“Great,” Jake says as Betty and Gavin practically sprint to the street and disappear. My heels mean we can’t do the same, but I clop as fast as I can, Jake’s arm still wrapped around me.
“Do you actually want to call your nan?” I ask.
“Nah, she’s been asleep since eight. She’ll be rapt, though. I’ve told her all about you. Can’t wait for you to meet her.”
My nerves twang, but before I can ask how his nan feels about Italian immigrants, a man stumbles across the wine-dark lawn, crushing a small Hebe bush as he tries to light a cigarette. Tristan Taylor.
“Fuck,” I groan, as Jake tenses. There’s no way we can leave without Tristan seeing us. I squeeze Jake’s side. “Please let me try and handle this? We really do need to get out of here. We can’t waste time on Cece’s stupid brother.”
Jake hesitates.
“Please?” I repeat. “Beloved fiancé?”
His face softens. “Only for you, beloved fiancée. But Taylor and I are gonna have a talk at some point and?—”
“Hey, now. If it isn’t the happy couple.”
Tristan strides toward us, and I can practically hear Jake restraining himself. Tristan seems as fucked up as any of the farm guys. There’s a beer stain down the front of his paisley shirt and the haircut Cece mocked back at the hotel does look like shit. Normally, I’d tell him so, but I meant what I said to Jake. I don’t want any fights.
“Thanks,” I say firmly. “Jake and I are very happy. And we’re just about to leave, so have a great night.”
“I will.” Tristan weaves slightly as he sticks his cigarette back in his mouth and once again fails to light it. His nose is as red as Rudolph’s, and if he hasn’t been sniffing fake coke, my name isn’tAdalasia Renaldo. But before I can tell him to go ruin someone else’s night, his bloodshot eyes lock on Jake.
“Congrats. J-dog. You get to spend the rest of your life footing the bill for Ada’s daddy issues. But that’s what you always wanted, ay?”
I almost gasp. What the fuck is Tristain playing at? Is helookingto be beaten to a bloody pulp?
The air around Jake crackles with the threat of violence. “Say that again.”
“Don’t.” I lay a palm on Jake’s chest and glare at Tristan. “Since you’re committed to being a cunt, I’ll save us all some time. No one gives a fuck what you think about me and Jake, and you need to sign Stabbies over to Cece.”
Tristan flicks his lighter, and third time’s the charm. His cigarette ignites, and he blows smoke from the corner of his mouth. “Excuse me? What are you threatening me with exactly?”
I smile at Tristan, the proof that Betty found making the gesture not just easy but pleasurable. “Nothing.Yet.”
“What does that?—”
“Cece’s the one who actually owns the pub. You’ve been bullshitting her. I had a friend go into the records. Mitch wanted you tohelpCece manage the building, not lord it over her like a fuckwit. And since that’s what you’re doing and I know you don’t need the money, stop making her pay you rent through a fucking shell company, you scumbag.”
Tristan pulls on his cigarette and forces a laugh. “You’re outta your mind if you think I’m gonna let some sl?—”
“You watch your fuckin’ mouth,” Jake snarls.
Tristan flashes him a grin, his expression snakelike. How I ever found him handsome is absolutely unthinkable.
“I don’t care what you think you’ve found,” he says to me in the London accent I’m sure takes over whenever he’s in lawyer mode. I give him my best smile.
“Is that so, Tristan?”
“It is. That building’s mine, and last time I checked, I’m a barrister,and you’re a fucking flute player.”
“True,” I say. “But last timeIchecked, we hooked up, and you don’t, and have never had, an open relationship.”
The colour drains from Tristan’s face. “You wouldn’t.”
“Fuckin’ try me.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Back off Stabbies, or I’ll call your wife. I’ve got screenshots. Texts from London, when you told me you were single. Texts you sent after that extremely unfortunate night confirming what happened. You were engaged back then, yeah?”
Tristan turns to Jake. “You listening to this? You hearing what your precious little?—”
