by Amy Daws
Christ, she’s beautiful tonight.
From her seriously ridiculous curves in that sexy dress to the wee freckles that give her sexy look the perfect touch of innocence, my entire fucking body suddenly feels like a live wire waiting to be tripped.
I can’t tell if she’s actually more beautiful tonight than she has been all the other times I’ve seen her, or if it’s the fact that I know I’m going to be inside her in a matter of hours, and that fact has escalated her beauty into the stratosphere of obscenely gorgeous.
Fuck me, this is going to be a long night.
I shouldn’t have snapped at her like that earlier, though. That was a bad start to the night.
I’ve just got it in my head that I want this to be special for her, and I let my emotions get the best of me. I hate how she’s constantly acting like I’m doing her some sort of favour, and everything I say is for show. None of this is for show. This arrangement was my idea, and I wouldn’t have volunteered to take her virginity if I didn’t want to fuck her.
Bloody hell, do I want to fuck her.
My cocker thumps inside my trousers, and I grip the wheel tightly, trying to shut down my wandering thoughts because we have plans tonight that go well beyond getting naked and rolling around the sack. This date cost me a pretty penny, but it was worth it because I’ll do just about anything to make this night extraordinary for my best mate.
We pull up in front of a nice family home in Essex and there’s a van parked on the side of the road across the street. The driver waves animatedly to me, and Freya waves back, frowning curiously.
“Do you know who that is?” she asks, offering the man a polite smile even though her brows are pinched together.
“Aye,” I reply, my palms sweating with nerves because, fuck me, maybe this is all too extreme, and Freya is going to think I’m a nutter.
“Are you going to tell me who he is?” she asks, turning her big round eyes to me.
With a nervous smirk, I hop out of the car and jog over to her door, fiddling with the sleeves of my shirt for a moment before opening her door and offering my hand like the gentleman my mum taught me to be. “Promise you won’t give me shite about this, all right?” I state with a heavy sigh. “Forget that you know me better than most people and try to imagine I’m capable of just doing something nice.”
“You? Nice?” she says as she stands and stares up at me with barely contained humour. “The man who once referred to his dick as the Loch Ness monster is suddenly doing something nice?”
I can’t help but smirk down at her. “Aye, lucky for you, tonight you’ll find out if the legends are true.”
She giggles at that. “Already calling it a legend? I really hope this is a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
My eyes narrow on her, and I have an overwhelming urge to snog her senseless right here on the street. “Let’s keep those charming smart-arse remarks to yourself for a few moments, all right?”
Freya grins and gazes up at me through her long, thick lashes. “If my remarks are charming, then why on earth should I hide them from the world?”
I growl and give her side a cheeky squeeze while directing her across the street. The tall, slender man hops out of the van with a big smile on his face. “Hiya, Mr Logan. Nice to see you again.”
“Roger, I told you to call me Mac.” I reach out to shake his hand. “This is Freya.”
“Hiya, Freya.”
“Hiya, Roger.”
“Are you ready for this?” Roger asks, his eyes wide and excited as he makes his way to the back of the van.
Freya looks at me, tugging her ear nervously as she follows him. “If this is the part where I’m taken somewhere to sell my virginity off to the highest bidder, I’m afraid you boys could be disappointed at the price I bring in.”
My eyes narrow in silent warning, and she shrugs like she just can’t help herself.
Roger’s happy smile falls instantly. “I’m sure your virginity would bring in a smashing rate, ma’am.” Freya and I both freeze, staring back at Roger with dumbfounded expressions.
“Thanks for that, Roger,” Freya finally replies, turning to me with an amused look on her face.
“He just called you ma’am.” I chuckle and wince when Freya’s elbow connects with my ribs.
Roger opens the van door, and our attention shifts to the three pet carriers with wee cats inside.
“Oh my God!” Freya squeals and rushes over, nearly knocking Roger on his arse in hot pursuit. He looks a wee bit frightened as Freya exclaims, “Look at these beautiful creatures! I must have them all!”
