We were a large, complicated, tangled bunch who loved one another so much.
I’d gone from being alone to having a huge family within the space of a few months. It had been overwhelming in the best way.
Now there were photos of them all over my wall.
Pics of my best friend from high school, Leigh, hung there too. From fifteen years old to now. She lived and worked in Glasgow, but we tried to see each other as often as we could. Other than Beth and my cousins, my social group was scattered all over the world. I’d met most of my current friends when I went to uni in London. My closest friends were my two roommates, Penny and Davina. Penny now lived in Texas and Davina was in Dubai.
The truth was … since I’d met Will, my social world had become his. When we were together, we hung out with his friends. Hence why none of my cousins or Leigh had met Will—in the three years we’d been together.
That said everything. Why hadn’t I realized that wasn’t normal?
Hurt flared across my chest.
My gaze landed on a photo of Will and me. Grace had taken it. He was kissing my cheek, and my face was scrunched up in laughter. We looked happy.
Tears dripped down my cheeks and I wiped them away wondering how I could have been so wrong about that. Itwas a shock to realize I no longer trusted myself—no longer trusted my feelings. I took the picture off the wall and then reached for the other three photos of us together. With a sick, churning stomach, I shoved them into my side table drawer to deal with later. Then I kissed my fingertips and pressed them to a photo of Dad, Grace, and Lockie as I passed it to venture into the kitchen.
It was moments like these I wished I was a daily wine drinker. Like Will, I wasn’t big on alcohol. If I was out with the girls, I’d have a few cocktails, but that was it.
Stopping in the kitchen, I realized I’d intended to make a snack, yet I wasn’t hungry. Turning around, I wandered out of the kitchen, through the sitting room, and back out into the hall. My bedroom was on the same side as the living room and had a lovely, leafy view. The second bedroom was so small I’d turned it into a wardrobe. It was fair to say I loved clothes. I loved how they transformed a person. So, I had rails of clothes, far more than one person needed, and boxes and boxes upon shoes. Thankfully, this extra space allowed my bedroom to remain mostly clutter-free. Shutting the blinds, I changed out of my tight-fitted pencil dress into joggers and a cropped tee.
I’d barely pulled the tee on when my doorbell rang, setting off the app on my phone. I hurried into the hall to pull my phone out of my purse. Ignoring the notifications that I had missed calls and a bunch of unanswered texts from Will that had piled up over the past month, I tapped on the doorbell app.
There wasn’t a security door into the building, so I’d installed the camera doorbell. The camera app flared to life and my heart skipped a beat at the sight of Baird.
If Will really wanted to talk to me, he could come to myflat. Like Baird. Who didn’t like how we’d left things and had shown up mere hours later.
A pleasant ache scored across my chest as I opened the door to him.
His gorgeous, dark eyes held mine for a second, and I felt more than a sizzle of the physical attraction I’d gotten very good at ignoring. Baird McMillan was probably the most beautiful man I’d ever met.
However, lots of women thought so, and he was the biggest flirt on the planet.
Baird was a good-natured lothario. He’d never intentionally hurt a woman. I think he’d chew off his own arm first. But this was a man who could flirt with a lamppost. He’d never be satisfied with the same woman for the rest of his life. He was heartbreak waiting to happen for anyone who fell in love with him, so he’d never be a romantic possibility for me.
That didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy looking at him.
This morning he’d not only surprised me with the tabloid story but with his haircut.
I’d loved his long hair. Yet he was sexier than ever with it shorter. It was wet right now and hanging across his temples in waves. He had to brush it out of his eyes, his big, tattooed hand impatiently swiping at it.
My dad had tattoos. Nearly all my uncles had tattoos, including Uncle Cole. Baird could give Cole—one of the best tattoo artists in the country—a run for his money. Baird had a full sleeve of artwork all the way to the fingers on his right hand. This past year, the tattoo collection had grown. Now he had tattoos across his chest and up onto his neck. They were Celtic tribal in style, and Cole had expertly shaded the designs so the ink wasn’t overly prominent.
If you’d asked me whether I’d be attracted to a guy with a neck tattoo, I would have said no.
And I would have been wrong.
Last year, I’d told Will I was finally ready to get a tattoo, and he’d talked me out of it. He said tattoos were trashy and I’d regret it. Looking back, Will could really be a bit of a dick.
“You’re still mad at me.” Baird’s broad shoulders slumped.
I realized I was scowling at the memory of my ex-fiancé and smoothed my features.
My chest squeezed at Baird’s forlorn expression. The man was six foot five, built of pure muscle, and he could squash most people between his giant paws. Yet he made me feel protective of him.
“Nope.” I stepped back, gesturing for him to come in.
Baird had only been at my place once before. Thankfully, I’d tidied up last night and there were no underwear drying on my radiators.
