“Ever the gentleman, Will. It’s a pleasure to be in your company again,” I say, my expression stoic as I take a seat at the kitchen bench.
Will is the lead guitarist in Atlas Veil, and has been close friends with James for years. Unfortunately, he has the IQ of a goldfish and hasn’t stopped hitting on me since we met.
“You still look hot,” he says.
“It’s never going to happen.” I fix him with a stern look.
He shrugs. “Worth a try.”
“Will!” April admonishes.
James casually reaches over and claps Will over the back of his head.
“Oi, what was that for?” Will asks James.
“You’re a dickhead,” James deadpans.
Tom, the lead singer in Atlas Veil and longtime friend of James, snickers throughout the entire exchange. Will and Tom are trouble when they’re together.
I’ve been here precisely seven minutes, and in that time, Basil—April’s cat—has taken a shit on the utility room floor, Tom’s spilt his drink all over the good rug, and Lucas has stormed outside in a huff over something James said.
Caroline, James’s mum, sweeps into the kitchen to attempt damage control, shooing April away from the charcuterie board, taking the champagne bottle from her and seamlessly assuming hosting duties.
“Will, what have I told you about internal thoughts?” Caroline asks, pouring me a bubbly.
Will’s sheepish gaze drops to the floor like a toddler in trouble. “That they don’t always need to be voiced.”
“Very good,” she says with a patient smile. “Now you can have a beer.”
“Yes!” He pumps his arm in excitement. He and Tom grab a couple of beers and head out to the courtyard.
My eyes scan the room, noticing we’re a band member short. “Where’s Oliver?”
Oliver is James’s closest friend and the drummer for Atlas Veil. Unlike Will and Tom, who share approximately one functioning brain cell between them, Oliver is genuinely great company. He’s the kind of man who remembers your birthday and doesn’t ask inappropriate questions about your sex life within thirty seconds of saying hello. Not that I never do that—I do—but I have my limits forwhothose questions extend to, i.e., April and Anna. Oh, and sometimes Henry.
“Speak of the devil,” James says, popping a piece of salami into his mouth.
Our heads swivel as Oliver joins us in the kitchen with a gleeful smile.
“Team,” he says, nodding to us in greeting. We chorus our hellos as he pulls April in for a hug, congratulating the soon-to-be-wedded couple.
James snags a second piece of salami, throws me a cheeky wink, and grabs two beers—one for himself and one for Oliver—before heading out to join the testosterone convention in the garden. Caroline and Peter, James’s father, follow them.
“So,” April says, bumping me with her hip the moment they’re out of earshot. “Whatdidhappen to your eyes?”
I do a quick once-over like a detective to ensure Anna and Max haven’t quietly arrived.
“I left my contacts in overnight,” I confess in a hushed tone.
This requires no further explanation. Both Anna and April know my foolproof escape plan—that I strategically wear my daily wear contact lenses to hookups specifically to avoid sleepovers.
Her eyes widen comically.
“You slept at Max’s?” she whisper-shouts.
“It was an accident,” I insist. “I fell asleep. It wasn’t intentional.”
“Gemma.” She gapes at me, stunned. “This is a big deal.”
