose wrinkles with embarrassment. “You can do it on your own later. For now, I’d like a tour.” She turns on her heel and crosses her arms over her chest like she’s an estate agent at a business meeting. “And you can do it with your shirt off.”
“Oh, can I?” I blurt out, smirking like a prat and marvelling over her swift change of demeanour.
“That’s what I said.” She licks her lips in a vain attempt to hide the naughty grin threatening her serious façade.
“Whatever you say, Treacle.” I pull my T-shirt off and drop it on the floor by my feet. Sloan’s eyes are like a slow burn spreading over every hair on my chest, causing my stomach to flex in anticipation.
She clears her throat. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
Attempting not to laugh at the hilarity of this situation, I do my best to give her a tour without getting an erection. It’s not without great effort, though, considering she’s eyeing me, not just like a piece of meat, butherpiece of meat. It’s a huge fucking turn-on.
I gesture to the doorway on the opposite side of the living room, which leads down a glass-lined hallway into a media room with a projection screen and theatre-style seating. Sloan nods appreciatively and asks some questions about the kind of movies I like to watch. I correct her with the word “films,” and our familiar American versus English banter makes me smile.
We progress down the hallway into the training room that’s kitted out as nice as a commercial gym. I have a lot of the same equipment we have at the Trafford Training Centre because, even on off days, I’m always training. Staying fit is part of my job the same way a CEO has to check his emails every day.
Past the gym is where I can tell Sloan’s eyes really light up. “You have a pool!” she squeals, waltzing past me and greedily checking out the indoor pool room. The sunlight beaming in through the glass skylights reflect colourful sparkles on her face as she grins back at me. “How often do you use this?”
“Never,” I reply honestly.
Her jaw drops. “What? I would be in this every day!”
I shrug. “It’s not big enough to swim laps in, so I don’t really see the point if I can’t use it for exercise.”
“What about for fun, Gareth?” She arches a challenging eyebrow at me.
I can only reply truthfully. “I don’t have very much of that I’m afraid.”
