Page 39 of Dream On, Liar

My stomach sank.

Because it wasn't the expression of someone who'd accidentally wandered past. It was the expression of someone who'd heard more than I’d liked.

For a second, neither of us spoke as the door closed with a soft bang behind me.

Then his smirk widened as he read my expressions. “This is going to be fun, Trouble.”

My blood went cold. “Don't.”

His brows lifted, feigning innocence. “Don't what?”

“Don’t call me that.”

The amusement in his eyes only deepened as he pushed himself to stand straighter. Taller. Closer. “That’s rich.”

When I didn’t give into his bait, he continued speaking. But a cold feeling settled in my stomach as he took another step, swallowing the distance between us. “Thanks to your little act, the world has been calling me everything under the sun—from reckless to washed up to begin with; when in fact, I’m at the very prime of my career.” His gaze didn’t waiver. “I think that calls for a fitting name for you too, don’t you think so? And, trouble, seems to be it.”

Before I could object, he leaned down, his breath hot and heavy on my collarbone as he whispered in my ear. “I’ll see you in two weeks, Trouble.”

My breath stuttered as he pulled himself back, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he walked around me and inside my father’s office.

And I’d never hated that nickname more than I did in that moment.

9

Maeve

“AT THIS POINT, IF you don’t end up adopting him, you’ll give him separation anxiety.”

I startled so violently that when my head jerked toward the sound of my best friend’s voice, the back of it clashed straight into the metal leg of the chair beside me. “Ow, fuck, Sammy.”

Before I could even tend to the growing pain at the back of my head, the shiba inu sprawled across my lap lifted his head with a sleepy grunt, his fox-like face with quiet judgement, amber eyes narrowed as though deeply offended that my possible concussion had distributed something far more important: his nap.

“Sorry, Mochi.” I murmured, lowering my head carefully back onto the padded floor as he gave another soft, offended huff before dropping his head onto my stomach again. “I hope you know, if I could, I’d take you home today.”

Mochi gave a low little rumble that almost sounded understanding, and I resumed stroking absent patterns through his fur, like I had for the last forty minutes.

“I can’t believe Ama snitched on me,” I told Samyra as she made her way through the pit room, dogs weaving around her legs in desperate bids for attention while her focus stayed fixed entirely on me. Rain drops clung to the sleeves of her coat, tiny droplets catching in the soft wool as she gave her damp hair a ruffle.

“It’s not all on her,” Samyra replied carefully, stepping over the chew toys scattered across the floor like tiny plastic landmines before lowering herself onto the cushions beside me. Mochi lifted his head, the consideration to abandon all of his loyalty to me was clear in his gaze as he watched her outstretched hand. “I texted you to see if you wanted to grab dinner after my meeting. I was near Lord’s, and when you didn’t reply, I checked your location and saw you were here, so I texted Ama. She called me back sounding terrified.”

As though he could somehow understand I needed anchoring more than his need for attention from my best friend’s outstretched hand, the dog nuzzled his head once more against my belly. It didn’t matter anyway because, a second later, Trip, the shelter’s impossibly needy greyhound, padded straight over instead, tail wagging furiously as Samyra immediately scratched behind his ears.

The pit room around us stayed warm and dim beneath the low lights, blankets and oversized cushions scattered across the floor for the therapy sessions they usually held there in the evenings. People normally had to book the room in advance, especially this late in the day, but Ama had taken one look at my face when I walked in and waved me through without a single question.

The shelter belonged to Ama’s father for nearly twenty years, tucked between a florist and a tiny Italian café on a quiet Chelsea side street where everything smelled faintly of coffee, fresh grass and rain. Back in university, this place had practically become our second home. None of our student flats allowed pets—which felt personally offensive to me at the time—so we’d ended up volunteering here three afternoons a week instead.

Most people our age spent their weekends hungover in their flats, me and Samyra spent ours bottle-feeding abandoned kittens and getting emotionally manipulated by elderly terriers, and we did it with no regrets.

Don’t get me wrong, we both knew how to let loose to, and had our own set of memories that were tequila induced, but I much preferred the other version of our memories.

Even when I’d been younger, I’d always connected to animals more easily than I did with people. I suppose, there was a part of me that could rest easy near them knowing that I didn’t have to mask my feelings, or when you did the wrong thing and looked ridiculous, they simply didn’t care.

When I was younger, Mum’s cat allergy combined with her complete lack of desire to house literally any other living creature, meant pets were banned from our house with a military-level enforcement. No cats. No dogs. Not even hamsters after Year Six and the incident where I’d rescued—stolen—one from the science lab because I just wanted to have one so badly.

She hated animal hair on clothes almost as much as she hated the idea of animals actually living in the house, which meant even if I’d been old enough to volunteer at the local shelter on my own, Mum never would’ve signed the forms anyway.

So I took whatever scraps of animal affection life offered me.