Page 6 of Rocking the Receiver
Tim makes atssknoise, then turns his attention to someone else. “What about you, Dad? Why don’t you tell us how you and Victoria met?”
I haven’t heard the story, but from his facetious tone, I can tell there’s something embarrassing to reveal in front of an audience.
“You’ll pay for this,” Dad retorts between gritted teeth, his voice playful. Then, he innocently reaches around the back of Rupert’s chair to swat Tim’s head before asking Claire, “So, I’m curious: Is my son’s insolence what drew you to him?”
Too bad Claire’s parents weren’t able to make it today. I’m relieved that the conversation’s shifted away from me, so I relax slightly. I lean back in my chair, absorbed in the hubbub aroundme. For once, keeping the spotlight off myself is a must. The less everyone notices me, the better… apart from Rupert, that is.
She coughs slightly. A blush creeps across her face, hinting at her embarrassment. “Well… his… determination played a role.” I bet that’s her subtle way of saying stubbornness. “When he sets his mind to something, he really goes for it.” Bingo! He’s definitely pig-headed, but that’s also why he’s so successful in his job.
My brother’s gaze shifts away from me to look at her. “And that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
I seize the moment to take a deep breath, relieved to be free from Tim’s scrutiny and enjoy the rest of the evening. Once the table is cleared and we’re all ready to call it a night, I volunteer to do the dishes. Surprisingly, Samuel, Romain, and Rupert join in to get it done faster, though Dad’s waiting for them to join the guys for cigars. He can be so old-fashioned at times.
While everyone’s busy drying the pots and pans, Rupert leans my way, his hot breath in my ear spreading warmth throughout my needy body. My traitorous dick takes notice. What is it with this guy? He murmurs, “I’m sorry I startled you. I owe you one.”
My suggestive reply startles me even more.
“My pick.”
CHAPTER 4
ALL I KNOW SO FAR
Rupert
On top of being a redhead,myBritishness—as smartass Elliot referred to it at breakfast—doesn’t mix well with the blazing late afternoon sun. Yes, I have a love/hate relationship with the sun since my insanely fair skin burns in the blink of an eye. Needless to say, wearing sunscreen wasn’t an option, simply because… shininess, stickiness, and whatnot.
Thankful for the constant breeze, I nonetheless stand under the retractable awning on the edge of the terrace to benefit from the shade. How is everyone but me unbothered by the heat being all dressed-up? I inwardly thank Sally for insisting that I order a dress shirt and a dark green linen suit—to make my eyes pop, she claimed—for the occasion because I had nothing suitable to bring from Nashville. I’m not a big fan of linen, but I must look good if the appreciative glances I’m getting are any indication. Most of all, it keeps me cooler than a typical designer suit, so no complaints there.
Yeah, this Brit kid’s come a long way from second-hand clothes, a crappy house, and a single mom who could barely make endsmeet; bless her for always supporting me. Tim got a glimpse of that life. He’s the only friend who’s stepped foot in my childhood home and who I introduced to my mom. That’s how close we are, but I felt the need to make him promise to keep it under wraps because it’s nobody’s business. Thank fuck, my so-called fame hasn’t reached a level where the media digs into the past, and I intend to keep it that way.
Tim is the man of the hour, and I don’t mind that he’s too busy to chat with me. The point was to share this moment with him. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. He said he was grateful for my presence, so that’s all that matters. So, here I am, on my second glass of red—it’s the Rhône Valley after all—taking stock of the sprawling vineyards and olive groves surrounding the Lefevre estate. I am also people-watching; the numerous guests mingle, guffaw, and drink.
It’s a beautiful party. My best friend hasn’t stopped smiling and is currently surrounded by family and close friends, their voices rising and falling in cheerful, rapid French. I’m one of two native English speakers, and Victoria is fluent in French. As for me, I can catch most of it if people speak slowly, but I have a hard time speaking it. French grammar is a bitch!
Victoria and I talked for a while earlier, but she’s evidently busy entertaining her guests. If I’m honest, I feel a bit isolated. You’d think that my former modeling career and current music one would make me comfortable around people; you’d be wrong. I’m far from a people person, and it’s difficult for me to chat with someone I barely know, let alone strangers, especially if they speak a foreign language I haven’t exactly mastered. I can discern the topics of most—wine, the honeymoon, and shared moments at school—but I prefer to listen, although most of them speak English.
Tim catches my eye and waves me over. Taking a sip of my wine, I make my way through the crowd. “Rupert!” Tim greets me with a joyful face, clapping me on the back. “What’s up, my man? Why were you hiding over there? Scared of the French women?”
I hold up my free hand in surrender. “I’m not hiding…” That’s up for debate, actually.
I gulp the rest of my drink to buy some time, and he swiftly signals one of the waiters to pour me a refill. With rapt attention, I watch the bulky blond guy in a dark suit oblige. His cheeks are reddening. Is it the sun or something else? Expectant, I lick my lips, guessing he plays rugby in his spare time. When he’s done filling the glass, his blue gaze meets mine from under his long lashes. A split second suffices. My pulse trips over itself. He’s gone before anything remotely inappropriate can be witnessed.
Is it better this way or should I head to the bar area later?
Yes, as much as I adore my best friend, I am lying to him and I’m not even ashamed of it. A big white lie is better than taking the risk of coming out and potentially threatening our long-time friendship, that makes it a no-brainer. I get that it’s fine to come out on my own terms, but over the years, we’ve shared so much. I doubt Tim’s homophobic, but I’m afraid he might not comprehend why I’m hiding my sexual orientation, and keep the true nature of my relationship with Sally a secret all this time. Truth be told, I’m scared shitless that he might resent me for not trusting him, no matter how deep-rooted our friendship is.
Before I know it, Tim is joined by his fiancée. Looking radiant in a long lacy summer dress, she’s surrounded by a group of well-wishers around our age who I assume are her friends. “It’s good to have you here,” Claire says, like her beau has about ten times today. Then, her eyes brighten. “I’d like to introduce you to myclosest friends.” Her intentions are clear. It's flattering, but my mind leans towards the bar.
Why would Tim try to hook me up when he bought into the Sally charade anyway? Surely, he knows I’m not a cheater or a one-night stand kinda guy. But then again, he doesn’t really know. I definitely favor anonymous hookups, which are much less risky considering my career path.
“Rupert, this is Camille and her sister, Nadia,” Claire says, gesturing to two lovely young women who beam at me. “Ladies, this is Rupert, Tim’s best friend from the UK. He’s a rock star now and lives in the States.”
Who am I to contradict her, right?
Next, Tim informs me of their pedigree, but I zone out until they say, “Enchantée,” in unison, their eyes sparkling with interest.
I mirror their greeting in my embarrassing attempt at French.
