by Amy Daws
I put the pan of water on the burner and click the flame to high. Then I turn on the back burner where I left the pasta sauce sitting earlier.
Sloan is watching me curiously. “You look so domestic. I never would have imagined you cook for yourself.”
I shoot her a half-smile. “If you call boiling linguini and heating up premade Bolognese sauce cooking, then yes, I’m a grade-A chef.”
She giggles and strides around the island to peer over the stove. She’s only wearing her jeans and bra, so I have a nice view as she lifts the lid off the saucepan. “Who makes your sauce?”
“Dorinda’s son, Robert,” I reply, staring down at her cleavage as she dips her pinkie in to sample. “He’s saving up for culinary school, so I hired him to help me maintain my diet for extra cash.”
She smiles a pleased sort of smile and turns to face me, her finger still in her mouth, her golden eyes fixating on mine with heated warning. I immediately imagine her lips wrapped around something else. As if she reads my mind, she smirks and her finger plops out of her mouth. “It’s good.”
“Well, there’s plenty, so I hope you’re hungry.” I reach out and place my hand on her hip to pull her in close to me.
She looks down at my embrace with accusatory eyes. I quickly lift my hand away, holding it back in silent apology. That’s right, Sloan’s in charge. She says when, where, and how. With a naughty grin, I grab the linguini off the counter and drop them into the boiling water.
“How was your week?” she asks, hoisting herself up onto the counter next to the stove.
Her question is refreshing. She has no clue I played a game this weekend, let alone won or lost. The entire town of Manchester knows the score, so I’m congratulated everywhere I go. But Sloan somehow manages to continue living under a rock.
Choosing to ignore the horrid conversation I had with my dad, I reply, “It was good. How was yours?”
She sighs. “Pretty shitty.”
“Is that the cause of the early arrival and assault?” I waggle my brows at her. Her cheeks flame red, so I add, “Trust me, I’m not complaining.”
She issues a small smile, my comment soothing her anxiety. “I just had a bad phone call earlier.”
I frown. “Some rich prat you style giving you a hard time?”
She lets out a polite laugh and shakes her head with a curious expression. “Didn’t you say your dad is a famous soccer legend?”
“You mean a famous football legend?” I correct and narrow my eyes at her. She gives an eye-roll and I answer her question with a curt, “Yes.”
“So, aren’t you used to this kind of life?” She gestures around like my house is a direct reflection of how I grew up. “Didn’t you come from money?”
“I didn’t grow up like this,” I reply, tensing at the mention of my upbringing. My jaw tightens as I think back to the home in Chigwell where we lived when Mum died and how vastly different it was to the small Manchester flat. The truth is, that’s why it’s difficult for me to imagine leaving Manchester. This is where my only positive childhood memories live on. “We lived in a big house east of London, but it wasn’t a home. It was nothing like this.”
Sloan glances around the kitchen casually, her bare feet swinging side-to-side. “You told me before that you hired a decorator because you wanted it to be different from where you grew up. What did you mean by that?”
Anxiety begins simmering inside of me as I shove the rest of the pasta down into the water. It’s impressive that Sloan was really listening back then. I find the majority of people who meet me only listen when I say something they want to hear, which is why I am so reserved with most outsiders.
But I remember when I said that to Sloan in the early days of her styling me. It was because it bothered me that she looked at me like a typical footballer. I didn’t want to be lumped into the same category as everyone else, spending loads of money on styling just because I could. I wanted her to see me differently.
I’m regretting that moment of weakness because it opened doors between us that are better left closed. “I thought we weren’t supposed to get this personal,” I deflect, my tone flat because I don’t want to explore my past with her. Especially when my memories are currently extra raw.
“Touchy much?” she asks, her brows lifting into her hairline. “It just seems like you’re a guy who’s used to getting everything he wants. I’m guessing your dad spoiled you growing up, didn’t he? Fancy cars, best sports camps, best clothes.”
She eyes me brazenly, and my blood pressure spikes from the mere mention of him again. “I didn’t get a thing from my father. And, believe me, there are a lot of things I want and don’t get.”
“Like what?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest.
“What is this, Twenty Questions?” I drop the spoon on the counter, my hand fisting in frustration.
“Hardly!” she retorts. “I’m simply trying to get to know the man who has all of this but submits to a woman so easily.”
“I don’t hear you complaining,” I snap.
“I’m just trying to get a read on you.” She leans forward, not the least bit intimidated by me, which happens to be one of the things that turns me on most about her. But that’s beside the point.
“This is just fucking,” I growl, pressing my fisted hand against the counter. My anger surprises me. I know it has more to do with my dad than Sloan, but I can’t seem to stop it now. “This isn’t personal, Sloan. This is fucking, so stop trying to get into my head.”
I glance up to see her body has gone completely rigid. Her eyes narrow as she replies, “Excuse me for thinking we’re friends.”
She slides off the counter and moves past me to walk out of the kitchen back toward the front door. A deep growl vibrates in my chest as I splay my hands out on the island. This is all my fucking father’s fault. He has me on edge. No, I’m not much of a sharer, which has been a reoccurring problem I’ve had with other women. But Sloan is right. We’re friends.
