Page 10 of Date Knight (Roll for Romance #2)

Amy

I ’d known from the moment I’d walked away from Phil, Jack and Morgan that it had been a mistake not to set the record completely straight, but I couldn’t help myself; after so many years of being obsessed with Philip Owen, we’d finally kissed, and he hadn’t recoiled in disgust. So sue me for enjoying on a perverse level the five seconds where people actually believed we were together.

I could have done without those people being Jack and Morgan, but I figured I could just clear things up with Jack at family dinner the next day.

So I let myself put it out of my head as much as possible when I got home, collapsing onto my bed and looking up at the glow-in-the-dark stars Jack and I had pressed onto the ceiling decades ago.

I’d been home for all of ten minutes when my phone buzzed. I nearly leapt on it, hoping it would be Phil, but it wasn’t. It was one of my flatmates from Manchester:

MAYA

Niamh just said you’re coming to the wedding?!?! YAY!! Let’s catch up soon xxxxxxxxx

I smiled down at my phone, pleasantly surprised she’d texted, before remembering that I wouldn’t in fact be going to the wedding.

There was no way I could show my face alone after Chris had tried to call my bluff with Phil.

So I didn’t respond, tossing my phone onto a mess of clean washing on the chair in the corner.

I tried to forget the whole ordeal, but that proved impossible, and after ten minutes of replaying that kiss in my mind, analysing every hand placement and every sensation, I knew I needed to change tack. So I decided to let the fates deal with it instead.

I walked over to my dresser where my crystals were scattered, adjusting the position of a black obsidian tower, which was supposed to be protecting me against harmful energies.

Based on what had happened with Niamh and Chris, I wondered if it needed cleansing, so I lit a sage bundle and rested it and my amethyst pendant in the metal bowl in the centre of the dresser surface before passing each of my crystals through the smoke from the sage. Being thorough couldn’t hurt.

Once that was done, I picked up my tarot deck and decided on a single card for clarity. I needed to shut my brain up somehow, and typically a reading did just that. Once the cards told me what was what, it was easier to just let it go. Usually, anyway.

I channelled my energy into the deck as best I could as I shuffled, asking the deck for the truth behind that kiss, stopping when it felt right. Then I drew the top card and placed it in front of me on the dresser. The Knight of Swords lay upside down in front of me.

I’d started reading tarot in university, when a friend who ended up being otherwise inconsequential gave me a reading that shocked me to my core with its accuracy.

She’d also told me I was something called a Starseed soul– someone who felt out of place because I was a reincarnated space alien– so I took everything she’d told me with a pinch of salt.

But I had in fact felt out of place my whole life, like I was constantly trying and failing to fit in, and I’d always been drawn to the stars.

So I decided to lean into the parts of astrology and tarot that felt right to me, eventually including crystals.

Since then I’d mostly just dabbled in the mystical, but it was one of my favourite parts of my life, even if no one else around me understood it.

It made me feel grounded, and like I could make sense of the things that happened to and around me.

The Knight of Swords was an ominous choice, though.

When reversed, it symbolised a disregard for consequences, the inverse of nobility.

Had it been ignoble of me to kiss Phil? Except, he’d technically kissed me, hadn’t he?

Was he the ignoble one? What was nobility anyway, and did I actually give a shit if it was noble if it got the job done? If it didn’t hurt anyone?

See, this was the problem with one-card spreads. Really I should have asked for more specificity. More insight. But I was tired, and the sun was finally setting, and I could deal with things tomorrow.

* * *

Dad had let me go with him on the last few quote visits so I could ask the client clarifying questions in person rather than having to beg Dad for those clarifications.

It was especially important on this visit; it was the biggest project he’d ever gone for, and there were a lot of moving parts.

A developer from London– a caricature of a finance bro named Tim– had bought an old care home in a suburb called Kenchester and was turning it into flats.

It was absurd how much of a stereotype he was; he and Dad even had an extended conversation about how hard it was to find good workers, and whilst I knew from experience that Dad was talking about needing apprentices and young people, I was pretty sure Tim had meant it differently.

The development was huge– there would be nearly fifty units by the time it was done, according to the plans he’d had drawn up– and he had plans for some of the surrounding commercial properties, too, since the development would be relatively isolated.

