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ROBBIE

My 4x4 bumps along the old country lane that leads to my parents’ cottage. It’s been eighteen years since Da died, and twenty-five since Ma, but I still can’t think of the cottage as mine. It’ll always be theirs, even if I live here fifty more years.

I sigh, running through a mental inventory of things I really should be organising but can’t bring myself to. The thatched roof is one storm away from needing to be replaced completely, which I absolutely do not have the money for. The white exterior paint is peeling like crazy. A couple of the single-glazed windows have cracks in them, and I don’t even want to think about what needs doing inside the house.

Everything is just as it was the day I was told Da had died, frozen in time.

At fourteen, I was too young to stay in the home I’d lived in all my life, so I had to move in with my godparents. John and Ellen did their best to make me feel like I belonged, but things were difficult for a long time. If Isla hadn’t been there to make peace between me and Theo when we fought, I doubt I’d be as close to him as I am today. For a while there we hated each other’s guts. I wanted to push everyone away, but Isla and Ellen wouldn’t let me.

John would bring me here often over the years, to clean the cottage and turn the heating on during winter so that the pipes didn’t freeze over. But I had to wait until I was eighteen before I was allowed to move back in. It was too empty then. Too quiet. I went to university with Isla, only staying here when we came back on breaks. Then, at twenty-one, I was here to stay, and I just haven’t been able to change anything since.

It doesn’t feel like my home. It’s theirs, and I can’t bring myself to touch the wallpaper my ma put up or the carpet my da laid down.

The cottage comes into view, and I push the memories away. I have enough problems at the moment.

As I pull up to the front door, I see my number one problem sitting on my doorstep.

“Hey,” I say gently as I get out of the car.

“Is it okay if I stay the rest of the week?” Noah asks.

“You don’t have to ask.” I slide my key into the lock and hold the door open for him. He heads straight for the living room. I dump my gym bag in the kitchen first, giving myself time to think about what to say.

When I return, he’s already squashed into the corner of the sofa. “Noah⁠—”

“Where was my coffee and breakfast?”

“Excuse me?”

“Rich told me that you like to buy your hookups coffee and breakfast when you’re done with them.”

What?

“I wouldn’t—I didn’t think I needed to.”

His deadpan expression slips, like he’s genuinely upset I didn’t give him the This was fun, let’s never do it again speech over fucking avocado on toast.

“Why not?” he pouts.

I hold my hand up, counting out the reasons on my fingers. “One, because you’ve been sleeping in my bed the past few nights. Two, because you’re not a stranger that I’ll never see again. Three, because—” I quickly cut myself off before the truth slips out: that he means more to me than a random hookup.

That’s not what last night was about. We both clearly needed to let off some steam, and being in the same house was extremely convenient. But I do care about him. He’s my best friend’s little brother, so I guess I feel somewhat protective of⁠—

… Oh, God.

Reality slams into me. I fucked my best friend’s little brother.

Richard’s going to kill me—worse, he’ll probably get Isla to do it.

I groan, scrubbing a hand over my beard. I wasn’t thinking about that last night. I don’t think I had much going on in my head at all, other than wanting to give Noah whatever he needed.

And I managed to fuck that up too.

“I’ll cook you dinner instead, would that please His Highness?” I ask, trying to delay the conversation we need to have.

He looks thoughtful for a moment, then nods once. “It would.”

Wonderful.