Page 21 of Cruel Shame

Moments later, Maxwell opened the limousine door, letting out a lovely gust of warmth. Maybe these guys had a point.

“Alright.” I slid into the leather seat. “I’ll take the train to London. That way, I can sleep throughout the journey and not aggravate my head.”

“You can’t go to London on your own.” Maxwell scooted around me and settled on my right. Orlando took the seat opposite and tapped something into his smartphone.

I glanced from Maxwell to Orlando. “Then who’s coming—”

“I will.” Kendrick settled on my left.

I blinked several times, trying to clear my head, and gazed at Kendrick out of the corner of my eye. He pulled back his shoulders, folded his arms across his chest, and raised his chin.

On a less attractive person, Kendrick’s expression would be mullish. His tight neck and jaw pulled down his lips in a grimace, his nostrils flared, and his glare was hard enough to kick down doors.

“Are you sure?” I turned toward him and tilted my head to the side.

Kendrick huffed an annoyed breath.

“Alright.” I offered him a slow nod, translating the gesture. “You wouldn’t have volunteered if you didn’t mean it.”

He tossed his head and sniffed. “I’ll book us separate berths.”

Orlando held up his smartphone. “Too late. I already reserved you a double ensuite.”

“What?” Kendrick hissed.

My breath caught in the back of my throat. Kendrick and me confined to one of those little berths for an entire night? I slid further down in my seat and suppressed a groan.

“What if Lilah throws up or has trouble waking?” asked Maxwell. “What if she faints in the shower?”

Kendrick’s cheeks turned purple. “Shower?”

I dipped my head and exhaled a long breath. On any other day, I might have offered to sleep out on one of the public seats and told Kendrick I didn’t need him watching over me. But with that funky migraine burrowing through my skull, I was in no position to refuse help. Now, I just felt sorry because he was being lumbered with me at my worst.

Maxwell patted my thigh. “Don’t worry. Ken has stood in for me dozens of times.”

“With disastrous results,” Kendrick snarled.

I reached into my bag, pulled out my painkillers, and placed two tablets on my tongue. Maxwell passed me a bottle of water to wash them down. I murmured my thanks and swallowed several mouthfuls of cool liquid.

Kendrick must have taken pity on me because he stopped complaining about sharing a berth, and the rest of the journey around the city center passed in blessed silence. When the limo pulled into Glasgow Central Station, he waited patiently as I kissed Maxwell and Orlando goodbye, helped me out of the limo, and offered me his arm.

As we stepped beneath a gigantic verandah entrance of emerald lamp posts and green-tinted glass, I stared up at Kendrick, marveling at how differently he held himself to Maxwell.

The light cast shadows over his chiseled cheekbones, strong jaw and perfectly straight nose. Unlike Maxwell, who wore his hair in a messy, just-been-fucked style, Kendrick wore his slicked back, which emphasized his permanently furrowed brow. The guy really needed to relax.

We crossed a vast concourse of white floors, glass ceilings, and elegant, brown storefronts. Which version of him would I get for the journey? The scowling mute, the hero who knocked Elizabeth out with a punch, or the dickhead?

“What?” he stared down at me and scowled.

“Thank you for escorting me to London,” I murmured.

Kendrick pulled back his shoulders. “Maxwell is standing in for me, so I suppose it’s worth the sacrifice.”

My shoulders sagged. So I would be getting the dickhead.

Chapter Ten

We stepped into a suite of red carpets, mahogany-paneled walls, and tartan-green furnishings. A double bed took up its entire left side, with windows running down its right. At the foot of the bed were a pair of armchairs arranged around a table that doubled up as a desk, and opposite that, a stool, either for dressing or using as a desk chair.