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But when the fanatical crowd at the end of the square erupted in applause, and Dillon turned to find it wasn’t Elliott or Grady they were cheering—but instead, Kameryn—she could feel her pulse quicken, along with the familiar wash of discomfort she’d once experienced with Kelsey.

She dismissed the reaction, forcing herself to look away from where Kam climbed with Carter into the back of a limousine and returned her attention to Sam, who hadn’t stopped talking.

“That scene—with the wolves—you know the one I mean? She made me cry! I can’t remember the last time I cried in a movie!” In her drunken rambling, Sam hardly drew a breath before her focus changed. “Are you sure we have to skip the do? The Beckhams are going. I could still text Victoria and ask her to save us a couple of seats?”

She meant the afterparty at Tate Britain, an exclusive event held for cast and crew, with an invitation extended to London’s most prominent elite.

“Sam,” Dillon began, making no effort to curb her warning, “you agreed—”

“Alright, alright,” Sam waved her off, “keep your hair on—I was just checking that you hadn’t changed your mind.”

It had been part of their deal. Dillon would go with Sam to the premiere so long as Sam understood, under no circumstances, would they be going to the after party. The venue was smaller, the setting more intimate, and Dillon wanted Kam to be able to enjoy her evening without distraction.

“I’m going to order you an Uber,” Dillon said, steering Sam through the hordes of people camped out in the square. The first public showing ofSand Seekerswouldn’t play in the cinemas foranother twenty-four hours, but already the queue exceeded the preplanned barriers. The Tube in any direction was bound to be a nightmare.

“Nah, I’m too hopped up to head straight home. Think I’ll stop in for a pint. Keep me company?”

It was the last thing Dillon wanted to do. She was ready to get back to her flat. Even though she knew Kam’s hopes of arriving any time before morning would likely be dashed by the after party, she didn’t want to risk not being there. Just in case.

Sam laughed, quick to read her thoughts. “Come now, marra! As much as I now understand your urgency to get home—I mean, that opening scene, those…” she glanced at Dillon with a wicked smile, “assets,” she chose the word carefully, “wowza!—you’ll be lucky if she gets out of there before dawn. You can spare me an hour.” She looped her arm through Dillon’s, who reluctantly allowed herself to be dragged past the statue of Mary Poppins and onto the narrower alley running behind the Odeon. “Besides,” continued Sam, “I still have to write Seren her Christmas poem so I can send it to Swansea with you in the morning.”

Dillon groaned. What had started as a joke had become annual tradition.

The first time Sam met Seren, the footballer had been so taken by the older Sinclair, a week later she’d penned her a drunken rhyme in a London pub, and insisted Dillon hand it over to her sister when she went home for Christmas.

At the time, Seren had laughed and almost been flattered. Now, a decade later, the poems were a source of exaggerated eye rolls, despite Dillon knowing her sister secretly looked forward to them every year.

“Still holding out hope one of your miserable haikus will win her over?”

“I won’t give up on her—she’s too canny a lass to stay a spinster forever.”

“Right. Because at almost thirty-three, she’s practically got one foot in the grave.”

Sam ignored her sarcasm. “I think I’m going to change it up this year. Skip the haiku and try something different. Maybe I’ll go for a limerick.”

They’d walked west, away from the pandemonium of the entertainment epicenter, and crossed Piccadilly toward St. James Square, where the streets grew quieter and the pubs less crowded.

“What do you think of this?” Sam asked as they waited at a traffic signal.

“There once was a bonnie lass, Seren

For whom my heart was yearnin’

So I wrote her this poem,

And sent it on home,

With an offer for some winin’ and dinin’”

“If that’s the best you’ve got, it’s no wonder you’re single.”

Sam’s full eyebrows shot up in the amber glow of the caution light. “Oh, I can do better.” She bounded with her uneven gait across the street, forcing Dillon to jog to catch up with her. “I was just trying to keep it PG for your sake. You won’t like my next one.”

“Dirty limericks about my sister? Correct. Stick with the haikus. Or better yet, skip the prose and just buy her a nice jumper.”

“A jumper?” Sam stopped beneath a sign that saidThorn and Thistle. “That’s a gift you give your nan, not something you give someone when you’re trying to get inside their knickers.”

“Jesus, Hunt—”