Page 141 of Red Flag
His phone chimed and he turned it on silent. Apart from a few contacts, including his mother and me, his phone was always on silent.
“Is she okay?” I asked, taking his hand in the backseat.
He nodded, locking it and giving me his full attention. “She just wants to see me. She’s in London and knows I am too.”
“You can see her,” I said. “You don’t have to babysit me.”
“You’re my priority,” he told me and squeezed my hand.
“Invite her round,” I urged. “I can go to my brother’s or something.”
“Well, she doesn’t want to just see me,” he hedged.
“Me?”
For some reason, I’d never even considered she knew who I was. Aside from being his publicist, but she’d probably seen the multiple articles ‘confirming’ our relationship by now.
My own mum had texted and called me, grovelling, but I’d ignored her like I had the last few months.
It wasn’t that her boyfriend had outed me.
It was that he’d also done something specifically against Nix. Against my job.
And her messages didn’t blame David.
MUM: It was a misunderstanding. Please understand that.
MUM: He didn’t mean to.
MUM: You weren’t clear enough that we weren’t to discuss your life with anyone.
My mum had always wanted to be loved.
Just not by me.
“Mum’s been dying to meet you for months,” he said. “She wants to check you’re okay too. But I told her you probably want some space.”
But he needed her. As much as he was a comfort to me, she was to him.
“Invite her round,” I said again before tapping on his phone for it to light up.
When we got into our apartment, I wanted so badly to just roll onto our bed and sleep, exhausted by the rolling feelings, but Nix made my peppermint tea as I changed into my pyjamas.
“I have something for you,” he said and placed my tea down on my bedside table. From his bag, he pulled out a bundle in thick, brown gift wrap before placing it beside the mug. “Go on.”
Cautiously, I peeled off the sticker that kept the paper together and then pulled out a pink leather jacket.Lividread across the front, the same sponsors as the one he had on his leathers.
I tried to speak, to thank him, but the words fell flat in my mouth.
“It’s custom,” he said, but it didn’t sound like a brag as he sat on the edge of the bed. “I may havesnuckyour old leather jacket to the design team and asked them to make it a bit bigger — everymotorsportjacket needs to be a bit bigger. But—but if it doesn’t fit or you want any adjustments, we can—”
“Stop,” I said quietly before slowly turning it over, secretly hoping to see 18 there on the back.
It read 23.
“Twenty-three?”
“Well, unfortunately, you couldn’t have my number,” he said with a small smile. “It would have given us away. So I went for our apartment number. No other rider is using that.”
