“What is it? Is something wrong? Please tell me.” I edge closer, as drawn in by him as ever. I can’t be near him without wanting to touch him.
“No, no. I’m fine.” He begins to walk again, heading ever closer to the entrance and away from me. Maybe forever.
I catch his sleeve to stay him and then pleat the expensive fabric between my fingers. It’s heavy, and I catch the scent of his cologne. “Can we talk occasionally?” I ask in a small voice. I need to see him or just hear his voice every now and then. Even angry, this hour with him is the most alive I’ve felt in a month.
“Wes.” He’s watching me, his face gentle. “Baby, it would be my pleasure if you wanted to speak to me. I am always here for you.”
“Always?” I whisper.
He nods. “Always. I told you that you were sticky.”
I hand the customer his change. “Thank you. Have a nice day.”
He says something, but he’s out of my head before he walks out the door. There’s no one in the shop now, so I look back at my laptop, which is currently displaying the log-on screen for my university. My fingertips beat a restless tattoo on the counter.
I should look, but I don’t dare. What if I’ve failed? What will I do then? No dream job. No degree.
I blow out an explosive breath, and before I can stop myself, I enter my login details. Then, I click to see the exam results and search for my name.
For a dreadful few seconds, I scroll through results. Are my results so bad they can’t show them? I check the thirds, the seconds, and still nothing.
“No,” I breathe as I find the firsts. There I am. Wes Archer. First-class degree. “Fucking hell,” I whisper.
I wait for it to hit me—relief, joy—but all I feel is a cautious happiness unfurling inside me, fragile as a baby bird’s wings. I reach for my phone. There’s only one person with whom I want to share this news.
I did it. First-class degree
A bubble immediately appears. There’s a ping, and his message is there.
Baby, I never had any doubt.
I’m so fucking proud of you.
The words are small on my phone’s screen, but the emotion they elicit from me is massive. I don’t remember the last time anyone said that to me. It was probably my mother because Tyler isn’t given to praise like that. I read them again and again, and then I let them settle inside me.
Cormac Reilly, the billionaire, is proud of me. I laugh, and the sound is loud in the quiet shop. I tap on my phone.
Thank you.
Thank you for sharing it with me, Wes.
The door pings, and I type quickly.Got to go. Customers.
I hesitate and then type again.For petrol. Not me.
My phone beeps a second later, but I can’t read it, as there’s a spate of customers. When I finally manage to check my messages again, an hour has passed, and the only customer is Andy, who’s perusing the new copy ofHot Girl.He should be an editor for the publisher, such is his concentration.
I look down at my messages.
I don’t want you on the market.
“What?” I read it again and then start to smile. “Well, that’s a gauntlet thrown down.”
“Did you say a gauntlet?”
I look up at Andy’s question. “Erm, yes.”
“Did you know that gauntlets were armoured gloves and that in Sweden, an old tradition was that a man would give his betrothed his glove as a symbol of fidelity?” He shrugs. “It was in an article in last month’sHot Girl.”
