Page 75 of How to Kill Your Rival

‘You were off by two years,’ I say when she taunts me about being wrong.

‘Two,’ she says. ‘Which in historical terms is next to nothing.’

‘We were both wrong,’ I sigh.

‘Yes, but you were far wronger,’ she teases, a filthy little grin on her face.

‘Wrong is wrong,’ I say.

Maggie has her chin in her hand, watching us like we’re a television show.

‘Are they always like this?’ Roman says to Fraser.

‘Yes, but it’s got worse since they started fucking,’ Fraser says.

‘Fraser!’ I squeal, punching him in the arm.

‘He’s not wrong,’ Maggie agrees. ‘Get a room already.’

‘I thought you guys liked each other now. Why the rivalry?’ Roman asks.

‘You get used to it,’ Fraser says.

‘The rivalry is half of the fun.’ Eliza giggles and leans into me, the alcohol making her far more relaxed than usual.

We don’t win the quiz.

Which is no surprise, given that we spend more time arguing about the answers than actually answering them.

I go to the bar just before last orders to get my round in and lean back while Dougie sorts the drinks. The Hamiltons sit in their booth, pink-cheeked and laughing, all so utterly comfortable with each other.

I want so badly to belong there by Eliza’s side. To be a Hamilton.

Technically, I’m their step-brother. But I don’t have their name. I’m not married in. My mother is. I’m the only one who’s not a Hamilton. We are, legally, in the loosest sense, family. I’ve been at the Christmas table. I’m accepted by their pet crow. I know where Evan keeps the good whisky. Chef cooks me my favourite meals whenever I stay. Even Jacob treats me like one of the main family.

Technically, I’m one of them.

But I don’t want to be Eliza’s step-brother. I want to be at the table because Eliza wants me there. To be chosen, not just accepted.

I could be her Mr Hamilton.

I hope to be.

That’s what I want, I think, picking up the drinks Dougie pushes towards me.

And I’m close.

* * *

The walk back to the estate is thirty minutes in the wee hours, with very little street lighting – hell, very little streets. We stumble and laugh, and I take Eliza’s hand in mine, slowing our pace to fall a little behind the others. When we get back home, we’ll have to pretend around Mum and Evan. Or sneak around.

I hate it.

The sky is dark, but overhead, there is a wavering green only just visible.

‘Look at that,’ Eliza breathes, pure wonder in what I can see of her face.

‘I love the Northern Lights,’ I sigh, squeezing her hand.