Page 28 of The Actor and His Secret

‘I’m ready to grovel,’ he pronounces, and I flush with heat. ‘However you like best. I say we start with Burberry and work our way to Chanel.’

I go a bit breathless as he leans across the arm rest to nip at my ear.

‘Ok,’ I say, and he leans forward to give the driver directions. ‘Do your worst.’

‘Oh,’ he growls. ‘By the end of the night, I assure you, I’ll be forgiven. Even if I have to spend the whole night on my knees to get there.’

And that’s when I realise there’s no way I could ever stay mad at this man. I’m well and truly fucked.

12

NIKOS

If I could prove to Honey that I trusted him, giving him my credit card and sending him into Harrods was certainly one way. I told him to buy himself a new outfit - something that was smart but casual, essentially reading off the dress code for the private dinner I had quickly booked from the back of the car for later that evening.

Honey refused me at first, as I knew he would. His hesitation was cute. Endearing. But what wasn’t cute was the obscene amount of money sitting in my current account. Money that deserved to be spent by someone good.

If I could’ve gone in with him, I would’ve. I hardly imagine a baseball hat and sunglasses would be a sufficient disguise in a place like Harrods. And as I’d put it earlier - in bad taste - Oli is my dirty little secret. So I wait for him in the car, my driver taking the opportunity for a quick nap in the front. The main streets are packed, so I keep the blacked-out window rolled all the way up.

If anyone was to notice Nikos Ridge waiting outside of Harrods in a parked car, it would elicit questions.

For the next forty-five minutes, I scroll social media, learning more about the man I’ve put all my trust into. It isn’t hard to find him. After searching Sky High Press’s about me page, I find out Oli’s surname. Oliver Cane. I can’t help but chuckle. Cane, like the sugar variety. He really was as sweet as Honey.

Sweet enough to rot my teeth and make me thank him for it.

Typing his name into Instagram doesn’t pull him up. Instead, I resort to searching Sky High Press’s followers, putting together different combinations of his name until, ding ding, I find him.

@Oli.Loves.Books.4.Life.

My chuckle becomes a full-blown laugh that spreads a warmth across my chest and down my limbs. I open up his page to find a handful of pictures, all mainly - as I could’ve guessed - about books. Reviews, recommendations, and aesthetic mood-boards of his current reads.

His page gives nothing else away about him. Carefully curated, I get the impression that he cares about his appearance both online and off. But as I’m about to close the app, I click on his tagged photos.

I’ve struck gold the moment the screen changes. Instead of pictures of books, these photos are more real-life action shots of Oli with friends. I recognise Megan instantly, her bright smile and glittering eyes the very same as what she used on Selina today. I quickly check her page, see she’s posted a story, and view it.

There she is, my Selina, smiling into a camera. I pocket the knowledge that Selina and Megan are out tonight, knowing I’ll ask my manager more about it tomorrow.

Going back to the tagged photos, I scroll, drinking in the photos of Oli. He’s attractive in every single one, no matter the angle or filter. There’s even a photo of him with what must be cream on his nose. He’s holding two strawberries up on either side of his cheeks and pulling a ridiculous face.

My first thought is how I want to lick the cream off him and make him feed me those very strawberries. My second thought is who posts such an intimate photo? I click on the name of the account - @GeoffBigRacks, and it takes me to a private account. No information to glean. I go back again to the tagged photos and notice lots of images further down of this Geoff and Oli.

Something uncomfortable stirs in my gut, like jealousy maybe? No doubt this is some old boyfriend, although the most recent photo of them is only three months ago, and the oldest goes back almost six years.

A boyfriend. Or an ex.

I’m highlighting Geoff’s name, ready to stalk the internet for more information, when my driver straightens and the door to my side clicks open.

‘Miss me?’ Honey says, breathless and straining against two large orange bags he’s hoisting into the middle seat.

‘I did,’ I reply, pocketing the phone with a half-typed-out name in my search bar. ‘How did you get on?’

‘Hell on earth.’ Oli practically flops onto the seat, quickly closing the door behind him. He brings a waft of perfume with him. It is not as sweet as he usually smells, but still alluring. Although I realise then that I prefer the Oli before he is spoiled by vendors selling rich scents to rich people. ‘Never ask me to do something like that again.’

He hands me back my card, which I hardly care for. ‘Well, next time don’t forget your keys.’

‘Are you suggesting there will be a next time, Adonis?’

Back to the nicknames then. I see.

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