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“The toughest.”
“Are you guys close?”
“Ay. She raised us by herself after Dad died.” Jack’s careful to keep his voice down for the sleeping Jamie, who I think might be drooling on my shoulder. “Five kids all on her own, and we weren’t an easy lot, you know. Still aren’t.” A sheepish smile flashes in the passing streetlights.
“It’s just my dad and me too. But I don’t think I’ve been much trouble at all. It’s disgusting how good I am at following the rules.”
He snickers. “Let’s not brag about that, shall we?”
“What about your siblings?” I ask curiously. “You said some of them were older? Are they married?”
“Shannon’s eighteen, with a boyfriend I’ve a feeling she’ll ditch after graduation. Oliver’s a year younger than me and single. Charlie’s twenty-three, so two years older. Also single. Noah’s the oldest at twenty-five. He has a girlfriend—Bree. Ah, God, she’s fucking awful. That’s shitty of me to say, but she treats him like a pet. Everything he does. Like telling him what to eat, what to wear. He has to ask permission to have a beer.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not. Last Christmas, Mum handed him a piece of pie, and his girlfriend starts in on him about how he’s put on a few pounds.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Mind you, my brother has, like, six percent body fat. The bloke’s lips have abs.”
I laugh at the hint of jealousy in Jack’s voice. The competition in that family must be on another level.
“Mum hates her.”
I absorb all the information he gave me, realizing that despite having lived together for two months, this is the first time Jack has offered a more in-depth look at his family life. Before tonight, all I knew about him was that he has some siblings and likes rugby, going to the pub, and walking around shirtless. And that his favorite meal of the day is breakfast, or brekky as he calls it, which never fails to make me laugh.
Not that he told me his whole life story just now, but hey, it’s something. The problem is it’s whetted my appetite. I’m hungry for more.
Sadly, more talking is not in the cards for this cab ride. Jack leans closer, and suddenly there’s another drunk man using my shoulder as a pillow.
“Wake me when we get there?” he mumbles.
“Sure,” I say, ignoring the quickening of my pulse.
The feel of him draped on me, warm and muscular, is downright butterfly inducing.
Lee would not approve.
17
THE LEAVES ARE CHANGING INKENSINGTONGARDENS. ACRISPbreeze blows orange, yellow, and red across the sidewalks and into floating plumes turned up by the wake of morning rush-hour traffic. It’s late October. All of London is drenched in black coats and puffer jackets on my walk to campus.
“What was that?” my dad demands on the phone. “Is someone honking at you?”
“No. It’s just normal traffic noises, weirdo. I’m walking to class.”
I sip my coffee (I’ve still not learned to appreciate tea) and dodge TV camera crews that are about to go live from outside an iron fence in the ongoing saga of the royal philanderer. Apparently, Prince James remains staunch in his refusal to own up to his affairs, despite two swimsuit models recently coming forward with claims they had a threesome with the prince at a drunken yacht party in Monte Carlo.
“Anyway. What’s up?” I ask Dad.
It’s a rhetorical question. Same thing that’s always up.
“I haven’t heard from you in a while.” His disappointed voice has grown more insistent and accusatory over the last month or so.
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m eyeballs-deep in solving this mystery of the portrait. I spend all day in class, then the library, then homework. The time difference makes things a real bitch.”
“Abbey.”
