All too often he wished he no longer had the single label. He knew how tonight would end and how tomorrow would begin. Alone in bed, with still-ringing eardrums from the deafening music, thumping headache from too much alcohol, and his mother’s burnt breakfast to try to keep down.
“Is this nightclub far?” he asked, a sudden idea coming to him. There was one sure way to make sure he stayed sober.
“About fifteen to twenty minutes by cab. Why?”
“Dad, can I borrow the Volvo?”
“Of course you can.”
“Don’t you want to drink?” asked his brother.
“I’m on antihistamines. Can’t drink,” lied Spencer.
“You’ve got hay fever? In November? Who has hay fever in November?”
“They’re not just for hay fever, Gar,” said Peony, giving Spencer a sympathetic smile. “My sister has to take them because she’s allergic to animals.”
“He has a cat!” said Garrett, not buying the excuse one bit.
“Look, come on. I’ve already taken them, so I can’t drink. And it’s going to be problematic getting a cab on Friday night. Dad’s already warmed up the engine, so I’ll drive us there in the toasty warmth—because it’s pretty chilly out there right now, isn’t it, Dad?”
“Cold as a nun’s bum,” said my father, now reading a car magazine.
“See? That way, if you guys decide to go on until late, I’ll bring the car home and you can get a cab back.”
Spencer knew his brother well enough to know he intended to party hard. Usually they would arrive together, Garrett would buy beers and shots, then disappear into the crowd hunting and gathering—but probably not tonight with Peony by his side—and Spencer would eventually be left to find his own way home.
Sometimes, he thought,the simplest plans are the best.
Chapter Six
Spencer awoke disorientated Saturday morning, in a warm but preternaturally darkened bedroom that was not his own, to the growl of thunder and arbitrary lightning flashes behind thick heavy curtains. As he lay there, bleached light flooded the room followed by a flurry of raindrops pummelling his window. When he sat up and checked the phone, the time read eight-forty-five. He’d still had no response from Marshall to his text message on Friday. He wouldn’t send another, conscious of his new friend’s time and work pressures and, moreover, he didn’t want to come off as a phone stalker.
Dropping the device onto the duvet cover, he stretched out his arms and yawned. Most Saturday mornings he was woken by cat breath and a wet cat nose being pushed into his ear, and by the pizza shop owners downstairs moving around and getting ready for the weekend. Fortunately this morning he had met the new day without a hangover, thanks to his quick thinking the night before.
In the end, he had managed to ditch his brother and friends after only two hours. Lyle’s boyfriend, Tate, had been insanely good-looking. Tall, muscular, great hair, deep sexy voice—a solid ten in Spencer’s hotness rating scale. And yet Lyle had treated him with disdain, looking bored and pushing away from any affection, allowing only the occasional peck on the cheek and only enduring a protective arm around the shoulders. Forty-five minutes in and Spencer had wanted to slap Lyle. Or Tate. Orboth of them. Peony must have sensed his annoyance, because she had sidled up to him while Garrett had gone for more drinks.
“So what do you make of the sugar babes?”
“Sugar babes?”
“Tate and Lyle.”
Spencer had choked on his lime soda. He hadn’t made the connection between their names and the sugar company.
“Honestly? I don’t get it. What do they see in each other? Lyle is about as interesting and welcoming as a colon scan—I know he’s your cousin, Peony, but you did ask. He could teach Mona Lisa a thing or two about how to look bored. Tate, on the other hand, is a total hunk who is clearly smitten with Lyle, and I have absolutely no idea why.”
“Join the club, sweetie. Takes all sorts. My cousin always has attracted total hotties.”
“Maybe I should try losing fifty pounds, bleaching my hair blond, wearing T-shirts with inappropriate slogans and adopting an air of aloof tiresomeness. Perhaps then I’d have more luck snaring someone like Tate.”
At least Peony had found him funny.
“You and Tate? I’d give it two weeks before you got bored. After the hot sex had worn off. Yes, he’s good-looking in a subjective kind of way, but he has nothing to say for himself, no opinions or interests.”
“Might be worthwhile just for the fortnight of hot sex. It’s been a long dry spell.”
Peony had chuckled into her ice-filled virgin mojito. Another surprise for Spencer was that Garrett had chosen a girlfriend who had a personality, and one who didn’t appear to drink alcohol. Finally his brother had struck gold. He also wondered—maybe a little unkindly—how long it would be before Garrett fucked everything up.
