“That man can get caustic with me anytime.” Kem’s voice is lecherous.

  “After five minutes, the causticity turns into simply being dreadfully opinionated,” Raff says sourly.

  “What happened? You didn’t come home last night.” I immediately want to pull the words back. They’re way too sharp. “I mean, you like to be home before a wedding.”

  For all his lightness, joie de vivre, and casual attitude, Raff is actually laser-focused on his job and takes it very seriously.

  There’s a long pause, and then he says, “Yeah, well, things happen.” His voice sounds flat and off, and I wonder what’s wrong.

  “I bet they do, you dirty hound,” Kem observes.

  Footsteps sound, and Raff says, “Lottie, you got me a coffee. Bless you.”

  “If I’d done that, it would mean I’d have been given foresight. And if that were the case, I would use it for something useful like knowing there was a flash sale today in Stella McCartney’s shop. So I’d have been there rather than serving your hungover arse coffee.”

  “Ouch, harsh.” The laughter is back in his voice. “But I’m more deserving of your attention than Stella’s clothes. I give joy, and you’re my sister.”

  “I am not. I’d have a lot more grey hairs if that were the case, and my brothers did enough of a number on my hair colour as it is.”

  She says something to Kem, and I feel someone come closer.

  “You, okay?” Raff asks low. “You sound off.”

  As off as someone who lay next to his boyfriend last night torturing himself, wondering who Raff was with and if this would be the one who’d finally make him change all his life decisions? That’s how pathetic I am—in love with my best friend who will never know if I have anything to do with it.

  “Stan?” Raff says, and the worry is now clear in his voice. For all his casualness, there’s a strong knightly streak in Raff. He’s always trying to solve our friends’ problems and spent most of our teenage years charging after me and coming to the rescue. He hates not being able to help.

  I shake my head, feeling ashamed of myself for worrying him. It’s not his fault I imprinted on him like a particularly stupid duckling and have never managed to shake it.

  “I’m fine,” I say, and I can almost feel him relax.

  Taking in a much-needed breath, I inhale the familiar scent of his Initio cologne. It’s a spicy, sweet blend of tobacco, vanilla, and rum, and its warmth is very Rafferty. For someone who’s like a butterfly with his beauty products, moving from one to another and never looking back, he’s remarkably loyal to his fragrance choices.

  I feel his hand on my head brushing my hair back and push into the touch of those long elegant fingers.

  He chuckles, and the lazy sound kindles a fire in my belly. “All these curls,” he says, his voice hazy and affectionate. His fingers dig into the tense muscles on my neck, and I make an involuntary sound of pleasure, sparks fizzing at the base of my spine. His fingers tighten for a second, and then I can feel his body still, and his hand falls away.

  I sigh and make myself smile. “My hair needs cutting. I’ll ask Leo if he can fit me in.”

  “That’s—” He stops and clears his throat. “That’s good, Stan.” His voice is slightly hoarse.

  “What are you two talking about?” my sister asks.

  “Stan’s hair. He’s going for a trim.”

  “Leo will need a whip and a chair to get that under control.”

  Raff laughs. “Where’s Wolfie? Off running the country?”

  “In my office writing his thesis on blindness,” I say.

  “Is he eating my chocolate buttons?” he asks, sounding way too panicked about sweets for a twenty-six-year-old man.

  “Probably,” I say maliciously. “Oh dear. It was the last bag, too.”

  “Wolfie,” he bellows. “Get your paws off my chocolate.”

  I hear a little boy giggle and the sound of Raff moving away.

  I smell Opium perfume, and my sister throws her arm over my shoulders. “God, that man moves well.”

  “Does he still move the same way?” My need to see Raff happens less and less as I get older, but the yearning can still occasionally hit me in the solar plexus.

  Lottie knows. Somehow, she always knows. “Very quickly, but oh so graceful. He walks slightly on the balls of his feet, and it makes him look like he’s dancing—easy and fluid,” she says, giving me the image. I smile my thanks and she drops a kiss into my hair. “I wish you’d tell him,” she whispers.

