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“Of course not. There’s nothing so hideous in all of creation,” he says, because, Jamie. “But if one did…”
“Room temp. Obviously.”
“Yeah, see,” he says away from the phone. “She says you’re barking, mate.”
“Hey, so listen,” I press. Jamie is a doll, but the boy is easily distracted.
“Right, sorry. What can I do for you?”
“I need a favor,” I confess. “A big one. Any chance you could get me an introduction to someone connected to the Tulleys?”
“Oh.” He chuckles. “Well, you don’t make it easy on a bloke. This about the painting still?”
“Yeah. Bonus points if it’s a member of the family.”
“I see.” There’s a long pause with some indistinct chatter in the background mingled with the sounds of London traffic. Like me, he’s on campus across town today. “For you, Abbs, I’ll do my best. Give me some time.”
“You’re a peach,” I say in relief.
If anyone can swing it, it’s his lordship Jamie Kent.
“Tell me I’m your favorite roommate.”
“My very best favorite.”
That was easier than expected. Far from a done deal, however. In the event Jamie can’t manage a connection, I’ll need a fallback plan. As I’m typing some notes to myself on my phone, I receive a text.
My fingers freeze at the name on the screen.
Nate: How’s the hunt?
Holy shit.
I can’t believe he’s on my phone.
Like, the fucking nerve of this dude.
But also, I’m kind of okay with it.
Maybe more than okay.
I haven’t heard from him in weeks. So long now that our road trip seems almost a hallucination. I’d even started to wonder if I was the reason he’d been absent from the usual group outings.
Now he slides into my texts all cool and casual. Typical. He’s got that energy. The fleeting rogue, always asking forgiveness with a bashful smile and those brooding eyes. And we never say no because of course not. If their schtick didn’t work, their species would’ve died out generations ago.
I’m tempted to answer immediately, but I stop myself.
The sensible thing to do is respond with a polite but succinctyeah, good. Whatever his motivations in contacting me now, they’re definitely not the ones that I entertain in the whispering parts tucked way back in my own head. Reading more into a simple message says more about me than it does about him—or his intentions. The easiest way to let myself off the hook is not to lunge at it in the first place.
I, of course, do none of that.
Me: If you want to give me a lift to a cemetery in Surrey, I can fill you in.
Nate: Where are you now?
Me: Albert Hall at Pembridge.
Nate: Meet me out front in fifteen.