Roger laughs awkwardly and turns to me with wide eyes. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“Why? What do you mean?” Freya asks, not even looking back at him as she fingers the cages and lets the wee animals lick her through the metal barricades.
Roger clears his throat and does his best to sound professional. “These cats have already found loving homes, and today you’re going to help me deliver them to their new families.”
“Are you serious?” Freya asks, turning her gaze to me for more explanation.
I step forward, gripping the back of my neck nervously. “Roger works for a nonprofit organization I heard about from one of my teammates called Best Birthday Ever, and their job is to deliver rehabilitated pets as gifts. All the pets that are adopted through them have been rescued from kill shelters and rehabbed until they’re ready for proper homes. Basically, we get to help deliver three of them today and see the reaction of the receivers.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Freya says inelegantly, and her voice cracks at the end with barely contained emotion.
Roger and I both laugh.
“This is our date tonight? To give the gift of a pet?” Freya asks, tears filling her eyes before she turns to look at the wee kittens again. Her voice hitches to the octave of a wee babe as she coos into their cages, “How completely utterly, stupidly, wonderfully perfect of that big ox of a Scotsman. He’s not as scary as he looks. In fact, he’s a big cuddly teddy bear, isn’t he, you precious babies?”
Roger elbows me and gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up. I awkwardly give one back to him before he steps in and opens the first cage. He pulls out a black and white cat that looks a bit like a kitten still. He cradles it to his chest, and says, “This little fella is going to a girl name Shantay. It’s her tenth birthday, and it’s from her mum and dad.”
Roger thrusts the kitty into Freya’s eager hands and her eyes go wide. “We’re delivering the kitten now?”
He nods and points at the house behind us. “She’s right in there.”
“Stop,” Freya says, turning wide eyes to the house. “What do I say exactly? This is a huge moment, and I don’t want to screw it up for her.”
Roger smiles and reaches out to pet the cat. “Just say Happy Birthday from your mum and dad.”
“Oh my God, I’m so nervous!” Freya squeals, turning to me with obvious excitement all over her face.
“I’ll go with you,” I say, stepping up and wrapping my arm around her shoulders.
She looks up at me and nods her agreement, and we make our way to the front door.
“Oh, also!” Roger calls out as we finish crossing the street. “Make sure it’s the right girl before you give the cat away. I screwed that up once, and I still have nightmares about that awful day.”
The haunted look in Roger’s eye is unmistakable, but Freya is too focused on the cat to notice as she turns back towards the house. She scratches the side of his cheek and presses her lips to his furry head. “How did you come up with this idea, Mac?”
I shrug. “I just googled things to do in London with cats.”
Her shoulders shake with laughter. “And you found a place that lets just anybody deliver cats as presents?”
“Not exactly,” I reply and grip the back of my neck.
She looks up at me in confusion.
I shrug. “I donated some money, and you getting to do this was one of my condit
ions.”
Her jaw drops, and she adjusts the cat in her arms. “How much money?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I scoff and usher her up the front steps. “It’s a great cause, and I love seeing you like this.”
Freya stops in front of the door and turns to face me. “I love you, Maclay Logan. You truly are my best friend.”
Her words hit me hard in the chest, but before I have a chance to respond, she turns and rings the doorbell. Within seconds, a girl with long black braids opens the door and gazes up at us curiously.
“Um, hi?” she says, glancing down at the kitten with a forlorn look on her face.
“Are you Shantay?” Freya asks, her voice garbled and full of emotion that makes a knot form in my throat.
Her parents emerge behind her with knowing smiles. “This is Shantay,” her father says, placing his hands on her shoulders with a big, proud smile.
Freya inhales deeply, hugs the kitten to her chest once more, dropping a soft kiss to its ear, and then says, “Happy Birthday from your parents.”
She passes the kitten into the unsuspecting girl’s hands. Shantay’s expression morphs from confusion to an almost angry look of shock. She turns to her mum and dad, and barks, “Is this for real? Is this a joke?”