  “Tell him what? That Spurs will never win the premiership? That would break his heart,” I say lightly, and she huffs.

  “Yeah, of course. Maybe this time you’d finally be on the same page,” she says hesitantly. “You might be surprised by the answer, Stan.”

  “And maybe I wouldn’t be, and that’s almost worse.”

  There’s a long pause. “It’s your life,” she finally says.

  I give a long sigh. “It really is. And I have a nice boyfriend,” I add very firmly but not terribly convincingly. “Even if he’s a bit bossy.”

  There’s a slightly long pause, and her voice has an undercurrent of worry when she speaks next. “I was speaking to a friend yesterday who knows Bennett’s ex. He said to watch Bennett.”

  “Why?” I ask, startled.

  “Apparently, everything has to be about him, and he hates to lose. His ex said he can be spiteful and it made their split very nasty.”

  “He’s always been kind to me.”

  “He hates Raff.”

  “One of the rare times that Raff’s charm has failed.”

  “Well, just watch out for him. Don’t be so trusting.”

  Chapter

  Three

  Rafferty

  I open the door with a sigh of relief, flinging it wide so Stan and Hump can walk past me into the flat. “God, it’s good to be home.”

  Stan’s mouth quirks as he takes off his coat. “You say that like you’re James Cook.”

  “I feel like him sometimes. Although he’d have foregone his record-breaking voyages and thrown himself into the Pacific if he’d had to organise a food-tasting session with the Patterson-Barkers.”

  “Are the Patterson-Barkers demanding?”

  “Put it this way, if Zeus himself had descended from Mount Olympus and offered them ambrosia, they’d have told him they’d had better from Nobu.”

  He laughs, and I take his jacket from him, seeing his smile of thanks and feeling the familiar warmth it gives me. I love to make him happy. After hanging the jacket in the cupboard, I take off my shoes and place them neatly in there too. Everything in our flat has a place. There’s good reason for why we keep it as neat as a show home. A few years ago, Stan’s old boyfriend had absently taken off his shoes and left them by the sofa. Stan had tripped over them and fallen. He’d needed five fucking stitches in his head. It had made my insides liquid lava with rage, but Stan had been embarrassed and laughed it off. Now I’m incredibly militant when we have visitors. Our friend Leo calls me the Lord of the Loafers.

  Stan presses the switch to dim the lights, and I immediately know his eyes are sensitive tonight. He takes off Hump’s harness, and the dog tosses his head like a diva and scampers off to see what’s in his food bowl now his working day is done.

  “If he had a clocking out card, he’d have eaten it,” I remark.

  Stan gives his usual husky laugh. It’s warm and real and makes my chest tight. It makes a few other things tight, but I refuse to think about those. I’ve got enough trouble lately.

  Stan sets his rucksack on the chair and opens it.

  My mouth twitches when he pulls out a bag that’s a familiar shape. “What is that you’ve got there, Stanley?”

  “Shut up.”

  I start to laugh, relieved to feel tension ease from my shoulders. Relaxing is something I’ve struggled with lately. “Tell me you haven’t brought more records home. I thought the purpose of a record shop was to engage in commerce—by selling the records.”

  “It’s The Prodigy’s The Fat of the Land,” he says, his earnest voice making me want to hug him. “It’s a difficult album to get hold of, and you know I can’t resist a good find.”

  “You’re like Augustus Gloop trying to step over a chocolate puddle.” I stare at the album’s boldly coloured sleeve. “Is it from the estate sale we went to in Enfield last weekend?”

  He nods. “I had to listen to it first before I sold it.”

  He turns and walks into the lounge, his gait sure and confident in our home. I follow him, trying hard not to look at the swell of his arse in those Levi’s. The denim is soft with age and clings to his bum tighter than a lover.

  I say, “I think you mean you want to give it a listen before it vanishes into the record shelves of this flat. I’m going to have to reinforce the floors soon.”

  The lounge has high ceilings and tall windows that let in lots of light. I painted the walls white when we moved in and have filled them full of artwork I’ve picked up over the years. A huge green corduroy sectional stuffed with bright cushions is the biggest piece in the warm, vibrant room, but the records are definitely the room’s highlight.

