Page 94 of The Unfinished Line

“I’m already lucky,” she’d winked and kissed my cheek, before disappearing to change for the party.

The pub was packed. I’d expected a few dozen people who looked like Sam had a few mornings prior—sporty, casual, laid-back. But the dimly lit dining room and covered terrace were teeming with bodies clad in sleek silks and vibrant vicuña, most of which looked as if they’d tripped off a fashion runway and landed unexpectedly around the high-top tables.

I was grateful Hollywood had taught me that a little black dress never went out of style. It wasn’t the nearly see-through number half the women were wearing, but it wasn’t something I’d wear to Easter service with the Hallwells, either.

“Hello, Sinc!” an exceptionally slender man clapped Dillon on the back in passing as we worked our way through the crowded main hall. He offered her a high-wattage smile. “Good to see you, as always!”

He looked familiar, but it took me a second to realize why.

“Was that really Mo Farah?” I whispered as we continued to work our way toward the bar.

“SirMo Farah,” Dillon confirmed.

I didn’t know if I was more stunned that I’d just brushed shoulders with arguably the greatest long-distance runner ofall time, or that he’d greeted Dillon by name, and she was completely unfazed.

People continued to greet her as she navigated the tables, searching for Sam. I recognized a few of them—Andy Murray, the Scottish tennis sensation, Rory McIlroy, the former world number one Irish golfer, Jess Fishlock, the Welsh football legend.

Most werehiyasandalrightsin passing, and the few that detained her attention for more than a word or two, she introduced me to as “my friend Kameryn.”

In response, I maintained a respectable distance between us—close enough that we didn’t look awkward, but far enough apart to lose thethey’re-clearly-fuckingundertone.

We found Sam on the terrace. She was tipping back a shot with a tall redhead, her dark skin glimmering beneath the light of the swinging glowsticks dangling from the framework of the outdoor bar.

“Well, behold! Look who’s graced us with her presence!” She immediately discarded the shot glass and loped to intercede us. “Cracking duds, marra,” her eyes swept Dillon’s black t-shirt and distressed jeans. “Nice to see you go out of your way.”

“I’m here, am I right? Not everyone has to look like they’ve been spit out a unicorn’s arse.”

Sam waved two fingers her direction—the English equivalent of the bird—before her gaze flicked to me. Her face was hidden in shadow beneath the brim of her checkered yellow fedora, but her smile flashed as brightly as her chartreuse pinstriped suit. She cocked a hip, tapping the glossed cement with one of her neon orange bowling shoes.

“Well aren’t you a vision, my bonny lass?” She gathered my hand in hers, pressing it to her lips. “You’re stunning, Miss K. I’d say you knock me off my feet, however…”

“A touch of déjà vu?”

Her Cheshire smile grew. “Radiantandcheeky. A woman after my own heart.”

The fiery-haired woman beside her ah-hemmed.

“After you, of course, pet.” Sam slid her arm around the taller woman’s waist. “Imogen, meet Kameryn Kingsbury. Miss Kingsbury, my date, Imogen Howard.”

“Goalkeeper for the Lionesses,” I smiled, pleased to put together where I’d heard the name before. I recognized her from England’s last World Cup roster.

“The one and only.” Her smile was frigid, never touching her emerald eyes.

Oh.

I was taken aback by her unmistakable hostility. Well, in that case—one of two and only, I thought to myself, considering I was pretty certain she served as thesecond-string keeper for her national team.

The venom of her gaze turned toward Dillon. “You’ve got some nerve, Sinclair—showing up here.”

“Hey now,” Sam warned, “you know Sinc’s my best mate—and tonight we’re all friends.” She chucked her chin toward the bottle of scotch I was carrying. A last-minute birthday gift I’d picked up on the way to the train station. “Canny good taste, Miss Kingsbury.”

I handed her the bottle, my mind still working around the obvious discord between Imogen and Dillon. “Happy Birthday.”

Reviewing the label, she turned toward the bartender. “Uncork us, will you, man? That’s a mint single malt, alright.”

A short pour later, we were presented with four tumblers of scotch on the rocks. Dillon quietly passed hers to Sam and asked for a water, which wasn’t missed beneath Imogen’s watchful glare.

“Rich of you, giving up the bottle now, Sinclair—”

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