Except as my heels clatter on the marble, a second set of heavier steps join them.
My eyes must be pure hatred as I whip my head around. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Good evening, Mr. Phillips.” A new receptionist, one I don’t recognize as working the after-midnight shift, greets Kingston with a nod. And then, as if forgetting me, she squeaks out, “Miss Raymond, have a good night.”
“Have a good night, Janina.” His football pitch-green eyes wink in her direction.
What the bloody hell is going on? Suspicion, deft and deadly as a python, curls in my stomach, but I refuse to let my nonchalant mask slip. Not that I haven’t already bugged out on him multiple times, but I’ll be damned if he thinks I am going to play twenty questions with him about how he knows the lobby staff in my building.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he was shagging six different women in this building. Ah yes, that was how they knew him, he must be a frequent nighttime visitor.
Clacking along the gleaming floors, I can feel the blood pulsing in my ears. The closer I get to the bank of lifts, the more furious I get that Kingston Phillips is tailing me like a corgi following Queen Elizabeth. My index finger decisively calls for the lift, and I tap my heel on the floor, unconsciously vibrating with rage.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the satisfied smirk on his full, raspberry-colored mouth. What kind of man has such captivating lips? You can barely keep your eyes off them if you stare at him straight on, and it’s biting at me even more than his presence. What gives this arse the license to be so damn gorgeous?
“After you.” He ushers me in as the chime of the lift signals the opening of its doors.
“Leave. Now. Or I’ll call the police,” I spit, as if the words are nasty swears.
“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary, love.”
And just as frustratingly as he slid into my car, he slides a key to the penthouse floor out of his pocket and inserts it in the specially designed notch. That only residents of the top floor of Charlton House are given access to.
“What … how …” I’m truly too stunned to speak.
Kingston pushes the button for the floor, the lift begins to rise, and he dazzles me with a cocky grin. “Nice to meet you, neighbor.”
No. No. Bloody hell on toast … NO. “You’re joking.”
“Afraid not, gorgeous. But I have to say, I’m truly upset we didn’t realize this sooner. Think of all the sleepovers we’ve missed out on.”
“In your dreams.” The huff comes out of my mouth, but I’m still too shocked to come up with anything wittier.
“Oh, Poppy, if you only knew the dreams I have about you.”
The way Kingston’s voice teems with innuendo, it’s impossible not to meet his eye. And when I do … good lord. There is a reason why vulnerable women always succumb to dishy men in lifts in movies or on TV shows. The enclosed space, the sexual tension bouncing off the walls. There is nowhere for it to go but straight into the most sensitive spot between my thighs. Kingston’s gaze grows steamier, and his tongue darts out to do a slow sweep of his bottom lip. It’s erotic, and my breath catches in my lungs.
He steps forward, just a hair’s breadth but enough for each of our bodies to stir restlessly. I feel my nipples harden, and though I’ve spent the last hour ridiculing him I don’t take a step back at his advance. My mind whirls from the realization of it.
And then the lift doors chime, opening up to the gleaming hallway of the penthouse level. Our hallway.
Kingston steps out first, walking backward and maintaining eye contact with me, a small smirk dusting his lips. I’m entranced, slowly following him in a haze, though the half glass of champagne I drank didn’t even touch my raw nerves. His big, lean body passes my door, his feet shuffling to a stop in front of the alcove of flat number 603.
“Good night, Poppy,” he says quietly, the electricity crackling between us.
Then, in the most unique of twists, the playboy of London himself opens his front door, walks through it, and then shuts it tight.
I’m left standing in our shared hallway, wondering how in God’s name I’m going to live here now that I know Kingston Phillips is my neighbor.
7
Kingston
I had her, right there in my sights, finger on the trigger …
And I couldn’t follow through.
What the hell happened in that lift last night?
