Page 25 of Payback
“You want me to work directly with the players?” I can’t help but ask this very obvious question because, since the moment I came to London, all I’ve done is organise the new office. This is the most Niall has spoken to me in days. Now he’s tasking me with something this big?
He narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those fangirls who goes gaga for athletes as well.”
I shake my head defensively. “Of course not.”
“Good, because they have a styling appointment for their wardrobe tomorrow that I need you at as well. The clothing boutique we’re using has a personal connection to the Harris family, so they agreed to do a rush styling job.”
“Oh, is it Kindred Spirits Boutique?” I ask knowingly.
Niall frowns. “Yes, that’s the name of it. How do you know it?”
“That’s Gareth Harris’ wife’s boutique in East London. She owns it with Leslie Lincoln, who would be Gareth’s sister’s husband’s brother’s wife.”
Niall blinks back at me with a stunned look on his face. “I have no idea what you just said.”
I swallow nervously. “Sloan does menswear and Leslie does womenswear?”
Niall continues to blink.
“Do you remember that my last name is Harris?”
He tsks his teeth and nods slowly getting a severe look across his face as realisation sets in. “I nearly forgot about your connection.” He stands up and buttons his suit coat. “Well, I don’t need to know about any family drama. I just need this boutique not to fuck things up. These two athletes need to raise a lot of money, which means they need to look fuckworthy, all right?”
I practically flinch as flashbacks of Roan’s muscles flicker through my mind. “Fuckworthy. Got it.”
Niall eyes me for a moment and then nods. “I’ll be back on Wednesday to help you with the shoot. See you then.”
He walks out of the office without another word. Once the coast is clear, I press my forehead to my desk. I just willingly signed up for multiple days in a row of doing publicity stuff with Roan DeWalt. Roan DeWalt—the man whom I currently have a sex video of on my cell phone, which I still watch on a regular basis.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Later in the day, I make my way to East London toward Tower Park—the home of Bethnal Green F.C. The team’s training grounds are attached to the park, and that’s where I’ll find the two men responsible for my visit today. Roan DeWalt and Maclay Logan.
My uncle has been the manager of Bethnal Green F.C. for over a decade now. It isn’t surprising because my father still talks about Vaughn’s glory days as afootballerfor Manchester United and how he used to cheer on his big brother all the time. But when Vaughn’s wife fell ill, he quit the sport and everything changed. Dad and Vaughn grew apart and spoke a lot less. The only reason I even got to know my cousins is because of Vi’s insistence that we get together for my birthday every year.
Then, shortly after I moved to America with my father, I heard whisperings from my mother about how difficult things were back in London for my cousins. Vaughn didn’t want anyone’s help raising all five of his children after my aunt Vilma passed away, no matter how hard they tried.
Despite all those sad times, looking at the Harris family now, you’d never be able to tell the struggles they all must have gone through. They still get together for weekly dinners, for Christ’s sake. That’s a hell of a lot more of a connection than I have with my parents. Although, maybe Dad has weekly dinners with Rosalie and Ghost Penis? Heck, I wouldn’t put it past him to pay for their damn wedding.
That’s why moving to London and facing my awkward one-night stand paled greatly in comparison to staying in Chicago and being surrounded by my fucked-up past life.
A security guard checks my credentials at the Tower Park media entrance and then instructs me to wait in a holding area for someone to escort me to the players. I glance at myself in a nearby mirror, quickly smoothing out my black pencil skirt and straightening my cobalt blue blouse. Footsteps echo off the walls, so I look over and see my uncle striding down the darkened hallway toward me.
“Alice,” he says with a smile and opens his arms to me.
I adjust my satchel and smile sheepishly. “Uncle Vaughn, you didn’t have to come escort me. I know you’re a busy man.”
He scoffs. “I’m a lot less busy now. Just a couple of friendlies and the boys will finally get a few weeks off.”
I nod knowingly. “Soccer is a crazy long season.”
“Football,” he corrects and chucks my chin playfully. “I know you’ve been in America most of your life, but don’t forget you were born British, darling.”
I laugh politely as I stare up at him. He’s the spitting image of my father—tall, fit, handsome—but Vaughn has a lot more fine lines and grey hairs. Probably the difference between raising five kids versus one.
“I’ll call it football from now on,” I state with a nod, even though I will likely forget.
He smiles and gestures for me to follow him through several hallways. “Are you all settled at Camden and Indie’s place now?”
