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She waves a dismissive hand in front of me. “Honestly, I’ll figure it out.”
“I’m going to pay for the car,” I say firmly.
“Why?” Her voice is barely a whisper and there’s a hopeful look in her eyes. “Why would you do that?”
I could tell her that it’s because I never want to see her look so frustrated and vulnerable ever again if I can help it. Or that it’s because maybe I want to be her hero right now so she can shine that beautiful smile on me even for just a few seconds.
But I don’t.
I take another step back, increasing the distance between us, and say, “You’ll drive there tomorrow, pick up the chandelier, and everything will stay on schedule. Simple.”
The hopeful look in her eyes disappears without a trace. “Right.” She swallows and finally pushes away from the wall. “Got it.”
“Send me your address and I’ll book the car to come for you tomorrow.”
Her voice is so quiet — not even a whisper — but I don’t miss the soft, “Thank you, Finn,” she utters as she brushes past me.
12
AMBER
The car Hawthorneis sending for me is due to arrive at 11 a.m., so I get a rare lie in. I earn some brownie points from my mother and Patrick by taking Noah to school. Afterward, I head back home and eat a proper breakfast for the first time in months.
I feel good. Really good. This is the first time in a long while that I’ve actually been able to slow down and enjoy something as simple as having the time to eat a breakfast that isn’t a crumbly cereal bar. I needed this, particularly after yesterday. Seeing the chandelier in thousands of tiny pieces on the floor was bad enough, but getting denied by our courier very nearly tipped me over the edge.
If it hadn’t been for Hawthorne and his surprisingly calming presence in that office, I don’t know what I would’ve done. I want to tell Bailey, but I hover uncertainly over our chat history. Her entire world has imploded around her over the last few days, and she’s going through a lot right now — a very horrible and public breakup and a potentially messy move back into her parents’ home — and I doubt she has the headspace right now to listen to my ramblings about work and Finn Hawthorne. So instead of messaging my best friend, I pull up the property website I spend far too much time on and scroll through the listings while I eat my breakfast.
Almost all of them aren’t right for me. The majority are too expensive and the ones that are in my budget are either so dilapidated it’ll take tens of thousands of pounds to renovate them, or they’re so far away they might as well be in a different country. But one listing stands out among all the others. It’s a little farther away from the city than I would like, but it’s within my budget and doesn’t need any major renovations that’ll prevent it from being liveable immediately.
It feels like I’ve found the holy grail, and I immediately contact the estate agent to organise a viewing. Could this be it? Have I finally found my home? The thought makes me giddy and then sad. Again, this is something I want to share with Bailey, but it doesn’t feel right rubbing in my potential wins when she’s going through something so awful.
Sitting in this kitchen, in a house that’s definitely not a home for me, I suddenly feel very alone.
A car honks loudly outside, making me jump. I glance at my phone. Eleven a.m. on the dot. Impressive. I drop my plate into the sink and then make my way outside before the driver can get too impatient. There’s a sleek black Range Rover parked outside the house, and I hurry over to the passenger side door.
“Thanks so much for this,” I say as I haul myself into the car. “Hopefully we won’t hit much traffic and we can—”
I freeze.
Hawthorne is sitting in the driver’s seat with a wide grin plastered across his face. “Morning.”
I blink at him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He gives me a look like I’ve asked something incredibly stupid and then says slowly, “We’re going to pick up the chandelier.”
“No,I’mgoing to pick up the chandelier.” I get myself fully into the car and pull the door shut. “What’reyoudoing here?”
He shrugs, that big grin still going strong. “You said you don’t drive.”
“And you said you’d pay for a driver.”
“Blame it on my cheapness,” he says cheerfully, like it doesn’t bother him at all if I actually think he’s cheap.
Despite myself, I can’t help but match his smile. “You know I always do.”
I lean back into the comfortable leather seat as Hawthorne pulls out and begins to drive away. He’s got his phone on a stand on the dashboard in front of us, a Google Maps route splayed across his screen. His phonepingsevery few seconds and a notification — usually an email — pops up in a banner on the top half of the screen.
It’s incessant.
