by Amy Daws
Copyright © 2019 Amy Daws
All rights reserved.
Published by: Amy Daws, LLC
ISBN 13: 978-1-944565-29-9
ISBN 10: 1-944565-29-9
Edited by: Jenny at Editing 4 Indies, Nancy at Evident Ink, and Stephanie Rose
Formatted by: Champagne Book Design
Cover Design: Amy Daws
This book is licensed for personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author. The only exception is quoting short excerpts in a review. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, please go to www.amydawsauthor.com to find where you can purchase a copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
More Books by Amy Daws
Acknowledgements
About the Author
“Crikey, I want a pony,” I blubber and blow my nose loudly into a tissue while staring wistfully at the telly as the ending credits of Heartland fill the screen. “Even after watching Jack Bartlett put his beloved horse, Paint, to eternal sleep, I still want a pony. Who knew a wholesome family drama that centres around the highs and lows of life on a ranch would change the core of my soul so deeply? I considered myself a proper city girl before watching this show. Yes, I grew up in a small village outside of Cornwall, but as soon as I was old enough to leave, it was big city life for me full stop. And London is arguably the greatest city in the world. I mean, there is nowhere else you can go to buy a cake and pet a kitten at the exact same time. But after falling in love with this Canadian program, I dream about having a simple life on a ranch with a pony and a grandfather who has a caterpillar mustache and bends his eyes in a way that makes me feel like every moment with him is a life lesson.” I exhale heavily, realising I forgot to breathe during that last bit, and a light-headedness overwhelms me.
“You know I’m still here, right?” a deep Scottish voice asks from beside me.
I turn my gaze from the television and shake my head to focus on Maclay Logan—a professional footballer for Bethnal Green F.C. and, against all odds, my friend. I scrunch my nose and swipe away my lingering tears. “Of course I know you’re still here.”
A knowing smile lifts his face. “Well, you just went on a bit of a monologue there with a variety of run-on sentences without leaving any room for me to reply, so I figured you either forgot I was here or you were having another one of your outbursts.”
My eyes narrow when he finger quotes the word “outbursts”. “What are you talking about? I don’t have outbursts.” I repeat the word back in his rough and permanently sore-throated-sounding Scottish accent, rolling the R the way he does.
Mac’s lips twitch with barely concealed amusement that makes me want to thump him. He always looks like he’s laughing about something. It’s maddening, really. I mean, what kind of human is constantly happy? It’s just not right.
I should be the one having a laugh at the sight of him—a grinning, goofy giant sitting on doll furniture in my tiny one-bedroom East London flat. His large, muscular body is stretched out on my purple velvet sofa while his thick, tattoo-covered arms are wrapped tightly around one of my furry white throw pillows. It’s like he’s strangling a baby polar bear.
Mac glares at me while maintaining his smile. “Just last week, you had an entire conversation with your salad about how if you could take a pill that made the lettuce taste like crisps, the two of you could actually be mates.”
“That was a conversation between me and the romaine,” I quip, hating the way he mimicked my Cornish accent. No matter how hard I try to ditch it, that West Country twang slips out. “And you shouldn’t have been earwigging.”
“You invited me over for dinner!” he bellows, the motion of his body causing his wavy red bangs to flop over his forehead. “Typically when one invites a guest over for a meal, the hostess is expected to provide conversation with someone other than the lettuce.”
“You’re just being dramatic now,” I state, rolling my eyes and reaching out to sweep his strawberry blond hair back off his forehead. His hair curls at the ends and never seems to stay put. “Besides, I have a special connection with food, just like I do with ponies…and caterpillar-mustached grandfathers.”
Mac remains silent as he smiles at me like I’m his nan with Alzheimer’s and it’s better to go with my narrative than to try to correct me.
“You seriously need to cut your hair again,” I state when I can’t get it to stay where it belongs.
“I thought you said it looks better shaggy,” he replies, replacing my hand with his and forcing his locks back. “You said it makes me look more husky than Labrador, and huskies are more exotic.”
“Indeed, but now we’re venturing into the Old English sheepdog category.”
Mac huffs out a laugh. “Does that mean you’ll give me a treat if I do a trick?”
With a smirk, I reach toward the sofa table for my package of wine gums. Without pause, I toss one in the air, and he catches it in his mouth with the deft ease of the seasoned athlete he is.
“Good dog.”
He smiles proudly while he chews, and I can’t help but shake my head at the view of him. Even with shaggy-dog hair, Mac’s red locks are ten times nicer than mine. My shade of red is more in the Ronald McDonald family. And when I don’t style it in my signature smooth, wavy curls, I look like those Chinese crested dogs that are always getting meme’d on the internet with something cruel. Poor dears.
I turn back towards the telly and grab the remote to queue up the next episode. Lately, Mac and I watch at least three episodes of Heartland when he comes over. And the fact that him coming over has become the norm in my life has completely blindsided me.
