Page 73 of The Painter and His Poet

“I’mher fucking friend,” I cut out, that possessive part of me needing to stake my claim. Wanting nothing more than to keep her all to myself. Which is fucking shitty after how her mother has treated her, but I’m not sure I can share.

“Pretty sure you’re her fucking step-brother too,” he retorts. “Not thatIgive a shit, but I think you need a little reminder about the predicament you’re in right now, yeah?”

“I’m handling it,” I retort.

“Like fuck you are. You’re wound up tighter than a grandfather clock,” Ben comments knowingly.

“And how, exactly, are you handling it?” Dalton asks, pitching a brow. “Because the last time I saw you together at your parent’s wedding Sterling Junior was about to punch a hole in your trousers, and Harlow looked like she’d just had a very pleasurable org–”

“Shut the fuck up, Dalton!” I hiss.

“Fuck me, you really are in fucking trouble. Your dad will skin you alive, mate,” Ben says, eyes widening. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, and press my eyes shut in an attempt to calm myself down. I’m still riled up over the kiss Dalton interrupted earlier, not to mention the fact that I just found out that Ben gave Harlow his number. To top it all off, being reminded of my father or what he might do if he found out about me and Harlow isn’t helping matters. I know for a fact that it won’t take much more for me to lose my cool and takemy frustrations out on either one of my friends. Probably both at this rate.

“I’ve no fucking clue what I’m doing,” I admit.

“I thought you said you were handling it?” Ben asks.

“Yeah, his dick most likely,” Dalton remarks with a smirk, and Ben barks out a laugh.

“You know what, fuck you both,” I snap, standing.

And with that I stride from the bar, letting the door slam shut behind me. Half an hour later I’m pushing ninety miles an hour on the motorway heading towards fuck knows where.

TWENTY

HARLOW

For the first time in over two weeks I leave Adaga Hall and take a short taxi ride into the village which has pretty cobbled streets lined with a variety of independent stores and numerous cafés. It’s just how I’ve always envisioned a pretty English village, and I regret not making the time to explore earlier.

I haven’t seen Sterling since he left to meet Dalton a couple of days ago, and when I asked Stephanie this morning if she knew where he was, she explained that he’d left a message to say that he had business to attend to and would be back in time for the engagement party tomorrow night.

So here I am, strolling along the main thoroughfare, and getting some much needed fresh air, and more importantly, time to think. The village itself is relatively quiet, which is a relief because I can barely string together a series of coherent thoughts, let alone exchange small talk with someone I might’ve met at the wedding. But I figure just being out in a different environment and not hiding away back at Adaga Hall will help me to sort my thoughts and feelings out. Not to mention the fact I’ve been avoiding my mother’s calls. She has left me several messages this morning, but I haven’t listened to any of them.I really can’t face a conversation with her. Whatever gossip she wants to share with me will have to wait.

With my winter coat wrapped tightly around my waist, I head towards an interesting looking music store that has ivy wrapped around the entrance, beautiful hand-crafted instruments displayed in the window, and a faded sign that readsThe Cosy Chord.I can’t help but smile at the play on words, because the store does indeed look cosy and nothing like I’d expect a store selling musical instruments to look like. It has the ambience of an antique bookstore, but instead of leather bound books and first editions lining the old oak bookshelves, they’re filled with rows of beautifully crafted instruments. There are violins with polished wood gleaming like amber, hand-carved mandolins, tambourines with shiny brass zils, and other handmade instruments that seem to wait patiently for a hand to play them.

Curious, I push the door open, and a soft bell rings above me, its chime blending with the faint strum of a guitar that floats through the air, as if the store itself is humming a welcoming tune. My eyes are immediately drawn to an upright piano in the corner, its ivory keys gleaming like a set of perfectly polished teeth. It's been a while since I last played, and though there's a baby grand back at Adaga Hall, I haven’t yet felt at ease enough to sit down and play.

“Hello?” I call out, noticing that there’s no one standing behind the counter. “Is anyone there?”

After a moment, a man steps out from behind a door I assume leads to an office or storeroom. He’s cradling a spruce and mahogany acoustic guitar, the leather strap keeping it snug against his body.

“Hey, sorry about that—I was out back tuning this beauty. How can I help you?" he asks, pushing a messy flop of jet-blackhair off his forehead. It falls right back into his eyes, which is a shame, since they're a striking shade of grey-blue.

“I was just passing by and, well, your store looked really interesting and I thought I’d take a look.”

“It’s not my store. Belongs to my uncle, a moody arsehole who barely comes here anymore and hides away in his estate tucked away on the outskirts of the village, ” he explains.

“Ah, I see. Well, your uncle has incredible taste. The instruments are really stunning,” I reply, my gaze coasting around the store, only to fall on a beautiful tawny owl with piercing gold eyes perched on a shelf next to a fiddle. I gasp. “Is that a real owl?”

He follows my gaze and chuckles. “That is, in fact, a verydeadowl.”

“Why do you have a dead owl in a music store?”

“My uncle is a taxidermist,” he replies, pulling a face. “Fucking creepy, huh?”

“Does he k?—?”

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