Maisy scooped up Mopsy and followed, her heels clip-clopping on the floor.
“Why don’t you just stay up here?” Toby said, his nerves mounting with every downward step.
“And miss all the fun? We wouldn’t dream of it, dahling. Would we, Mopsy?”
“Hmm,” he said tersely but was glad to have them beside him when he reached the front door. Whatever had brought his old mentor to his house, he doubted it was anything good. Giving Mopsy’s golden head a rub, he opened the door to see Scott and Noah, both wearing jeans, T-shirts and tired expressions.
“Hello there,” Scott said, his smile warm but wary. “Sorry to drop by unexpectedly like this, but it’s somewhat of an emergency.”
Toby hadn’t heard Scott’s calm, upper-class accent in two years. That and his smile were so reassuring that it shocked him. He’d missed Scott, and he’d forgotten just how much.
“I-I… It’s all good,” he stammered. “How… what’s happened?”
Scott stepped forward, arms wide. “Give me a hug first, you muppet.”
Toby hugged him, and to his surprise, Scott squeezed him tight. “Congratulations on your job and your house, Toby,” he said quietly. “I’m very proud of you.”
And maybe he was just exhausted, but Toby almost teared up. “Sorry for not giving you notice and bailing on the band and?—”
“Water under the bridge,” Scott said firmly. With a final squeeze, he stepped back. “Can we come inside and talk?”
Toby glanced at Noah, who looked as hangdog as his scary features would allow.
“I’ll stay here,” Noah rumbled. “I deserve that.”
“Don’t,” Toby said. “Come in. Scott, Noah, this is my friend?—”
“Maisy!” Maisy stepped forward, kissing Scott’s cheek and shaking Noah’s huge, tattooed hand.
“It’s so wonderful to hear another English accent in this entirely too-sunburnt land,” she said to Scott. “Not that I don’t appreciate the way Australians say ‘GARAAAGE,’ but you know what I mean, don’t you, dahling?”
Scott smiled politely. “Agreed. How do you know?—”
“Oh, Toby and I go way back, dahling. Now, we were just about to crack open some bubbles. Would you like to join us? Or would you prefer beer or coffee or something suitably masculine like that?”
She seemed to be addressing Noah, whom she clearly found fascinating. Considering how middle-aged women usually felt about Noah—that he should be in permanent police custody—he seemed bemused by her offer. Toby wasn’t. Maisy’s only real fears were synthetic fibres and dry weddings.
The four of them settled around Toby’s dining table with drinks and a platter of camembert, chicken liver pâté, and water crackers. Scott seemed perfectly content to talk to Maisy about finance as Noah engaged him in car chat, wanting to know how much horsepower the Lambo had, how many cylinders, what engine, and what the zero-to-one ratio was. Toby answered as best he could with his mind firmly on Tabby.
Mopsy toddled happily around their feet, trying to procure treats. She soon homed in on Noah, who Toby saw was slipping her whole crackers with pâté. The big man appeared to be on somewhat of an apology tour for his home invasion, without actually saying the words. Toby didn’t mind. He’d had nightmares about the look on Noah’s face as he stood, weeping about Nicole’s miscarriage. He wanted to ask how Nicole was doing but couldn’t think of a way to bring it up without stepping on a conversational landmine. Beneath their calm exteriors, Noah and Scott seemed tense to the point of trepidation. Scott kept scratching his neck hard enough to leave marks, and Noah was checking his phone every few minutes. Yet, neither was in a rush to get to why they were actually here. As the cheese vanished and their glasses grew empty, Toby caught Maisy’s eye, willing her to work her social magic and figure this thing out.
“… anyway, we’ll have to return to this delightful conversation later,” Maisy announced. “You’re obviously here for a reason, Scott, and Toby and I still have a lot of packing to do.”
“You’re moving?” Scott asked him with a frown. “You just bought this place.”
“It’s too big for me,” Toby said impatiently. “Look, Scott, please just tell me what’s going on?”
He and Noah exchanged loaded glances.
“Well, the first port of call is apologies,” Scott said, folding his hands on the table.
Toby stared at his old boss. “You want me to?—”
“No,” Scott said firmly. “Noah?”
The ex-biker didn’t turn red, but splotches appeared beneath both of his heavily shadowed eyes. “Sorry for showing up here when I did,” he muttered. “I fucked up.”
Toby looked down at Mopsy, who was licking the back of Noah’s hand for all she was worth. “It’s okay. I understand.”
