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“I’ve left some red on your desk,” Gina shouts, and I frown, spotting the bottle of Merlot she must be referring to.
“Why would I need a bottle of red?”
“Dinner at Sal’s.”
“Ah, shit,” I mumble, glancing at my watch. There will be no indulging in Lainey tonight. Because I have fucking dinner with Sal and Moya, and I have to be there in forty minutes or risk being de-manned by Sal’s wife. “Bollocks.” I swipe my hand across my desk and send a pile of paperwork gusting into the air.
“And since you’re in such a good mood right now,” Gina says, appearing at my door, “I’ll ask if you want me to order you something from the gift list for your cousin’s wedding this weekend.”
Fuck. That rolled round quickly. I slump into my chair. “Sure.”
She gets on her way, and I sigh, grabbing my phone from my pocket to text Lainey, but I find she’s beaten me to it.
TAC? Tyler ? Christianson
I grin and punch out a reply.
That’s for me to know, beautiful. I was hoping to see you tonight but I forgot about a dinner arrangement. Call you after?
No problem. I have plans anyway. Speak later. xxx
I want to smile at the collection of three kisses, but the fact that she clearly had no intention of seeing me tonight blocks it. What plans does she have? My curiosity is raging, my mind fighting not to remind me of the text she received this morning. Don’t go there, Ty. She likes you. There are no other men.
I grab the bottle of red and head out. This was not how I planned on spending my evening.AS I WANDER UP THE path to Sal and Moya’s idyllic family property in West London—complete with a neatly trimmed lawn, box plants edging the front garden, and a spotless block-paved driveway, the door flies open and Sal’s little girl, Mia, appears, dressed in . . . I don’t know what. She looks like she’s been bathed in glitter.
“Uncle Ty,” she shrieks, bombing toward me.
“Hey, Mia.” I kneel and get ready to catch her, holding the bottle of red to the side. She crashes into me and throws her chubby arms around my neck. “That’s a pretty dress.”
“I’m Elsa,” she sings as I rise to standing with her attached to my chest.
“Elsa? Your name’s Mia.”
“No, silly. I’m Elsa from Frozen. This is her dress.”
“Ohhh,” I say, walking us into the house. I have no clue what the fuck Frozen is, and by the sounds of it I should. “Where’s Mummy and Daddy?” I place her down and brush some glitter off my suit jacket.
“Mummy’s in the kitchen and Daddy’s getting alcohol. You’re all sparkly.”
I grunt and brush off more glitter from my trousers. “Let’s go see Daddy first.”
“Okay.” She’s off, zooming through the house like a tornado. “Daddy. Uncle Ty is here!” Mia disappears into the garden, screaming and shouting on her way.
“Mia,” I hear Moya yell. “Mia, I said no trampoline until Daddy’s cleaned it. Get off now!” There’s a loud bang, followed by a high-pitched scream from Mia.
“Jesus,” I breathe when Sal approaches with a beer for me and the hard stuff for himself.
He takes a sip of his Scotch and sighs. “You have to tolerate it for a few hours. Be grateful. This is my life.”
I might join him with the hard stuff. “You just got home?” I ask, pointing my bottle of beer at his suit. It’s gone seven, and he left the office as soon as the meeting wrapped up.
“Oh, I’ve been home for over an hour, but fixing Mia’s dollhouse and hoovering the lounge was more important than me getting a shower and into something more comfortable.” He shakes his head. “But no. Hissy fit ensues, and Daddy has his tools out.”
I give my partner a sympathetic look and throw my arm over his shoulder, walking us through to the kitchen. “And you’ve still not gotten any?”
“The fucking chance would be a fine thing, wouldn’t it?” he grumbles, but the second we enter the kitchen, he changes. “Look who’s here, sweetheart.”
Moya whirls around, an oven glove on each hand. “Ty. Come here, you scoundrel.”
I place the wine on the side and go to her. “Hey, babe. You look as stunning as ever.” I’m being polite, masking my shock. She looks absolutely drained, her usually glossy hair limp and lifeless, and her usually glowing complexion pasty. And the clothes? Her trademark skinny jeans that hug her curvy hips have been replaced with . . . I don’t know what. Tights? What’s happened? It’s only been a few weeks since I last saw her.
“I don’t see you enough these days,” she moans, pulling out and brushing at the shoulder of my jacket. I look down and spot a massive greasy mark. On my two-grand suit. “Oh.” She waves an oven glove in the air. “It’s only gravy. It’ll come out.” She moves back toward the oven and shuts the door, while I scowl at my grey suit, brushing at the soggy patch.
