He turns on his heel and sprints over to where Clementine and Max are playing, and I stand there watching as the three of them head to the car together,Miles’s words still ringing in my ears.
For what it’s worth, it’s only ever been you for him.
I can’t be sure, but Ithinkfor the first time ever, in his own weird way, Miles just gave me his approval.
CHAPTER 21
Story
Age 21
“Beers: tick, pizzas: one spicy pepperoni—excellent, one pineapple—wrong. Tick.”
I’m mid-inhale, breathing in the delicious aroma of cheese, herbs, and carbs courtesy of Tony’s, the best pizza place in Valentine Nook, but it morphs into a squeal when Hendricks digs his finger deep into my ribs.
“Watch it. Don’t diss my pineapple.”
I glance down at his choice, which hasn’t changed since he first discovered it ten years ago, wondering if I can force my mind to change. I like pineapple. Even pineapple with cheese. But hot pineapple, with tomato sauce? Nope. Bleugh.
“Who knows, maybe today’s the day I’ll finally get you to try it.”
“I’d rather make out with Miles,” I shoot back, and immediately the air stills.
Hendricks’s laugh is tight as he tries to brush off the visual or whatever it is I’ve put in his mind. Our historyof him and Miles swapping places doesn’t have the best memories.
“I pray hard that day nevereverhappens.”
“It won’t if I have anything to do with it. And thank God I can tell the difference between you, eh?” I slap a hand against his chest.
“It’s a gift I’m thankful for every day,” he drawls, and only the sound of my stomach rumbling loud enough to set off an avalanche moves us out of the last weirdly awkward thirty seconds.
Hendricks’s brows disappear into the curls flopping onto his forehead. “Okay, impatience. We can eat.”
Gathering up the pizza boxes and a couple of beers, we take them through to the living room, where he places them on the sofa. Before then, though, I take in the room, the two candles he’s lit, the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, the blankets piled up on one side.
Because he and Miles have only lived in this cottage for a couple of months, this is the first time I’ve been here. Now that Miles is playing polo professionally, his mother let them move into it, probably more to save her own sanity from the revolving door of women than anything else. I can’t imagine the duchess being too happy about arriving at breakfast only to be greeted by a different girl every day.
I’ve always wondered what Hendricks would be like living on his own, because during term time in London he’s at their family place, staffed twenty-four seven. It’s a stark contrast to the boys who live off campus at my university. I wonder daily how they haven’t brought back dysentery or the bubonic plague based on the state of their accommodation.
But this? I’m liking what I see, especially when myeyes drop on a framed photo of the two of us, lying on a picnic blanket trying to shield our eyes from the sun.
It was taken on the hill at Honeysuckle Lane last summer, we’d sat there all day, me with a book to read, him with a book to revise from—Vets 101—or something. We barely spoke except to say things like “pass the crisps” or “want another drink?” It was quiet and perfect, and one of my favorite days of the year.
“Aw, look at us. Hen, you’re such a cutie?—”
He glances up, confused, until he sees what I’m looking at. “Yeah, I know.”
Placing it back on the coffee table, I slide next to him. “I have to be honest, I thought this place was going to be such a mess.”
He doesn’t even bother to look offended or pretend to. He just shrugs and grins. “Miles is away.”
It’s believable, it really is. Except I know that Hendricks is equally as messy, so I stand there and wait.
“Okay, fine, the housekeeper was here today. But”—he holds a finger up—“with only me around to mess it up, it takes a little longer to get messy. And I have very little time to do anything right now except revise.”
“Literally the only twenty-one-year-old I know with a housekeeper.”
“Hey, I’m not turning down the offer just because I’m young. That’s ageist.”
