Page 84 of The King Contract
“It’s all good,” I assure him. “Gabby said you had an end-of-the-world, dire straits game to win.”
“And win, I did.”
“He cheated!” Jared booms from behind him, towelling himself off.
“Bullshit,” Noah snickers. “He’s a terrible loser.”
“This whole family is filled with terrible losers,” Joan sighs, returning to her chair in the shade.
Rick holds up his hand, a piece of cheese hovering in Winston’s eyesight again. “If you’re not first?—”
“You’re last!” Everyone around the pool chimes in, with a thick American twang.
“We don’t actually believe that,” Joan assures me.
“We do,” Noah says with a wink. “Merry Christmas, Maelstrom.” I watch the roll of his throat as he leans down and plants a chaste kiss on my cheek. It’s wet and soft, and I fight the urge to trace the spot with my hand as he pulls away.
“Merry Christmas,” I murmur.
My hormones and emotions are firing off all at once, ping-ponging around my body as they try to untangle what’s real in this moment. Our flow has been off all week, and while I’m certain he regrets what happened in the tent, there’s an unmistakable buzz of electricity humming between our bodies.
“Did you and Ellis have a good day yesterday?” Noah asks, running his towel over his head.
“We did. It was weird and sad, but it was good.”
Noah knows this. He messaged me yesterday to check up on us, but it still melts me a little to see the concern.
“Good.” He rests his towel around his shoulders. “Let’s do the rest of the introductions so you can relax.”
Noah takes me by the hand as he introduces me to the remaining members of the family, who are every bit as wonderful as he said. Jared is a handsome and quick-wittedbuilding engineer who loves fatherhood. His heavily pregnant wife Eliza is stunning without a lick of makeup on her face, her strawberry-blonde hair buried under a wide-brimmed hat as she talks excitedly about the upcoming arrival of their second baby. Three-year-old Willow’s crashed out asleep in a pop-up tent in the corner, cuddling a mermaid doll, blonde curls splayed above her head.
They welcome me like I’ve known them for years, conversations bouncing loudly back and forth between them. Gabby makes a point of filling me in on any gaps in the stories I’m not aware of and whenever Joan’s near me, she makes an effort to pat my arm or rub my back. It’s not intrusive or annoying, and a lump forms in my throat.
When Noah announces he needs to use the bathroom, he leads me out of the fenced off pool area towards the pool house behind it. He opens the French door to blissful air-conditioning, and I gasp when I see the inside. This room is rustic-themed, with giant throw rugs and shaggy carpets covering stripped-back timber floors. The bed is enormous, stacked with pillows in cream and grey and a handmade blanket draped at its base.
“This is beautiful,” I murmur as Noah shuts the door behind me.
Noah glances around the room, still holding my hand. “Mum and Gabby have great taste. They bring the old and new school vibes to every room in the house.”
I do my best not to stare at Noah’s taut chest or his rippling abs or his defined biceps, but it’s overwhelming. I have no idea how I’m going to survive this weekend without caving into my wayward thoughts and jumping his bones.
“Thanks for holding my hand,” I say sincerely, my gaze landing on our intertwined fingers. “Meeting the family is always a little daunting.”
“My family can be a lot,” Noah agrees, stroking his thumb across my skin.
“They’re great. It must be fun to have it be so loud all the time.”
“Yeah, I guess it is.” Noah frowns. “Is it too much for you?”
I shake my head. “Not at all. I love watching you all bounce back and forth.” I shrug. “It’s always been much quieter in my house.”
Noah tugs my hand, and I let myself fall against his chest, his hand finally peeling from mine to rest on my back. I sink into him, stresses about money and family and the media disappearing.
Noah strokes my hair. “Remember how we promised things wouldn’t get weird?”
I swallow loudly. “Yes.”
“I broke that promise.” His voice drops an octave in my ear. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t myself this week.”
