Page 13 of Not So Happily Ever After (British Bad Boys)
“I’ll suffer.” I take another suck of the straw. We’ve been coming to the historic mid-eighteenth-century bar, right on the Portobello Road, ever since we turned eighteen, and somehow started a ritual where we’d find the most revolting cocktails ever. If either of us couldn’t drain the glass, the other won.
Since neither of us are quitters, we’ve never had to figure out what the loser needs to forfeit, but along the way, we’ve found some unexpected gems.
Tonight is not a gem night.
“What’s happening with Atomic Fire, then?” Brooklyn tucks wayward strands of her platinum blond hair behind her ear. Although she isn’t directly involved in the Foundation, she always helps whenever we need an extra pair of hands. “Do you need to find a new act?”
“I’m trying not to focus on the worst-case scenario.”
“Hey.” She reaches across the table and gives my fingers a quick squeeze. “If Jake bails, it’snotyour fault.”
Her support means everything, but she knows how deep in the shit we’ll be if Atomic Fire pulls out at this late stage. And since I’m in charge, the buck stops with me. Sure, insurance covers the monetary loss, but it doesn’t help find another A-list act or fix excited kids’ disappointment.
Failure is not an option.
“I think everything’s fine.” I give her a brief recap of the visit. “Hopefully that’s the end of it.”
“I hate to say it, but keep hoping.” She takes a long sip of her drink and gives a delicate shudder.
“Positive vibes, Brook. I already have the zero rating from Will.”
Her head jerks up, lips still clamped around her straw, and a loud slurping noise erupts from her glass. She coughs out her straw and pins me to my seat with her steely gray gaze. “Will?”
Even though the potential disaster of Atomic Fire backing out haunts me, I haven’t been able to get Will out of my head. “We went to the hospital together.”
She narrows her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was in a rush when I texted. It’s no big deal.” Why did I even say that? It’s a good job she knows me so well.
“Oh. My. God.” Brooklyn sucks in a breath, flattens her hand over her heart, and addresses the dark timber ceiling. “You had lunch with him.”
Just because I didn’t tell her why I couldn’t meet her for lunch yesterday doesn’t mean I wasn’tgoingto. Truth is, I’m desperate to discuss the whole thing with her, as then I might be able to stopobsessingabout it.
“It was a last-minute thing. We only went to the Park Café.”
“With Will Hamilton. The guy you avoid like an outbreak of Ebola.”
“Lucas decided I needed protection from Jake and asked him to pick me up. I’m going to tell my brother what I think of that, but it was hardly Will’s fault. It would’ve been rude not to have lunch with him afterward.”
Brooklyn looks supremely underwhelmed by my explanation. “What happened? Did you push him into the Serpentine?”
“No. It was all very…civilized.”
“Civilized.” She rolls the word around as though tasting every syllable. “We’re talking about the same Will, aren’t we?”
Although Brooklyn and Will have known each other for years—we were all at the same school, after all—she hasn’t seen much of him lately. Everything she knows about how things are between us has come from me.
And I might not have beenquitestraight with her. Because the truth is, Will’s attitude toward me never really changed after that night. It was me, twisted up with embarrassment at my naiveté thinking that maybe we’d had a special connection, and then the ridiculous sense of disillusionment the following day when he broke his whispered, midnight promise to me.
I haven’t even toldBrooklynabout that promise, which just goes to prove how completely stupid I was to get so hurt over it. Ofcoursehe didn’t want to spend Boxing Day at an exhibition of my artwork. Even my parents never took my art seriously, so why would Will?
He could’ve called to let me know he wasn’t coming.Not just left me standing there in the freezing cold while snowflakes blurred my vision.
I take another sip of the disgustingly sweet nightmare in front of me. There’s no point discussing the past when I have a far worse problem hanging over my head.
“It’s not that I still fancy him.” If I say that out loud to my best friend, I might start to believe it myself. But instead of agreeing with me, she gives a disbelieving snort.
“Babe, this is me you’re talking to.”