And I’m a prat.
With a heavy sigh, I double-check the linguini is at a good temperature, then stride out to where I assume Sloan’s getting dressed and preparing to leave. She’s not in the foyer like I expected, though, and her shirt and shoes are still where she left them on the floor. I see a glowing light down the hall past the sitting room and make my way toward it.
I find Sloan in the media room, sitting in one of the black theatre chairs. She’s fiddling with the remote and attempting to put something on the projection screen. “I don’t know how to use this. Can you show me?”
Her calm voice surprises me, so I enter the room and grab the remote from her hand. Our fingers brush and the electric current we always have is as strong as ever, even when she’s pissed me off. “You’re on the wrong input.”
I push a button and hand it back to her as a sports channel illuminates the screen.
“Thanks,” she replies and attempts to flick the channel around my frame standing right in front of her. She still hasn’t made eye contact with me.
“You’re not leaving?” I ask, half expecting to get hit in the nuts at any second.
“Do you want me to?” She finally looks up, her eyes starry in the darkness. Her skin green from the glare of whatever is on the projector behind me.
I give her a simple shoulder shrug, tired of my emotions already. This is why I wanted to try this control thing. It gives me the freedom of not having to think. I get exhausted when I have to think about my family. My upbringing. My dad.
“I want whatever you want,” I reply because that’s the truth. If she doesn’t want to be here, I would never force her.
“Well, I don’t like confrontation,” she replies, her eyes narrowing up at me against the light. “So if you could refrain from being a dick when I’m just making small talk, it would make things a lot more pleasant.”
I pull my lips into my mouth and bite back my knee-jerk argument. There is no way she would know that the topic of my fat
her is not small talk. Sharing about family is small talk to most. “My dad was a tremendous arsehole when my mum died. Mean, angry. He didn’t mourn well, and we suffered for it as children. I get touchy when I have to talk about him.”
Sloan’s chin drops as she mindlessly fingers the remote in her lap. “That sucks.”
I shrug once again. “And I didn’t get a thing from my father. None of my brothers did either. Our sister was the only one whom he ever gave anything to. And if you think I’m saying that out of spite, I’m not. Vi is a saint and deserved everything he gave her.”
Sloan pauses, eyeing me speculatively. “What did you deserve?”
Her question stings, but I know that’s not how she means it. She’s pushing for information. She’s trying to get to the bottom of whatever this is all about. What she doesn’t realise is it’s an endless pit that I have never fully dug into myself.
My reply is firm. “I deserved a better father. But I don’t want you thinking I’m some rich prick who was raised around other rich pricks. That couldn’t be farther from the truth.”
“I’m sorry, Gareth.” Her face softens as she absorbs what I’ve shared. “I’m projecting my issues onto you. It’s horribly unfair. It’s just, in my life, I see a lot of arrogant privilege, and it makes me crazy to see that sense of entitlement sometimes. You’ve never shown me that, so it was unfair of me to assume you’re part of that world.”
I nod thoughtfully, knowing exactly what she’s going on about. My teammates’ kids are prime examples of arrogant privilege, all a bunch of sods. They speak to their foreign nannies like slaves because that’s what they think is appropriate. And the nannies tolerate it because the parents make so much money and they need the job. It’s an ugly sight.
We had no help in our childhood, foreign or otherwise. As kids, we learned quickly how to become self-sufficient because it was clear that our dad wasn’t going to do a thing for us. I remember stealing his credit cards to pay bills when he forgot.
“I’ve worked for everything I have, Sloan. Even though my dad played for Manchester United, he did not part on good terms with them. They weren’t pulling any favours by signing me. I wanted to play for them because I have this irrational need to be better than him. A better player. A better contract. Better endorsements. House. More money. Whatever it takes. I even have retirement plans set up for all of my siblings and a savings account for my niece that none of them know about. I’m consumed by taking care of everyone enough to make his existence irrelevant.”
“Are you succeeding?” Her question is seemingly innocent but loaded with more than she could fathom.
I huff out a laugh. “What’s success? He’s still around, and it seems like every time I reach some line I’ve drawn for myself that will make me better than him, the line gets pushed back even farther. It’s a sick cycle that I’m stuck in, and I don’t talk about it to anyone really.”
She nods thoughtfully. “I think that happens to kids who lose their mothers when they’re young. They are driven to succeed because they have something to prove, whether it’s to the deceased or themselves, or maybe it’s just to society. You want to accomplish all of this because you were shorted a mother.”
This brings me up short. “I don’t do everything because of her.”
“You don’t?”
“Don’t get me wrong. My mum was incredible. She was my best mate. When I lost her, it killed me. But to say I was shorted would sully the eight years I had with her. I was with her when she died and, as hard as it was, that memory is precious to me.” I swallow the knot forming in my throat and push myself to continue, trying to ignore the painful memory. “I do all of this because control is something I can’t seem to let go of, except with you.”
She watches me for a minute, staring up at me with a million thoughts and feelings. It’s an intense admission I just dropped on her. They’re words I never envisioned telling her, but it feels good to actually understand why I’m craving this arrangement with her so much.
