‘It’s Fin,’ I say with a sigh, lifting my mournful gaze to hers. ‘She’s seen Rory.’
‘Oh, fuck.’ Her shoulders sag. ‘When? How? What did she say?’
I slide my phone across the counter. ‘My guess is she’s too busy shagging to be angry.’
‘Oh,’ she says, then, ‘Oh.The reunion went well, I take it?’ I nod in response; reading between the text-lines, my guess would be yes. ‘I’m glad,’ she adds.
‘Really?’ I raise a sceptical brow. ‘You remember why we were keeping him away?’
‘Yeah ‘cause he got someone else up the duff. Maybe.’
‘Maybe? I told you what Fin overheard him say! She didn’t need that in her life—doesn’t! Not with all the shit she’s had to cope with over the last few months.’
‘Pound, please,’ she says, holding out her palm.
‘What?’ I look down at her outstretched hand, the light dawning belatedly. ‘Sod off,’ I say, pushing it away. ‘I’ll put it in the jar later.’
‘Add another fifty pence for sod,’ she says. ‘And I mean it—I am glad because if she’s taken Rory back, then there’s good reason for it, and we’ll learn it in time. Providing she’s still speaking to us once she’s done shagging the life out of him. She’s no’ daft,’ she adds. ‘She’d send him on his way if he wasn’t playing her fair.’ When I don’t respond, she ploughs on. ‘Being left a widow and in massive debt is one thing, finding the bastard left her with this massive mind fuck—can you imagine?—but she’s come through it all. She’s stayed strong. Sheisstrong. Stronger than I think you give her credit for. She’s no’ going to crumble at the last.’
It suddenly occurs to me that this is probably the reason Mac lashes out at Rory. He feels for Fin, maybe on behalf of his side of the species. Yes, he’s a bit of an oaf and a little rough, but he isn’t a brawler. Maybe seeing Rory just brought it all back, of how Fin had been suffering, because after Rory, things for her only got worse. While we’d been keeping him from finding out where she was these days and, in our eyes protecting her, she’d been dealt another blow. We couldn’t do anything to help when she found out that Marcus had served her something far worse than his death. And shocking though the news was, she hasn’t yet fallen apart. She says she feels ratified these days, but I think she’s still numb with shock because how do you get over someone screwing you over like that?
‘You should never need to pee ‘cause you’re always bloody crying.’
I raise my hands to my cheeks, finding my fingertips wet. ‘I don’t know how she does it. Get out of bed in the morning, I mean.’ I look up, finding Natasha with a sad smile. ‘How does she do it after everything she’s been through?’
‘You never know how brave you are until you need to be.’ She inhales a deep breath then blows it out, making her shoulders sag. ‘I’d like to see you crying with happiness for once. Maybe you should still go to London this weekend and try to sneak into his hotel.’
‘Whose hotel,’ I ask, wiping my nose with my sleeve.
‘Dickalicious Dylan! Don’t you listen to anything I say?’
My heart pounds. Just once.
He’s here. Just an hour’s flight away. I could go see him. Tell him about the baby in person. I also have my train ticket booked, and it’d be a shame to waste the fare.
As the thoughts fly through my mind, lightning quick, Nat potters around the salon floor, filling me in on the details.
She tells me he’s in London for the UK premiere of his new movie. That mobs of women are already camped outside his hotel, and that it goes without saying that the pavement outside the Leicester Square Cinema for tomorrow night’s event is the same.
Am I really considering braving those crowds or, more to the point, facing Dylan?
Could I? Or am I just not brave enough?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Dylan
‘Joe, you have no idea. It’s such a mess—a fuck-fest.’ It’s late, I should be sleeping, but I need to talk to someone because I sure as shit can’t sleep.
‘Hey, man, I don’t wanna know what goes on in your hotel room. London,’ he adds, blowing out a breath of air like a whistle. ‘You lucky fuck. I always wanted to visit England—this queen wants to meetthe queen. Maybe stop by for a spot of tea.’
He pitches those final few words high and faux British; the wordteaelongated until it resembles something that might sound from a kettle. I set off laughing, great bellyfuls of air. The man is six-foot-three and two ninety if he’s a pound—a man’s man, in more ways than one. A man no one would describe as a queen, let alone queer. At least, not if they want to keep their front teeth.
‘That’s funny. You got a crown to go along with the accent?’
‘Not one you’d like to know about.’
‘Okay. Movin’ on!’ I cast my eyes around the room and its rich furnishings; marble and teak. Heavy brocade drapes. ‘Seems my days of motel rooms are through; it’s hotelsuitesall the way for this guy.’
