Page 11 of Fighting Fate

“They’re with Richard and Jenna this weekend.”

“So why were you the first here? Shouldn’t you be taking advantage of adult time with J—”

“Blah,” I stop Beth, covering my ears when she makes a point of finishing the remark by exaggerating my brother’s name. “Ja-mie-ee.”

Laughing, Quincy takes a sip of her tea before she replies, “One of his patients started having seizures after waking up from surgery, so…you know how it goes.”

“The privileged life of dating a brain surgeon,” Beth chuckles back.

“I love that he cares so much about his patients.” Hugging her teacup with both hands, Quincy smiles with a loved-up sparkle in her eyes.

“How’re you loving the clinic?” Beth asks her as I pull my phone from my bag and put it on my thigh so I can check all the notifications sneakily. “I bet the private sector is a million times easier than the national health service.”

“It’s definitely different…”

Zoning out of the conversation, I focus on Frank’s message.

Frank: You got the role for Ripper. Contract is here ready for you to sign.

Willow: Really?

No audition?That’s not how these things work. Even when a director chases after you, generally there’s a read-through with the other cast members, a go-through of the songs to make sure that your voice fits because it’s as important as your acting ability.

Frank: I’m that fucking amazing!

Willow: Fuck off.

Frank: Thank you will do.

Willow: You owe me.

Frank: Shit. Jack-fucking-shit.

Willow: Arsehole.

Frank: Bitch.

Willow: Dickwad.

Frank: Cockwomble.

A laugh bursts from me. After all the years we’ve been together, I’m finally rubbing off on him with my insults.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Her boy toy!” Beth is quick to answer Quincy’s question, handing me her phone to show me the entertainment page of one of the tabloids.

“Motherfucking fuckballs…” Gobsmacked, I can’t take my eyes off the photo staring up at me.

Instantly, my chest strangles my lungs, making it hard for me to breathe through the very public display in front of me. It’s not terribly indecent, just enough that I cringe at the sight of Rory’s hand grasping my arse beneath my short dress as we wait for the cloakroom clerk to hand me my coat.

My memory is foggy from this point in the night, but the sight of his lips at my ear makes me shiver. Goosebumps break out over my skin while I mould my hand to the side of my neck. It’s as though the contact is etched into the memory of my pores, and the recollection has them buzzing for more.

“Who is that?” Quincy asks when I scroll down the page to see there aren’t any more photos of us.

Although I’m grateful for the fact, a part of me wishes there were. Seeing us together like that isn’t as terrible as it should be. I don’t feel bad about it. In fact, the longer I stare down at the photo, the more I’m taken back to our night together.

“Rory Knight,” Beth states, taking her phone from me and reading the caption. “The American UFC Champion was seen cosying up to British Theatre actress Willow Anson.”

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