My mind wanders to the magnetic field pulling me toward Poppy in our shared rides last night, both in the car and in our building’s lift. She was the picture of perfection last night; not even in my wettest of dreams would my fantasy girl come close to her in that sparkling dress she wore. And how the entire back of the frock was cut out, resting scintillatingly right over the top of her tailbone? Christ, I could die and go to heaven just staring at that spot long enough.
Of course, I am sexually attracted to her, any man with two eyes is. But that doesn’t explain why I didn’t kiss her? Why I refrained from making my move, especially when it appeared I’d finally tamed her in the lift. Her mood toward me had shifted, I could feel it. I even took a step toward her, and I knew the moment she didn’t retreat that I could have held her naked body in my arms.
Something in my brain just wouldn’t let me follow my most base instincts. That never bloody happened. And now it was fucking killing me that I didn’t know why.
“King, will you pay attention? Jesus, get on the other side of Aria,” Vance snaps at me, pointing to the other side of the giant white photo backdrop.
I do as I’m told, navigating past the other models or friends of Jude’s to stand next to his girlfriend.
“One too many last night?” She smirks, but I see the concern in her eyes.
“Nothing you have to worry about, Pipes.” I rub my shoulder against hers, using the nickname I started calling her after her first album won a Grammy.
As the camera shutter clicks in our direction, we both put on our faux competitive faces.
We’re all modeling Jude’s new active wear line, set to release into stores in about a month or so. And who better to show off his labor of love than his famous friends. Plus, we’re all doing it for free. Though Aria gets sexual favors afterward and that seems unfair; I even told my best friend so. He then smacked me in the stomach with the backside of his hand and told me to get to work.
I had to hand it to him; the line is posh. A lot of sleek black and navy blues, or stark whites. Smart designs, sweat-proof material, and the Jude Davies kiss of approval … yeah, this line is going to sell like hotcakes. My mate was capitalizing on his worth, and he was brilliant to do so.
“All right, we’re going to get some solo shots of Jude now in the various looks, so you all can hit craft services,” the photographer tells us, and Aria, Vance, and I step off the giant backdrop.
“I’m bloody starving.” Vance rubs his abs, and I’m not surprised.
“You’re always starving, big guy.” I slap a hand on his shoulder, which is modeled after the Hulk’s muscle tone.
Vance’s eyebrows bow in, showcasing his annoyance. “Yeah, well, I actually follow my training schedule, so it’s no wonder I’m burning much more energy and calories than you.”
“Oh, jab at my laziness, how original.” I roll my eyes but am glad for the verbal sparring.
I’ve missed Vance, and it guts me to see him still stuck at Rogue Academy without us. But until Remus Bayern, RFC’s star keeper, either leaves for another team or gets injured … well, he’s shite out of luck. It’s a shit hand, but that’s the luck of the draw when you play the keeper position. Only so many of those spots to go around, and if you happen to reach the peak of your talent in an off year, it’s just the misfortune of bad timing. Nothing can be done.
I can tell it’s getting to the bloke, though. He seems more tense than usual and that’s saying something.
“I’ve missed you two.” Aria grins, walking in step with us as we
approach a table loaded with sandwiches, fruit, cookies, and many other delicacies.
“Pssh, okay, Miss World Tour. You got famous and forgot all about us. Rubbing elbows with Adele and Katy Perry … give me a break. Someday, when the reporters ask, I’ll tell them I knew the sweet girl from Clavering.”
Aria shoots me a glare. “I was never sweet, and look who’s talking, Mr. Playboy of Piccadilly. I’m pretty sure you’ve slept with more pop stars than I’ve toured with.”
I raise a hand. “Guilty.”
They both roll their eyes, then Vance’s phone rings. A cloud of fury flashes over his face so lightning fast, I’m tempted to back up. I’ve only seen Vance lose his temper two times … and in both of those instances, he landed himself in the Clavering town jail. If anyone learns anything from me, it’s to stay away from that bloke when he’s angry.
“Excuse me.” His voice is gruff as he stalks away, jabbing an angry finger onto the screen of his mobile.
