Lachie is twenty-eight, the same age as Fliss, while Elliot is thirty-five, just one year older than I am. My boyfriend has a point, but I shove his shoulder indignantly, regardless.
‘Doesn’t she care that she’s his rebound shag?’
‘Can we stop talking about El and Fliss?’ he asks pointedly, rolling onto his back and pulling me on top of him. He runs his hands up inside my top and cups my breasts.
There are other, far more pressing things to talk about, but right now, there are also far more pressing things to do.
I have to drag myself from bed the next morning when Lachie’s alarm goes off.
‘You don’t need to get up,’ he says in a deep, groggy voice.
‘I’ll make you a coffee,’ I reply, stumbling into the kitchen. It’s quarter to six. The shower turns on and, a few minutes later, Lachie joins me, wearing black jeans, a grey T-shirt and a dark-blue beanie pulled over his blond hair. He never wears a suit when he gigs.
He presses a kiss to my temple. I turn and slide my arms around his waist and he pulls me close, engulfing me with his warmth.
‘You okay?’ he asks, withdrawing to gaze down at me with tired but beautiful blue eyes.
I sigh and place my hands on his face, running my thumbs across his stubble. After going clean-shaven for a year, he’s growing back his beard.
‘I wish you didn’t have to go today.’
He looks dejected. ‘Sorry, Bron,’ he whispers. ‘Fliss and George need to get there early to prep. I could’ve driven later, but it seemed crazy to pass up the offer of a ride.’
‘I know. Don’t worry.’
He reaches past me to grab his coffee from the counter, and, at the same time, we hear a knock on the door.
‘I’ll get it.’ I open the door to find Fliss before me, looking a bit worse for wear, but still gorgeous. Her dark hair is pulled up into a high, tousled bun and her big brown eyes stare out at me from behind a thick fringe. We’re around the same height at five foot seven.
‘Hey,’ she says in a huskier voice than usual.
‘With you in a sec,’ Lachie calls from the kitchen.
‘Good night?’ I raise one eyebrow at her and lean against the doorframe.
She smirks. ‘Could say that.’
‘Did you shag him?’ Lachie asks with a grin, materialising at my side, coffee cup still in hand.
‘No, I did not!’ she replies mock-indignantly. ‘What sort of a girl do you think I am?’
He shrugs and grins and my insides clench. There’s something about this girl that makes warning bells go off in my head.
‘I thought you were desperate,’ he teases.
Has she been divulging to my boyfriend how much she wants sex?
She rolls her eyes at him. ‘Not that desperate.’
‘You could do worse than Elliot,’ I chip in, feeling suddenly defensive of our friend.
She screws her nose up. ‘He’s way too old for me.’
Cheeky bitch! I know I said the same thing last night, but now I feel like she’s implying thatI’mtoo old formyboyfriend.
‘Come on, Lochness, time to go,’ she urges.
Lachie is actually pronounced Lockie, and, somewhere along the line, Fliss got the idea of nicknaming him after the Loch Ness monster. Lachie and I met in Scotland, while Fliss has never even been to Europe, but that’s not why I find the nickname irritating. I hate how familiar and cutesy this girl is with my boyfriend. And Lachie, who has always been a flirt, doesn’t discourage her.