As if sensing that I’ve reached my maximum for the sharing I can do in one night, Sloan replies lightly, “Should we have sex now?” Her giggle that follows is like a beam of light brightening my dark soul.
“How about we eat first?” I hold my hand out to help her stand. “I have a feeling I’m going to need my strength.”
I’m overly curious about Gareth. This is just sex, but he has a heavy presence about him that makes me want to know all his deep, dark thoughts. Even when he smiles, he has sad eyes with an almost haunted look that screams mystery.
When he told me last year that his mother died, I was surprised I hadn’t guessed that sooner. I dated a guy in high school who lost his mom while we were together. Both he and Gareth have that same look in their eyes. I was with him during the funeral, and it was hell. Torturous hell. About a month later, we broke up. He was a different person than when we started our relationship. Losing a parent does that to you. It changes your personality. Not negatively. Just differently. I imagine if I would have met him after his mother died instead of before, our relationship would have been totally different.
Hearing Gareth speak about his father, I know there are so many more layers to him than I ever gave him credit for. But he was right to have his guard up. What we’re doing isn’t personal. It’s sex. That is why I’m not kissing him.
But after the phone conversation I had with Callum about Sophia not being able to come to my house for Thanksgiving, I didn’t give a shit if Gareth was uncomfortable. I wanted to pick a fight with someone, and he was the unlucky person closest to me at the time.
It’s making me crazy that I have no control over where Sophia spends her Thanksgiving holiday and that Callum can shut me down for no apparent reason. Just because he can. That is my life right now and it’s maddening.
So to Astbury I drove, like a bandit. I went to the one place where I am not shut down. The one place where I have nothing but control over my own life, my own choices, my own decisions. The one place that lets me forget. Gareth and I have only been at this for a couple of weeks, but his house is the one place that allows me to escape all the shit I have to put up with in my personal life.
Originally, I had planned to finish my day helping Freya with alterations, shower, shave, and primp myself properly for the night. But I was so worked up after Callum called, I drove straight out to his house in my damn mom jeans! My need for Gareth’s presence—his manliness, his warmth—was like I was dying of thirst and only he could quench it.
That’s why I need to turn this night around. Stat.
We put our clothes back on to eat because, well, it’s hot food and it seems dangerous to eat without shirts on. Gareth makes both of our plates up with the best linguini and Bolognese sauce I’ve ever tasted. I nearly ask for the recipe before covering my mouth and mumbling something about how it would pair nicely with a red wine. Asking for a recipe is a mom move. Super mom move. You don’t ask for recipes from the guy you’re fucking.
We end up hand-washing the dishes because his dishwasher is still drying a load. Brushing shoulders as we stand next to each other by the sink is some kind of kinky foreplay that probably only a mom would get turned on by. There’s something about his wet, veiny hands plunging in and out of the bubbly water. And maybe the fact that Gareth actually does his own damn dishes.
I dry off my hands and open the refrigerator to see what’s inside. It’s so empty, I would normally question whether anyone actually lived here. There are only a couple of Tupperware containers full of prepared foods—probably from the magical chef, Robert—some sports drinks, and a lime.
Rolling my eyes, I wrench open the freezer. The disappointment continues when all that lays inside are some gross looking protein balls. Athletes are weird.
Inspiration strikes as I close the freezer. “Can I get a glass?”
Gareth eyes me curiously and reaches up into the cupboard to grab a glass down for me. The skin that peeks out from beneath the botto
m of his shirt when his arm stretches up is oh-so sexy, I can’t wait to try what I have planned.
He hands the glass over to me and watches me expectantly as I fill the cup with ice cubes all the way to the top. “I think we should have sex again soon.”
His concealed chuckle is appreciated. “Why not now?”
I shrug. “You got lucky with a quickie before because I was having a moment. Now I’m more in control. And because I have to torture you first, of course.”
This causes him to full-on belly laugh. “Well, I’m at your service, Treacle.” He winks at me, and I swear the look alone could get me off if I concentrated on it hard enough.
“Are you the type to get squeamish over unsanitary kitchens?” I ask, eyeing the large granite kitchen island that’s grey with sparkles.
“Not if you’re not,” he replies, his forearms flexing as he stuffs his hands into his pockets.
“Good because I want you naked and lying on the counter.”
His smile is sinful. “Whatever you say, Tre.”
I hurry out to the foyer to get my handbag with the items I grabbed for tonight while Gareth undresses in the kitchen. When I return, he’s standing by the island, shirtless with his jeans unbuttoned. My eyes instantly go to the trimmed trail of hair that leads to his groin.
When he grabs the band of his jeans, I stop him. “Hang on.”
He pauses, leaving his jeans hanging on the edge of his hip bones. The deep V that angles toward his package is so sexy, I have to close my eyes and regain some composure.
“Hold your hands out together,” I state, setting my bag on the counter and rooting around for a moment.
When I pull out a yellow rope from inside my purse, his eyes fly wide. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. Is this not okay?” I frown. “I bought it online. It’s like sex rope or something. They cut to your order. It’s less harsh on your wrists than regular rope from what I understand.”
His tongue darts out to lick his lips and a heated look billows in his eyes. “It’s okay.”