Page 17 of Something Borrowed

“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 openthe 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 itas 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.

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