I stare at him. “What?”
“Welcome to England, Addison. We pay our service workers a living wage here.”
“Incredible,” I say, giggling.
“I know.” He laughs.
“I still feel like I need that translation dictionary,” I say, dropping my card back into my purse. “You all just walk around all day saying ‘gaffer’ and not tipping anyone.”
“God forbid,” Oliver teases.
“Don’t get cocky, Bradshaw,” I say as we head out the door.
He leans in, just close enough to make my stomach flip. “Too late.”
10
tactical change
UNDO BY THE 1975
I can’t sleep.
I’ve been in the same spot since I got home—slouched on the sofa, one leg bent up, the other on the floor—half watching the telly, half drowning in my own head. My knee bounces like I’ve got a match in the morning, but I don’t. Tomorrow is a recovery day. I can sleep in, go out, do whatever I bloody want.
But I can’t stop thinking about Addison.
Bloody hell.
She’s just our PR manager. That’s it. Nothing more.
I keep telling myself that, over and over, like a chant that rings out at Ashdown Park. Like that might make it true.
But something was different tonight. We talked—like, really talked. It wasn’t just banter and sarcastic comments. It was honesty. She opened up to me, and even more surprisingly, I opened up to her. And I did it voluntarily. It didn’t feel forced or awkward. It felt real. Easy, even. It was as if we’d called a temporary truce in whatever ridiculous war we’ve been waging against each other since she got here. An armistice over pints and shared scars neither of us deserved.
I can’t stop thinking about what she’s been through. About the courage it must have taken her to blow up her life and rebuild it in another country. Our conversation has been lodged in my chest since we left the pub.
I came home, took my shirt off, and changed into track pants. I warmed up some leftover curry that now sits on the table uneaten. I turned on the telly that’s been sitting on mute for over an hour. I just can’t get her out of my head. And I want to know more.
I grab my laptop from the table and start typing into a search engine.
Addison Scott. New York. Public Relations.
I hate that I’m doing this. I’m sure she’s googled me. It’s her job, anyway. But a random assortment of photos and press clippings surely doesn't tell you what you need to know about a person.
I hit enter anyway.
It’s mostly press releases for clients she’s worked with. There’s a professional bio on her, showing her just as sharp and polished as she is in person. It talks about how she grew up in the business.
My curiosity gets the better of me when I click on “images.” And that’s when I seehim.
Matt.
I know it’s him just from the smug smile on his face, like he owns the world. He’s got the kind of smile that makes you willing to break your own knuckles just to land the punch. There are photos from red carpet events and galas. Every single photo he flashes the same fucking smile.
I click on one from last year, making it bigger. Addison stands next to him in this sleek black dress, smiling like she’s pretending to be happy. I can tell she isn’t. Her smile doesn’t even reach those piercing blue eyes. She looks beautiful, and he doesn’t even notice.He’s grinning like a smug prick, but in each photo, he never even looks over at her. His eyes are either directly staring down the camera or looking somewhere else entirely. His arm is always around her, but it’s not protective, it’s possessive. They’re together, but apart.
I don’t know why that bothers me. I don’t know why it makes me want to slam my laptop shut, book the next flight to New York, and punch him right in his bloody face. But it does.