“It’s real, honey,” her mum says, squatting down so she’s eye level with her daughter. She pets the kitten, and says, “Dad and I are so proud of how hard you’ve been working at school.”
“You got me a kitty?” she screams, and then her face contorts into full-on crying as she drops to her knees and sobs into the poor kitten’s fur. The cat clearly has no idea what’s happening as she lies limp in the arms of the girl who’s now gasping for breath. “You got me a kitty? Oh my God. Thank you, Mummy. Thank you, Daddy.”
The parents look up at us with grateful smiles, but their expressions fall when their eyes land on Freya. I step forward to see Freya is bawling just as hard as the girl. Maybe harder. I wrap my arm around her and wave to the parents, ushering my blubbering friend away from the seriously emotional scene.
“Are you okay? I thought you’d love this,” I say, squeezing her in tight to my side and rubbing my hand up and down her bare arm.
“I do love this, you idiot!” Freya croaks, sniffing loudly and wiping away her tears. “Crikey, I’m going to remember that little girl’s precious face for as long as I live!”
She clears her throat, and without warning, she launches herself into my arms, locking me in a seriously strong hug. “Thank you, Mac. Thank you so much.”
“Aye, sure,” I reply with a laugh, dropping a kiss onto her shoulder. “We still have two more to go. Are you sure you’re up for it?”
“Oh, I’m up for it,” she says, jerking away from me and barrelling back towards Roger, who looks a wee bit terrified again.
I wish I could say the next two deliveries are less emotional, but they aren’t. Freya is a snotty, happy, smiling-through-her-tears mess. And with the last delivery, the wee kitten had a ring box attached to his collar, which meant Freya and I had front row seats to a man proposing to his girlfriend with the gift of a kitten. By the time we finish, even I’m bawling like a wee babe. Who knew delivering pets as birthday presents would be such an emotionally taxing job?
After we’re done, we end up in a dark restaurant tucked away in a cul-de-sac between Kensington High Street and Kensington Church Street called Maggie Jones’s. It has a cosy, rustic ambience that’s dark and romantic with melted taper candles propped in wine bottles and lighting so dim you can’t read the menu.
We split a bottle of red wine with pies and mash, and laugh out loud way too much for such a quiet, romantic setting. But recounting our evening thus far is just too much fun. I’m sure Roger had no idea what he was in for with the two of us going door to door, but I think we managed to make every pet delivery a special one.
Freya’s eyes haven’t stopped twinkling since we sat down, and I can tell this evening is already unforgettable for her. And I have to say, I actually manage to stop thinking about our plans for later because I’m completely enchanted watching Freya gush over the wee kittens.
“How did you get Hercules?” I ask, sipping my wine and admiring her red hair as it glows in the candlelight. “You’ve never told me the story. You didn’t have him in Manchester, did you?”
Freya’s brows lift. “No, he was a stray outside my London flat, actually. The neighbour said she thought he was living on the roof, and she was going to call animal control to come deal with him. I couldn’t bear the thought of that, so I left out a trail of tuna fish leading through my open fire escape window. He came in like he owned the place, and I quickly closed the window and then had a minor panic because I realised that I just locked a very possibly feral cat inside my flat with no real plan for what to do next.”
My body moves with silent laughter. “What did you do next?”
She shrugs. “I did what any normal hard-working girl from Cornwall would do. I gave him a scone, some jam, and clotted cream, and we’ve been best mates ever since.”
This brings a genuine smile to my face. “And why did you name him Hercules?”
The corner of her mouth quirks up. “He’s a strong little bugger. I had to wrestle him into a cat carrier to take him to see the vet for the first time, and I nearly broke out in a sweat from all the effort. He’s quite fit, even if he is a good twenty pounds overweight. He’s what I call ‘buff fat’.”
I stare back at Freya, who’s giggling to herself as she sips her wine. I don’t know why the hell her giggling about her cat causes my cock to stir in my trousers, but it bloody well does. My eyes instinctively lower to her breasts, and I do my best to envision what they’re going to look like naked.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, her voice quiet and charged with something…electric.