“What was that all about?” Aria wonders aloud.
I shrug. “Not sure, but don’t ask him. You’ll end up with a broken arm.”
“You boys don’t scare me.” She folds her arms as I reach for an apple.
“Pipes, you tamed Jude; Vance and I are a whole other level of cocked up.”
“Speaking of cocking up, what’s going on with you? Jude says you were late to practice the other day, and almost missed the cutoff time for a match day warm up? Come on, Kingston, you’re better than that.”
We’ve become close, Aria and me. I think it’s because we see the weakness we feel inside, mirrored in each other. We come from vastly different backgrounds, but unlike Jude, we don’t innately believe in the talent we possess. It’s a struggle to not place uncertainty on our individual passions, me with football and Aria with singing. Our friendship is one comprised of banter and joking, but also of comfort and understanding.
“Yeah, yeah, I overslept with a certain socialite.” I try to brush off her worry with a smile and a dance—my usual joker’s routine.
But, as usual, that doesn’t work with Aria. We’re alone near the craft services table, and she ushers me over to a table and chairs out of the way of the photo shoot action.
I sit, only because I respect her far too much to ditch her, but know she’s about to grill me.
“Don’t try to feed me that codswallop, it won’t work. I’m in love with your best mate, so I’m immune to your charm. Unfortunately, I can see through your super power. So, come on, out with it. What’s going on?”
Bugger, she’s relentless this tiny force of determination. No wonder Jude fancies her so much.
“There have been rumblings about selling me to a lower league team. Something about my attitude, or my work ethic, or some other shite I don’t care to pay attention to.”
“Kingston …” Aria clucks her tongue.
“I know, I know, I have to try harder. I don’t want to leave RFC, at least not to play anywhere else. It’s the best club in London, where would I possibly go if not there? It’s just … I don’t know if I love it.”
Her eyes tell me she knows the answer, but she asks a different question anyway. “The club?”
“The game.”
Aria nods wisely, as if she’s always suspected this. “Just because we’re good at something, doesn’t mean we have to like it. I was a damn good seamstress, but ask me if I’d ever go back to sewing kits? Even for a million dollars, I’d say hell no. For you, it’s the toughest position to be put in. This is your legacy … admitting that you don’t want it is a harder feat than what most people face.”
The photo shoot continues in the background of our conversation, and I direct my gaze toward it to soften the blow of the depths Aria and I have waded into. She may be cajoling me into having this talk, but it doesn’t mean I have to make eye contact.
“It’s not, though. You supported your family on your back at eighteen, while your father went through cancer treatments. Jude lost his parents, bloody hell he raises his younger brothers. All I have to do is play football and live off my mum and dad’s names and money. If I walked away from that, everyone would call me a dumb wanker.”
“Just because you had a leg up at the starting line doesn’t mean you’re contractually obligated to follow the path. You don’t have to go through some horrible tragedy to want a different life for yourself. If you don’t love football, don’t play the game. But if you do love it, commit to it, Kingston. Stop wavering. Put your all into it, or don’t do it at all. You’ll be miserable as long as you keep this halfsies shite up. And I don’t want you to be miserable. A smarmy arse, yes. But a clearly conflicted, unhappy one? No. None of us want that for you.”
Blimey, she’d gone and called my bluff pretty accurately.
“Thanks, Pipes. I appreciate you looking out for me,” I tell her in a moment of full seriousness, which is rare for me.
Because, of course, she’s right. I haven’t been truly happy in … bloody hell, probably my entire life. I need to figure out how much of what I do in my life is actually for me. And if it is, then even I can admit I need to grow a pair and go after it.
We both observe Jude posing for the camera, trying his best to impersonate Ben Stiller in Zoolander. I crack a smile because he’s faking the edgy look in a warehouse in Chelsea while someone pats makeup onto his forehead every other take. It’s pretty humorous.
