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Rae
The car pulls up to the London townhouse in the rain.
I took a flight from Denver to New York, then New York to London. Now, I knock on the door, cold from the downpour. The wooden panel creaks open, and I hesitate before stepping inside.
The front hall is narrow, the walls a crisp white with a huge mirror. Facing me is a set of steps leading to the top floor.
Sebastian King sits partway up.
“Nice house.” I drop my bag on the floor.
“Bought it last year. Came with almost everything.” He shifts back onto his elbows. “Curtains are new,” he amends, nodding toward the room around the corner.
I step inside, rounding the wall to see rich, green fabric artfully draped from the high ceilings in the living room around the corner. “Why did you ask how quickly I could get here?”
“Because my season was shit and the year went downhill from there. I have a team awards dinner to attend this evening. And you owe me a date for bailing last year.”
I stare him down. An awards dinner?Are you fucking kidding me?
Before I can chew him out for dragging me across the ocean, he rises and pads down the stairs to the main floor.
He’s pale, his mouth slack and shoulders slumped. He looks as if he’s lost weight.
I know what self-destruction looks like. Right now, it wears his face.
“It’s been a rough season,” he repeats.
But there’s humor in his face when he eyes my bag, lifting a brow. “You have a dress in there, or do I need to make you a toga from the curtains?”
* * *
Central London is a dense orchestra of pedestrians, buses, cars, and buildings that seem elegant and old enough to have been built into the landscape.
The event is at a venue on Northumberland Avenue, just off Trafalgar Square. When we arrive in a private car, we join the short line as Ash reaches for his phone to show his ID.
If I’d thought it would be hard to find a dress on a few hours’ notice in London, I was wrong. Ash gave me the names of a few boutiques.
Before heading out, I couldn’t miss the takeout boxes and clothing strewn around the beautiful townhouse.
Between trying on dresses, I did a quick online search to try to find hints as to why Ash looks so strung out. There’s nothing, except confirmation in numerous sports publications and blogs that Ash’s season was subpar. I guess that much criticism would strain anyone, but that doesn’t explain the sudden emergency.
Which means it’s up to me to find out.
“You look good in a tux,” I inform him as we file into the line waiting to enter.
And he does. Showered and dressed, clad in a custom waistcoat and jacket, Ash is every bit the young, gorgeous athlete.
“Better than Harry?” His grin is almost as quick as usual.
I huff out a breath as the line advances toward the door. “No one looks better in a tux than Harry.”
Not that it matters. Harrison’s not here, and I can’t imagine being in the same place as him again.
I came for Ash, a man I consider a friend. Especially given he called me last year, demanding to know what was going on after Harrison returned to the UK. My explanation was the best one my broken heart could give—we wanted different things.
I wanted him.
He wanted to end Mischa.
