“Not especially. I was going to ask you about where you come from... your family, your life in London.”
“Oh.”
“Sore subject?”
“No. I have a family—my mum and my brother. I grew up in Hackney, but we moved to Romford when I was fourteen. Rhys still lives there. My mum’s out in Spain.”
“Your dad?”
“Dead.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Harry’s eyes darkened. The shadow was fleeting but unmistakable. “I hated him.”
Why? But I didn’t ask. Didn’t need to. Because the fire in his haunted gaze when he’d protected my mum suddenly made sense. “When did he die?”
“Four years ago.”
“Was that freeing too?”
“A little.” It was Harry’s turn to reach for the whisky bottle. His hand shook as he poured double measures. “But I hadn’t seen him in years, so it was surreal, actually. I didn’t feel as much as I thought I would.”
“What about your mum?”
“What about her?”
“Are you close?”
“Not so much anymore. I love her to bits, but life pulled a weird one on us. I was her shadow for years, then I just... wasn’t.”
“What about your brother?”
Harry smiled, the warmth of it melting away some of the tension. “He’s my best friend... when I don’t want to chin him.”
I laughed. “With you there, mate, though I’ve made it this far without decking my sister.”
Harry knocked his glass to mine and his grin widened. “So we’re both pillars of restraint?”
I shrugged and tipped some whisky down, tracking it as it merged with the buzz already lacing my veins. “I try, though I reckon I dance too close to the edge some days.”
Harry shifted on the couch, his smile gone like it had never been there at all. It was clear he’d had enough of the subject, and though I was screaming inside to learn more about him, I understood.
I rubbed my face. The whisky was starting to make me feel ridiculous. Like I should give him a hug or something. I settled for nudging him. “Thanks for breakfast. And the lie in. I know it was you who left me to sleep. Emma loves waking me up.”
Harry shrugged. “I owed you a few meals, and I didn’t see the point in disturbing you when I was awake anyway. Besides, I like helping with the horses. They’re not as scary as they were—oh shit!” He scrambled off the couch. “I left the dinner in the oven.”
He darted from the room, leaving me bemused until he reappeared with two scalding hot plates, filled with the kind of food he usually seemed terrified of. Sober me couldn’t seem to hide my curiosity, but drunk me held my tongue. I claimed a plate and some cutlery and dug in while Harry did the same with a little more dignity.
“I haven’t had a roast in years,” he said after a while, his plate still half-full.
“Why not?”
He speared a roast potato and frowned at it in a way that I couldn’t decipher. “My mum wasn’t much of a cook when I was a kid, and then I kind of got out of the habit.”
“Habit of what? Eating?” I threw the words out carelessly because they didn’t mean anything to me, but as Harry’s gaze met mine, it was horribly clear that they meant everything to him.
My dinner turned to dust in my belly. I forced myself to keep eating. And to say something—anything—to give him a way out of a conversation he clearly didn’t want to have. “Mani likes you.”