And he was looking for a contractor to manage and execute the entire project, including the future phases.

Dad walked around the entire time like a cartoon character with dollar signs in his eyes.

But he nearly had a stroke when I told Tim he should think about using vinyl in the bathrooms rather than tile.

“We’d make way more money off tile,” Dad insisted when we were back in the van after the visit, shouting over the death metal blaring from his speakers any time the engine was running. I’d made the mistake of reaching for the volume knob once, and he’d nearly taken my hand off.

“Yes, but we don’t actually need a tiler for anything else on that project,” I said as calmly as I could, and I took great satisfaction from the way his jaw relaxed slightly.

“Jerry and Luke can install the big stone panels for the shower surrounds, and the kitchen guys can handle the backsplash since it’s just a continuation of the worktops.

Plus, the cost of the tile might be higher, but our profit margin is way higher on the LVT. ”

Dad frowned. “Is that right?”

I nodded, and Dad glared at me as if paralysed by my flawless logic. At least, that was what I told myself.

“Fine,” he said, which was the closest he ever came to ceding victory in an argument.

“You know, this job is gonna be massive,” I said, chancing my luck. “Loooooads of admin.”

He just grunted in response.

“Wouldn’t that be easier if you had someone full-time to handle it? Or even twenty or twenty-five hours a week instead of five? If your systems were more integrated, your processes would be more efficient.”

“I might hire someone,” he said, “if I felt there was someone reliable who could do it. Someone a bit more committed to putting down roots.”

“Dad, I’m literally begging you for this work. Would I do that if I had one foot out the door?”

“Unpack the boxes stacked in your room and then we’ll talk,” he said, then turned the music up even louder– I wasn’t even sure how that was possible– and ignored me for the rest of the drive. Oh well , I thought. It was more than I usually got out of him.

When we pulled into the driveway at home, we could see Jack and Mum doing garden work, lugging something through the gate and piling it onto the flatbed that usually sat parked behind Dad’s workshop.

It looked like remnants of Mum’s greenhouse stacked there.

As we got out of the van, Jack walked through the gate covered in dirt and sweat with a huge plexiglass panel held over his head, shouting for us to move.

Mum followed behind with a single pole, maybe a metre long, in one hand.

“You’re home!” she said, dropping the pole to the ground and wrapping me in a hug. I cringed in anticipation of getting dirty, but her dungarees were completely clean, confirming that she was using Jack as her workhorse.

“Yep, as planned,” I said tightly. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve planted everything out from the greenhouse, so that ratty old thing could finally come down. Now your father can buy me a new one for Christmas.”

“Can I now?” Dad asked, turning around from where he’d attempted to get inside without being roped into the conversation. But he always paid attention when Mum talked about spending money. “Don’t we have anything else you’d rather spend that money on?”

“Since you’re both here,” she said, ignoring him, “what would you like for family dinner later? I’m about to pop out to the shops.” Mum had declared last week that Sundays would be family dinner days in an attempt to feel less like ships in the night.

I shrugged. “I’m not fussed. What’s easiest for you?”

“Pizza?” Dad asked, and yet again Mum pretended he hadn’t spoken at all.

“Remind me,” she said, turning to Jack, who was on his way back from the truck. “Morgan’s not veggie or anything, right?”

Jack shook his head. “She’s not. Why, is she invited?”

“Of course,” she said, as if it was the most obvious thing ever. As if it hadn’t always been just the four of us. “You did invite her, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t, but I think she’s free.” He bent down to pick up the pole Mum had dropped. “Does that mean Phil’s coming too?”

Despite the heatwave, my body went cold as ice. Shit . I glared at Jack, trying to convince him through my eyes alone to roll back what he’d said, but he was oblivious as usual.

Mum frowned. “Why would Philip come? Unless you’re in a throuple now? It’s fine if you are.”

Jack doubled over with laughter. “Mum, who taught you the word throuple?”

“I know things,” Mum said with a shrug.

“Well, you’ll be sad to hear that I am not in a throuple with Phil. I don’t particularly fancy sharing him with Amy.”

SHIT SHIT SHIT .

“Shut the fuck up, Jack!”

“Language, Amelia!” Dad yelled.