My gaze lifts. “I’m thinking about what your breasts are going to look like naked.”
She begins to choke on her wine. “And what conclusion did you come to?”
I lean across the table and trail my fingers along her forearm. “I’m quite certain they’re going to look fan-fucking-tastic.”
“God, you’re such a pig,” she replies with a scoff and pulls back to mindlessly tug at her ear. “Is this how you’re making tonight special? By talking about my taters at the dinner table?”
My brow quirks. “Did you just call your breasts taters?”
She shrugs and wrinkles her nose. “It’s what my mother called them growing up.” Her voice hitches as she mimics her mother’s deep south accent, “Don’t let your taters hang out of your blouse, Freya, or you’re look like a proper harlot.”
My shoulders shake with laughter. “Your mother sounds like a delight.”
“Oh, trust me, she is. She’s a Catholic, wholesome, southern woman whose best friends were nuns. It’s amazing she didn’t end up in the convent herself.”
I shake my head knowingly. “If she ever meets my grandad, she’ll probably die of a stroke.”
Freya tilts her head curiously. “Is he a proper Scottish rogue?”
“Something like that,” I reply and take a sip of my wine. “But he’s not much of a lover. Granted, he loved my gran enough to run a bed and breakfast with her in Dundonald for years, but I wasn’t even sixteen before he told me all women were the devil.”
“The devil?” A fond smile spreads across Freya’s face. “What a thing to say to a young, impressionable boy.”
“Aye, he said women distract men with their beauty, and we lose sight of what’s important in life.”
Freya’s head jerks back. “And what, pray tell, did he think was important in life?”
“Football, football, and football,” I reply with a laugh. “My grandad is such a football fan that he literally weeps like a babe when his precious Rangers lose a match.”
“Oh my God, how sweet!” Freya coos.
“Sweet and overly passionate. He was heartbroken when my father never showed any int
erest in playing football beyond his teenage years. My dad got my mum pregnant with me when they were only eighteen and that basically settled that.”
“Couldn’t your dad pursue football and a family?” Freya asks, propping her chin on her hand and eyeing me seriously. “The Harris Brothers make it look quite easy.”
“Aye, sure. But the fact of the matter is, my dad didn’t want to be a footballer. He was happy to find a steady job and be home for dinner every night.”
“What’s so wrong with that?” Freya asks innocently.
“Everything, according to my grandad,” I reply with a laugh. “Which means he directed all his hopes and dreams onto me. I don’t have a single memory of my grandad that doesn’t involve a football.”
Freya’s eyes twinkle with pride. “Well he must be quite chuffed now that your club is in the premier league.”
“He’d be a bit prouder if I was playing for Rangers instead.” I wink back at her so she knows that even though what I’m saying is true, I still love the shite out of my grandad. “My favourite memory with him was when I was only seven years old and he took me to a sold-out match at Ibrox Stadium. I thought we were just going to look at the people milling about, but I was wrong. He grabbed a piece of cardboard out of the back seat of his truck, and with a felt pen, he wrote: NEED ONE TICKET.
“We stood on Copland Road for ages, and I thought there would be no way we’d get in—the place was swarming! But sure enough, a guy came over, nudged us, and for a tenner, we were in the stadium with me seated squarely between my grandad’s legs. That was the moment I knew I’d do just about anything to make him look at me the way he looked at that pitch.”
“That’s rather sweet,” Freya says, her lips curling up into a smile.
“Aye, he’s always been my biggest football supporter. He would take me to trainings when both my parents had to work. He even sold one of his antique tractors to get me into a camp so I could train with his beloved Rangers.”
“He sounds incredible,” Freya says with a soft smile. “I hope to get to meet him someday.”
“If you ever do, don’t take his surly disposition personally,” I reply with a laugh. “He hates any girls I bring around him. He sees them all as potential saboteurs.”