  Shelves crammed full of vinyl stretch from floor to ceiling on three walls. The shelves themselves are a testament to my adoration of Stan. Buying them, assembling them, and installing them was a three-stage nightmare. First there was a trip to IKEA where, after a ten-minute argument about how to get the boxes home, I almost left Stan in the car park. I’d been consoled by the fact that at least four other couples nearby were having the same hissed argument. Later, I’d lost valuable hours of my life trying to decipher the shelves’ assembly instructions. After my first failed attempt—which had left me with a handful of screws and no idea where they were supposed to go—we’d called out the big guns and got Joe’s husband to help. His profession is forensic accountant, but he makes an excellent carpenter.

  But today as I look at the beautifully filled shelves, a horrible thought occurs to me. If this thing with Bennett is serious, then surely Stan will move in with him at some point.

  I look around the room and imagine it empty of Stan’s records and, of course, empty of Stan himself. My chest hollows, my stomach clenches, and I suddenly feel like one of the dust motes that’s drifting through the sunlit room. As if it’s Stan that gives my body life and form.

  But I’ve had these feelings before. Stan is too gorgeous and lovely to remain single forever. It’s a state I’m happy to embrace, but Stan likes constancy and craves long-term relationships of all kinds.

  “You’ve gone quiet.” His voice interrupts my thoughts. He’s putting the record on the deck, his long, artistic fingers trailing over the vinyl, almost caressing. I know how they feel on my skin. Stan sees with his hands, and he’s exceptionally thorough.

  “It’s good,” he says into the silence.

  “What?” My face flushes. I need to get myself under control.

  He cocks his head, and his focus on me is laser precise. “The record feels great. No scratches, and the vinyl is clean. You did a good job, babe.”

  “Oh.” I force a laugh. “I had a good teacher.”

  Stan likes to go to the estate fairs, which is where he gets a lot of his stock, and his sociable nature soaks them up like a sponge. My job is to examine the records the way he’s shown me and assess the wear and tear while he talks shop to the vinyl sales community. There’s usually a mix of the same people at those things, and I can always find Stan at the centre of a group of laughing people. He’s an unusual and endearing mixture of razor-sharp and sugar-sweet, and it draws people like little moths to his flame.

  The needle comes down on the vinyl, and the familiar crackle sounds before Keith Flint’s voice screeches through the flat. I wince because The Prodigy is not my idea of a good listening experience, but Stan loves them and dragged me to two of their concerts. I’d stood there wishing for a pair of earplugs, while he’d jumped around screaming like a hyperactive banshee.

  Stan listens to the first song intently, his head cocked to one side. And I take a moment to observe him.

  He's taller than me, with broad shoulders and long legs. His hair is a mess of dark curls, and his eyes are a warm toffee brown. But it’s his face that always gets me. It’s high-boned and elegant with a long nose and thick, dark eyebrows that are usually lowered in an expression of concentration. However, he rarely seems sombre, because the puckish twist of his mouth and a dimple give him a cheeky air. It’s my favourite face in the world, and I could look at him forever and never grow tired.

  “Ready?”

  I jump as Stan’s voice breaks my thoughts. “S-sorry,” I stumble. “What did you say?”

  He frowns. “Fuck, you’re more out of it than usual.”

  “I beg your pardon. What do you mean more than usual?”

  His lip quirks. “Maybe you should stay home for a while and give your liver a chance at life. And maybe give your cock a break too,” he adds in a tone that’s not entirely joking.

  Before I can respond, he moves towards the kitchen.

  “Oh, are you cooking?” I ask hopefully.

  He shakes his head. “Are you?”

  I follow him like a rat after the Pied Piper. “Well. I suppose I could give it a go.”

  He shudders. “Please don’t. There aren’t enough Rennies in the world to cope with your attempts. I still get flashbacks from your trifle. It was like a milkshake.”

  “That was Leo’s fault. It just needed more time in the fridge.”