If someone had told me a year ago that I’d be plopped on a sofa eating wine gums and watching telly with a famous footballer, I’d have told them they were higher than a kitten that overdosed on catnip. But my job as a clothing tailor for a popular fashion boutique in East London brings all sorts of interesting people into my life, including Mac. The big ox walked into the shop with his PR rep and happened to catch an obscure television reference I made under my breath.
As a seamstress, I’m used to being invisible to ninety-nine percent of our clients, but I wasn’t to darling Mac here. We argued over our favourite Netflix programs and became fast friends. Then I introduced him to Heartland, and he latched onto me like a stray puppy that found its new home. Thank goodness this puppy is potty-trained.
That�
��s a Scot for you. They’re overbearing, loud-mouthed, no boundary-having, spirited animals who are sweet, cosy cuddlers one minute and beating the fuck out of someone who looks at them sideways the next. Or perhaps that’s just Mac?
“You are aware that some people may think what we do together is called Netflix and chill, right?” Mac asks, a knowing tone in his voice that I don’t altogether like.
My brows pinch as I look over at him. “So? What of it?”
Mac hits me with a sardonic stare. “Don’t you know what Netflix and chill means, woman?”
“Of course I know! It means watching telly and relaxing on the sofa.”
Mac bites his lip to stop himself from laughing. It makes me want to strangle him. And hug him. How does he make me love him and hate him every minute of the day?
Mac clears his throat and angles toward me. His green eyes sparkle with mischief. “You got the Netflix part right, but the chill part is where you’re wrong. The youngsters have a secret meaning for the word.”
“Youngsters? What are you going on about? I’m young!” I pop another sweet into my mouth.
“You’re turning thirty in a few months! You’re not considered a young lass anymore, Cookie.”
My eyes roll at the annoying nickname he pegged me with almost as soon as we met. My surname is Cook, and since Mac loves addressing people by their last names, he charmingly came up with Cookie. What a treat for me. The chubby girl gets a food nickname. How novel!
That’s another thing about Scots. They’re overly familiar. They meet someone in a pub who has similar interests, and you’d swear they’d just met their soulmate, never mind the fact that they’ve only spoken a dozen words to each other.
Beyond the nickname, the comment Mac made about my age niggles in the pit of my belly. I’ve been fretting over my upcoming birthday for the past few weeks because I’m not exactly where I thought I’d be at the age of twenty-nine. Don’t get me wrong, I love my life. I have a great flat, my cat, Hercules, finally let me put him in a baby carrier that straps over my boobs, and I work in a clothing boutique with two of the coolest female designers in all of the land.
Seriously, Sloan and Leslie are the type of females anyone would look up to. They are mothers and wives and badarse businesswomen. And our marketing director, Allie Harris, is equally as ambitious. She and I have become extremely close over the past year. I’m actually going to be the maid of honour in her wedding in a few weeks. She’s marrying Mac’s roommate, Roan. Never mind that I still haven’t secured a date for the occasion.
My point is, I live a good life, and I’m truly lucky to work with such wonderfully successful women, but seeing them interact with their partners often reminds me I’ve ignored a significant part of my life for quite some time: matters of the heart. The stuff I positively swoon over on Netflix. And despite telling myself I don’t care about not being in a relationship with someone special, I do care.
I thought moving from Manchester to London a few years ago would be the kick in the arse I needed to try dating again. Instead, I’m still just a seamstress who’s living alone and doing a lot of Netflix and chilling—or whatever Mac calls it—with a man who wouldn’t dream of dating me in a gatrillion years.
“I’m not thirty yet,” I mumble, flopping back against the sofa and grabbing my own polar bear pillow to strangle.
Mac scoffs. “Why do you get all twitchy about your age, Cookie? Own it. I’m thirty-four, and you don’t see me moaning because I’m not young and braw anymore.”
“Well, apparently you are young and cool because you’re over there telling me I don’t know what Netflix and chill means. So, why don’t you tell me, Mr Cool?” I grab yet another sweet. I’m pouting, but bleddy hell, his comment about my age has put me in a mood. “What does chill mean?”
I turn just in time to see Mac’s brows lift as he replies, “It means shagging.”
I nearly choke on the food in my mouth. “What do you mean?” I sputter and clear the congealed sugar out of my esophagus.
“Netflix and chill means Netflix and sex,” Mac explains.
“We don’t do The Sex!” I exclaim and shift myself over so the sides of our thighs are no longer touching. He stated that word so easily. So matter-of-factly. My ears feel like they’re on fire with discomfort. Did it suddenly get hot in this room, or is it just me? “You and I are just mates!”
“Well, obviously,” Mac retorts, tossing his furry pillow on the floor and leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees the way he does when he’s on the sidelines at one of his matches. “I just meant that’s what people might think we’re doing if we tell them we watch Netflix together all the time.”
