“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary. It’s just big businesses trying to have their cake and eat it too. I’m just trying to ensure Freya gets the best deal possible.”
“No, really. This is his specialty. Plus, he’s helped my Harris cousins out of several jams and even me with well…a crazy thing in my past that happened with Roan. Anyways…he’s amazing, and I’m sure he’ll be there, so I’ll make sure you two bump into each other just in case.”
“Okay.” I exhale heavily as the itch to refuse any sort of help niggles my insides. I don’t like help. I like figuring things out on my own. However, this is Freya’s best friend, and I can’t mess this deal up, so maybe a second opinion isn’t the worst idea.
After I undress quickly, they bag my gown up as I run upstairs to Freya’s workshop and collect the pieces she wanted me to grab today. By the time I come downstairs, they have the dress at the counter, so I pull out my wallet to hand them my credit card.
“Your money is no good here,” Sloan says with a knowing smirk. “You’re basically family.”
“I am?” I ask in confusion.
Sloan shrugs. “Pretty much. I mean, I’m married to the oldest Harris brother, Gareth, whose brother, Booker, plays football with Roan, and Roan is Allie’s husband, and Allie is a Harris and Freya’s best friend, and Roan is Mac’s best friend, and you’re Mac’s sister, which just means—”
My eyes see spots.
“The more you fight it, the harder we smother you.” Allie peeks her head around my shoulder with a coy smile. “Seriously, I was overwhelmed by it when I first came to town and was assaulted by this horde, but you get the hang of it eventually.”
Sloan hits me with a cheeky smile, so I reluctantly take the bag from her hands. “Well, thank you. This is extremely generous.”
“That’s the ticket!” Sloan exclaims. “And thank you for helping our Freya. She’s pretty much everybody’s favourite.”
I nod and smile. “I feel the same way.”
With the dress hanging in the back of my car, I drive the short distance from Shoreditch to Freya and Mac’s new house in Brick Lane. I roll my windows down and let in the August breeze as I take in the different neighbourhoods. It’s different on the East End. It has a more artsy, cultural feel to it with little outdoor markets, vintage shops, art galleries, and street art all over which I could stare at for hours.
Freya and Mac have settled well here, too. Freya has her big deal coming from Harrods. Mac has a dream job as a developer for a video game company which confirms that deep down my brother is still just a boy trapped in a man’s body. And they have this wonderfully tight-knit pseudo-family who is overbearingly sweet and growing their families as well.
They’re certainly a night and day difference from the crowd I hung out with in West London over five years ago. I fell in with the twenty-something social climbers who worked in retail and shared tiny studio flats behind all the high streets. We worked nine to five and then met up at pubs and wine bars and drank late into the night while discussing who was up for the next big promotion.
On the weekends, we’d hit the nightclub scene and party into the wee hours of the morning. It’s quite impressive I could work my way up at Fortnum and Mason with what little sleep I had. But work hard and play harder was the culture, so partying was how we blew off steam.
Regardless, I must admit I’m pleased to be back in London and having much less wild and crazy experiences. This way of life feels much safer.
I find a parking spot in front of Mac and Freya’s brick home that’s tucked discreetly away on a cobblestone side street. Freya is obsessed with horses, so the adorable little mews house where horses used to live is perfect. When she found out that little fun fact, they had to buy the property straight away. It’s quite idyllic overall, though. It’s three bedrooms and two and a half bathrooms with the perfect mix of restored old beams and exposed brick with contemporary touches. Plus, they have their own private garden with a lush cherry blossom tree out back. I didn’t exactly love my flat and job back in Dundonald, so it was all too easy to put in my notice to help out for as long as they need me.
Furthermore, I’m looking at this situation as a test run to see if I can handle London better now than I did in the past. I hardly recognise the person I was five years ago, and that’s certainly for the better. If I can remain the new and improved Tilly, then perhaps I can soon call London my home again as well. A proper night out with my brother will be a great test for me.
I grab my dress from the back seat before quietly letting myself in through the red front door. Freya was taking one of her cat naps when I left, so I don’t want to disturb her or her insane felines, Hercules and Jasper. Jasper has warmed up to me nicely, but Hercules isn’t budging no matter how many treats I try to sneak him.
I make my way up the floating staircase in their entryway to the guest bedroom upstairs. The master suite is on the main level to the right of the stairs with their living room area to the left and their kitchen and dining through that. This home has a cosy layout peppered with bright, eclectic furniture from all different decades. Completely Freya’s style. Unique and one of a kind.
On the second level of the home is my room, a second loo, and a wee nursey that’s already starting to fill up with baby items. I inhale a cleansing breath as I walk by, feeling surprisingly fulfilled by being here and helping them through all of this. The past few years I’ve been so engrossed in myself that it’s nice to shift my focus. And if I happen to figure out what I’m going to do with my life in the process, well, it’s a win-win situation.
“Santino mate, I need your RSVP for Friday night’s gala.”
I tear my gaze away from the contract on my desk that I’m reviewing to see Tanner Harris standing in my doorway. He’s a welcome sight on this dismal Monday morning. I point to his get-up and reply, “I still can’t get used to this.”
“Used to what?” Tanner asks, running a hand over his inked arm with a quizzical scowl.
“You in a coach’s kit.” My gaze lowers to the white Bethnal Green, F.C. trainer vest and black Adidas tiro trousers. It was just over a year ago that Tanner was helping us win the FA Cup as our star striker. Now he’s retired, along with one of our best midfielders, Maclay Logan.
My, how things have changed for our newly promoted Premier League team. This is usually what happens to clubs like ours, though. We move from Championship up to Premier League, get a few notable wins under our belts, and then suddenly, bigger, more established clubs start poaching our players. This means I’m now chained to my desk poring over contracts of new potential football recruits that Tanner’s father, Vaughn Harris, the club manager, has sent me. I’ve been the staff lawyer for this club for nearly ten years now, and we’ve never needed so many new recruits all at once.
Tanner eyes me salaciously. “Are you missing the sight of my muscular thighs, Santino? Or is it my ink-covered abs you’re yearning to get a peek of again, you saucy minx? I’m sure you could Google me to find some old photos to tide you over.”
“Christ, no.” I wince and push back from my desk as memories of Tanner’s chequered past flash through my mind. “One nice thing about you being married and on the coaching staff is the fact that I no longer have to help cover up your sexual escapades as London’s dirtiest footballer.”