“I’m so sorry, Hen. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.”
Both our hands are down by our thighs and less than thirty centimeters separates us. My fingers find his, and for a second they flex against mine before he snatches his hand back and smooths it down his thigh. “I got Max. It’s all that matters.”
I want to say more, but I don’t know where to start. God, I’m such a dick. The assumptions I’ve made . . .
Both our heads shoot up as James Winters, the Burlington family’s chief of staff, walks in. A former army major general who used to command thousands of troops, yet has always said his hardest job was corralling the five Burlington children. The last time I saw him, I was nineteen, drunk, and trying to climb up the centuries old wisteria outside Hendricks’s bedroom at three in the morning. For some reason, we thought it was a better idea than walking up the stairs.
His eyes land on me before Hendricks, and he doesn’t flinch. It could be his army training not to react, but something tells me he already knew I’d be here.
“Hello, Story,” he booms, and I realize I’m now fully resigned to being Story again. Sophie was fun while she lasted.
I wave. “Hi, James, how’s it going?”
“Very well, thank you.” He nods and holds out a toolbox.
Hendricks jumps to his feet and takes it. “You could have sent someone else.”
“Your mother wanted me to check you hadn’t done any damage.”
I snort, grateful for the opportunity to ease the tension. “Only to his ego.”
“Do you need help?”
“No,” Hendricks snaps as I laugh, “Yes.”
“No. We’refine,” he presses.
James raises an eyebrow, but aside from that, his expression remains as stoic as ever. One summer, I made it my mission to see if I could get him to smile, even the tiniest twitch of his mouth, but nothing. “You know where I am if you need anything.”
“Thanks, but we’ll be fine.”
I raise my beer to James and watch his face. “Pray for us.”
But he nods again and walks away.
“Bollocks. Zero for one,” I mutter.
Hendricks is riffling through the toolbox, pulling out an electric screwdriver, a hammer, a small bag of . . . nails, maybe. Screws? He lays them all on the floor to the side. “What is?”
“James. He never ever smiles.”
He buzzes the hand drill a couple of times. “He does. You’re just not funny.”
My tone is borderline amused, borderline insulted at the incredibly false accusation. “I’m hilarious. I’ve been told that many, many times.”
“By whom?Australians?”
Putting my beer down, I stand to join him. “Um . . . yes.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Why not?”
He spins his cap around. “Australians aren’t funny either.”
I frown, arms crossed firmly over my chest, and watch as he picks up plywood A and drills a hole into its edge. I look down at the instruction paper, which he’s not bothered to consult. This isnotgoing to end well.
“There are plenty of funny Australians . . . Kylie Minogue.”