  “We could have given it until the End of Days, and it still wouldn’t have set.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  He laughs, and I watch as he slips an apron on and ties it around his narrow hips. His dark curls fall around his face.

  The kitchen is Stan’s domain, as he loves cooking and is very good at it. Pale blue cabinets intermingle with a stainless-steel worktop and appliances, while on the windowsill, a shelf of herbs is a mass of green. Everything is spotless and neat, and woe betide me if I don’t put something back properly.

  “What are you making?” I ask, hoisting myself up onto the counter and swinging my legs. “Ooh, I hope it’s scrambled eggs on toast.”

  “There’s not even a hint of subtlety about you, is there? And that’s breakfast food that I’m pretty sure even you can make.”

  “Not as creamy and lovely as you do. Especially with the ham and peppers. And did you miss the memo about my headache?”

  “We pronounce it hangover in these here parts.”

  I roll my eyes. “Potato or potahto.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Please.” I smile as I watch him reach for a bowl in the cupboard. He grabs a whisk and pulls the egg carton towards him, running his finger over the braille label on the lid to check the date. He feels for the bowl, running his finger along the lip, and then quickly cracks six eggs into it. I love watching him anytime, but he’s brilliant in the kitchen. His movements have grace and surety because he knows every inch of the room like the back of his hand.

  “I can actually feel you staring,” he says, reaching for the salt and pepper. He measures the proper amount of each onto his palm before adding them to the bowl.

  “I can’t help it if you’re brilliant.”

  He smirks. “I’m making scrambled eggs. It’s hardly Jamie Oliver.”

  “He’s far too bouncy. I prefer you. At least I know you’ll cut the toast into little soldiers for me.”

  “Oh my god. It’s like feeding a toddler.”

  He goes to move past me, and without thinking, I wrap my legs around his waist, stopping him in his tracks. “You, of all people, know that’s not true,” I say, resting my hands on his broad shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin and hearing how husky my voice has gone.

  He’s warm and solid and smells of Byredo cologne. I bought it for him for Christmas last year because the earthy sweet sage, amber, and plum smell reminded me of him, and he’s worn it faithfully ever since. It’s so very him—like a warm hug—and I squeeze him tighter, wanting and needing to keep him here in my arms. My Stan, in all his clever brilliance.

  “Raff?” he says hoarsely.

  I suddenly realise he’s become completely still, and I swallow hard, emotion popping in my chest like a balloon, letting in the cold air of reason.

  Everything I just did was spontaneous—a result of my feelings for him—but I should fucking know better. Once, he’d have laughed about me hugging him and said something sharp, snarky, or both. But that was before the events of six months ago, and now everything is different.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, letting go and feeling a pang in my heart as he moves quickly to get away from me. I wrap my arms around myself, feeling cold. Until I hugged him, I hadn’t realised how empty I’ve been—starved of his touch.

  He hovers. “It’s just we can’t do that anymore. You know⁠—”

  “I know,” I snap, my cheeks flushing at the hint of apology in his voice.

  I hate the anxious expression that crosses his face. I can’t see him upset or worried. I’ve never been able to do that.

  “I know,” I say again, making my voice light. “It was just a hug, Stanley. I give them out quite freely. I wasn’t humping your leg. It takes, at the minimum, five Negronis before I do that.”

  He laughs, his expression clearing, and the relief on his face makes me feel a bit sick. “Are we talking hugging or shagging?”

  “I do know the difference,” I say, keeping my light tone. “I’d get into enormous trouble if I didn’t. I’d be constantly pursued by a legion of bridegrooms with shotguns.” I jump down from the counter.

  “Where are you going?”

  The worry is back in his voice, and I squeeze his shoulder as impersonally as I can. “For a quick shower. I want to wash this day off me.”

  “Is there enough soap in the world for that?”

  “Probably not.”

  He grins. “Well, you can tell me about it over dinner. Ten minutes?”

  I nod. “Perfect. I’m starving.”

  In the shower, I lean against the tiled wall, feeling the steam fill my lungs. I take a deep breath and then another, feeling my heart rate settle. By the time I come out, I’m Rafferty once more—light and easy.

 

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