“He didn’t hurt me,” Poppy slurred. “S’okay, hun.”
“Clara, darling, come away from the door,” I said, still in a soft, careful voice. “Rory, I think you better leave.”
“Her head,” Rory said weakly. “I – Rafe, I’m sorry, I dinnae know?—”
“I fell and hit a table,” Poppy said, “because I’m a fuckwit.”
Her voice was weird and slurred. I was beginning to really worry now. This kind of thing hadn’t happened with Poppy for years. I hadn’t been lying when I said she barely ever drank like this nowadays.
“Poppy, I just—” Rory started but I was done.
“Just fuckoff, Rory,” I said.
“Please let me know she’s okay,” he pleaded, catching my arm as I went to close the door. “Just text me or something. Let me know she’s alright.”
I knew full well the disdain Rory held for Poppy. He wasn’t going to trick me with his fake concern. He’d already turned up here and bitched about what a burden she’dbeen, as if she was still just the fuckwitted teenager she once was.
“What do you care? You’ve made it clear over the last five years that Poppy’s the last person you give a shit about. JustleaveRory.”
I slammed the door in his face then and Poppy’s body slumped against me as she let out a small groan. “Rafeeeeey, I feel all squiggly,” she sing-songed.
“Oh, Pops,” I said as I made my way through to the kitchen, half-carrying my sister with Clara following behind us. “What on earth happened, darling? You can’t stand Rory. And you never get drunk nowadays.”
“Sorry,” Poppy sniffled, as a tear made its way down her cheek. “I was nervous. You know how Rory makes me nervous.” I put her down into one of the kitchen chairs and she slumped over the table, then looked up at Clara. “You must think I’m a total loser.”
“Of course I don’t,” Clara said fiercely, squatting down in front of Poppy and taking her hand. “I would never think that.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and stared down at my sister. There was a twelve-year age gap between me and Poppy. And at twenty-five, she was still considered the baby of the family. We all loved and indulged Poppy to an almost ridiculous degree. Of course, that meant she could have grown into a spoilt nightmare, but my sister never behaved like that. Yes, she lived her life as if she was the main character and the world revolved around her, but not necessarily in a bad way. Poppy was the kindest girl I knew. She’d had a wild phase in her late teens, but it had all been exaggerated by the papers. The paps always seemed to catch her at bad moments and would make all sorts of stories up about her. But, Poppy being Poppy, she’d turned all that media attentioninto a vehicle to benefit the Sterling Foundation, our family’s charitable trust. There was nobody who could organise a party like Poppy. The more famous she got, the more opportunities came her way. She now split her time between event organising for the foundation, and interviewing celebrities for all the broadcasters that used to pan her.
“Do you have a first aid kit?” said Clara softly as she stood up to face me, still keeping Poppy’s hand in hers.
“Yes, of course,” I said. “Pops, you’re not going to be sick again, are you?”
“I’m fine, Rafey Bafey,” muttered Poppy as she rested her head back against the chair. I patted her shoulder a couple of times and then moved away to go and grab the first aid kit, leaving Clara to keep an eye on her.
Bloody hell, this was not how I envisaged this evening going.
After Clara had finally relaxed into me in the office and let me hold her, we’d sat like that for a long while before I heard her stomach grumble. There was no way I was going to let Clara go hungry, not with how underweight she still was. So I lifted her up in my arms and carried her into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” she’d asked. “I can walk.”
I’d grinned down at her. “I know, but this is quicker. Your legs are too short.”
She smacked my chest and frowned up at me. “That’s bloody rude,” she said as I popped her onto one of the kitchen stools.
“I know,” I said, kissing her nose. “Now sit here, shorty, while I make you dinner.”
“You can cook?” she asked, her eyebrows going up in disbelief.
“I’m a very good cook,” I said indignantly. This was a lie. I could heat up Martha’s food and I could boil pasta, but that was about it. Luckily, I had pasta and a jar of pesto – a meal even I would struggle to fuck up.
“Lord Sterling,” Clara called tentatively, “can I ask you a question?”
I held back a sigh. After what we just did in my study, I had hoped she might be a little less shy. Asking permission to ask a question and not even using my first name was not exactly progress.
“Clara, baby,” I said, moving over to where she was sitting on a kitchen stool and then spinning the stool to face me. It was a sudden movement and caused her hands to fly to my chest to steady herself which worked perfectly to my advantage. “I think now you can stop asking permission to speak. And, for the love of God, please,pleasecall me Rafe.”
She bit her lip. “Okay.”