“I met my new neighbor the other day,” I throw out there, interrupting the silence between Aria and me.
“Don’t tell me you had another noise complaint. You’re going to get kicked out of the building, Kingston!” But Aria is laughing as she says it.
With a shake of my head, I deliver the news. “Nope, no noise complaint. Just a lift ride littered with sexual tension. Poppy Raymond. She bought the flat next door.”
“No! The gorgeous Amazon who bit your head off at that club?” She snorts in laughter. “That is some kind of karma. The one woman who doesn’t want to go anywhere near your bed is now the closest bird to it.”
Maybe she’s right, karma was coming to take a chunk out of my arse.
“She is gorgeous, isn’t she?” I murmur, almost to myself. “Hell of a mouth on her, too.”
“You’re in love with her.” Aria pokes a finger into my bicep.
A piece of the apple lodges in my throat and I spasm into a coughing fit.
“Blimey, you almost killed me. Don’t use that word in my presence again, I think I’m allergic to it,” I scold her.
Aria nods her head smugly in my direction. “Oh, you’ll see. This girl is going to be the end of Kingston Phillips. I can see it already.”
8
Poppy
London in late spring is unlike any place on earth.
It’s warm enough to leave your coat or sweater at home, and the sun begins to reappear for the first time in months. There are flowers blooming in the trees, restaurants begin to pull their tables back out onto the pavement, and Londoners flock to the parks, sunning themselves while eating to-go sandwiches from Pret or Tesco.
My bank account may be padded with pounds, but there is no better lunch than a Tesco two-pound meal deal. I didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in my mouth, so I know how satisfying a cheap combo can be to both the mind and the stomach.
Back to my point, though … London in spring smelled of hope and a new beginning, and it was addicting. Which was why I’d forgone the car that the agency had sent to pick me up from my photo shoot, some swimwear line that was set to debut. I much preferred walking this time of year, even if my flat was two-and-a-half kilometers from the studio.
I’m admiring the architecture of the brownstones lining a clean-swept street when my mobile rings.
Fishing it out of my violet leather Chanel bag, my sister’s name flashes on the screen. I exhale a measured breath through my nose, because this conversation is not going to leave me with cheery warm feelings. My family only calls when they want or need something. I click the gr
een button to pick up the call and press it to my ear.
“Poppy, I’m just wondering if you’ll be coming home for the bridal shower? I’m doing the seating chart and need your RSVP.”
Not even a “Cheerio,” or a “How are you doing?”
I’ve already told her twice that, yes, I’ll be there. I’ve cleared my schedule for two entire days, which for me during fashion week season is terribly difficult. But I did it, and she knows that. Though, of course, she wants to make me feel bad or jealous or inferior, so she’s asking again.
Sometimes I can’t reconcile the Tabitha of this age with the one of old. My sister and I used to be close; sneaking sticks of gum under the pew benches, walking home the long way from school, building flashlight forts under our blankets at night and telling each other ghost stories. She is only two years older than I am, but we’d always been each other’s confidants.
“Yes, like I told you, I will be at your shower. Is there anything you need help with? Anything I can contribute?” I say politely because that’s what a good sister would do.
I can practically hear her sneer from the other end of the call. “No, that won’t be necessary. It may be quaint compared to your standards, but we won’t be spending nearly as much as you might budget for a party.”
As if I threw lavish events for myself costing something in the millions. How could my own flesh and blood turn their noses up at how successful I am? It seemed even crueler than a family who rides the coattails of their wealthy relatives.
But I brush off her frigid comments because she is my sister. I want to be a part of her big day, and I learned very quickly in this industry that you create your own life. You can accept people as they are, keep them around, cut them out of your life … but whatever you do, make sure you’re building the version of you that you aspire to be. Other people won’t influence that if you don’t let them, but you can be a bigger, better person and give them the chance and the hope that they’ll improve the way you want them to.
The Lion Heart (Rogue Academy Book 2) Page 4