“We aren’t telling people!” I drop the remote in a huff and turn to face him. “I told you when you first started coming around that I wanted to be a secret friend. Not one that everyone knows about.”
“Being my secret friend is fucking balls now,” he replies, his brows furrowed in a serious scowl. “I went along with it in the beginning because you were worried about being photographed in the papers, but it’s becoming ridiculous. We’ve been pals for over a year, Cookie. I think it’s time you stop hiding. My teammates are always up my arse, asking nosy questions about what I do in my free time.”
“So make something up!” I nearly scream. “Tell them you’re drawing your next tattoo.”
Mac’s eyes narrow. “I don’t like lying, Freya. And I’m tired of avoiding the questions, which is why I think you should come with me to a party I was invited to on Friday night. Loads of my teammates and their WAGS, or wives and girlfriends I mean, will be there. I think it’ll be a nice laugh.”
“Are you deaf, Mac?” I shout louder than I intended, making us both jump. “I said I don’t want your mates to know about me. How could you think that going to a party with you is something I’d want to do?”
“I said I’m done hiding our friendship, and I meant it,” he states firmly, casually spreading his arm out on the back of the sofa as if he’s simply talking about the weather. “I’m going to tell them that we Netflix and hang whether you’re with me or not.”
“We don’t hang. We Netflix and bicker at best!” I sputter and stand up, tossing my homemade raggy quilt on top of him while murmuring about how the word chill has been ruined for me forever. I pick up our Chinese takeaway containers from the sofa table and look down at him.
“What is your problem, woman?” Mac booms as he rises to his full height and stops me from scurrying away into the kitchen. His face is twisted up in confusion like he’s trying to calculate the square root of pi as he looms over me, practically vibrating with annoyance. “You have no problem hanging out with me in front of the Harrises.”
“The Harrises are different. They’re like family,” I state in a rush and then take a moment to calm my nerves, which are heightened from his statuesque stance. I really hate when he does this standing over me thing because it always gives my heart a little jolt. He’s so big. Well over six feet tall, which means the top of my head barely reaches his chin when he’s barefoot. When he’s wearing all of his football gear, he looks like a demigod standing amongst children.
I shake off the dizziness his large stature causes and shove my way past him, through my dining area, and into my tiny galley kitchen. “People like me are secret friends, Mac. Trust me on this.”
He storms in behind me, his close proximity sucking up all the oxygen in my flat. I toss the takeaway containers in the bin and then fix my eyes on the wooden countertop. I can feel him staring down at me when he says, “Explain yourself, Freya. Now.”
“Explain what?” I reply weakly, feigning ignorance that I know he won’t buy.
“What you meant by that last comment,” he says, scowling down at me like I’m a naughty child. “People like you?”
I exhale heavily and turn on my heels to face him with my hands on my hips. “Mac, you’re a big, fit Scottish footballer who’s famous. The whole city of London adores you, and
you have women who would shag you with a snap of your fingers.”
His face brightens as he crosses his inked arms over his chest and shoots me a cocky smirk. “Careful now. That sounded dangerously close to a compliment, Cookie.”
“Shut up, you cow,” I scold and wave off his response. I point at his sizeable body. “My point is, you look like that.” Then I gesture to myself. “And I look like this.”
“I still don’t have a clue what you’re going on about.” Mac continues to gape at me with a thick look that I want to claw right off his face.
What is it with fit people pretending like they don’t see what’s in front of them? If they have eyes, they know how I look. The game is up!
I level him with a stare and angrily state, “I am a short, round Cornish seamstress with a West Country accent that only gets thicker when I’m flustered. I’m obsessed with cats, and my freckles look like the Milky Way galaxy on a clear night.”
“I love your freckles!” he barks, splaying one hand out on the counter and using his other hand to bop my nose. “They make me want to play connect the dots on your wee face.”
“That’s not a compliment!” I screech, doing everything I can to not bash this adorable idiot’s face in.
“And you’re not round,” he barks again, ignoring my reply with his haughty tone. He looks down at my body. “You’re healthy. You actually eat! There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“I eat too much,” I correct and turn to open the fridge for my chardonnay. If I have to deal with him pretending he doesn’t see what’s plainly in front of him, I need a drink.
I grab one of my kitty coffee mugs off a hook beneath my cabinet and pour myself a fortifying drink. “It’s not news that I have never been a willowy waif, and I know that I’ll never change because I’ve tried every bleddy diet in the universe and nothing sticks.”
“You don’t need to change, Cook,” Mac states seriously, drawing my gaze to his green eyes that are soft around the edges in a way that makes my tummy do the flippys again. He wraps his arm around my shoulders and crushes me to his chest. “You’re bonnie, and you’re my best mate. You should never feel the need to hide.”