Page 5 of The Loneliest Number (The Thirst Trap #3)

Chapter four

Cam

T he three of us are squeezed around a tiny table at Enzo’s Italiano. The place is packed, a sign of how bloody good it is. Although, I wasn’t expecting it to be this crazy mid-week.

“Pixie’s not your real name, I take it?” Saff asks our date for the evening.

“No, it’s not.”

“You don’t want to share?” Saff asks with a hopeful lilt.

“Don’t be pushy,” I tell her, reaching across to tap her nose.

“I find it’s best to keep everything anonymous,” Pixie states. I can’t help but wonder if there’s a story there that led her to feel that way. But I respect her decision, deciding to steer Saff away from her nosiness. Even if I’m intrigued and eager to know more.

“Are you working tomorrow?” I ask Saff.

“Yes, although I don’t need to be in the studio until 11, thank goodness.

” She turns to Pixie to explain. “I’m a photographer.

Mostly portrait stuff. I’ve been branching out into boudoir recently.

That’s where my comment came from earlier.

I’d love to take even more intimate photos— of people in the throes of passion. ”

“Huh, that’s interesting, because there was a point earlier when I wanted to capture you in an image,” Pixie tells her. Saff’s delight lights up her face.

“Really? When?”

“When we were right in the middle of it all. Your head was thrown back, and you looked divine, all coiled and ready to let go. It would have made an amazing picture. Perhaps you should try shooting yourself, with a remote control or a timer?”

“That’s an amazing idea. Dammit, I wish I had the equipment with me today. We could have done it when we head back.”

Our conversation slows when the waiter brings out steaming dishes of pasta for us all.

I’m happy to see both women eating big bowls of food.

Pixie’s dizzy spell earlier worried me. I’d been frustrated at myself and Saff for not checking she was adequately prepared for our session.

But these things happen, I guess. And she’s digging in now.

I make a start on my linguine dish, breathing in the aroma of basil as I chew the morsels of chicken threaded through it.

“What do you do?” Pixie asks. I lift a brow. I respect her privacy, but it’s interesting that she wants to know more about us. She notices my pause. “Sorry, that was nosy. You don’t have to reply.”

“He works too bloody hard,” Saff interjects with a huff. I cast her a side eye. Not the time, Saff.

“It’s okay. It’s just a complicated answer.

” I tell Pixie. “I’m actually between projects at the moment.

My last one finished up a while back, and I’m taking a break before I do something else.

Might be time for a change of scenery.” I blow out a breath.

That wasn’t too hard, was it? I don’t have to go into the details of how life has thrown me plenty of curveballs lately, and I’ve been feeling like I’ve lost my way.

That a failed work project I’d poured my heart and soul into and losing Gran has me questioning everything.

And just like that, the swell of grief rises from my gut, threatening to drown me.

It moves swiftly to my chest, clawing at my heart.

I take a gulp of the water I’d thankfully stuck with for the meal.

Both ladies had chosen non-alcoholic drinks, so I decided to join them.

I’ve noticed lately that it’s all too easy to have a couple of drinks to loosen up and forget.

And that’s not a path I want to continue down.

Saff reaches across and grips my hand, giving me a sad smile. There’s nothing she can say that will make it any better. But I appreciate the gesture of support and her attempt today to have some fun, something other than me wallowing in a pit of grief and uncertainty.

“This is delicious.” I look across to see Pixie closing her eyes as she savours her ragu, which is smothered with parmesan cheese.

She’s exquisite. I hope she’ll agree to another round after dinner so I get to see the pleasure on her face this time and not just taste it on my tongue.

Her eyes open, and she looks straight at me with an encouraging smile.

Grateful for her change in subject, I try to keep the conversation flowing.

“So you do this kinda thing often?” Perhaps if I keep the questions hook-up related, she’ll open up.

“Fairly often,” she replies after chewing and swallowing her mouthful of pasta.

“I consider myself polyamorous. I don’t do the dating or the monogamy thing–I don’t see the point in it, but I enjoy sex.

Sometimes I use the hook-up app and do the unicorn thing, other times I go to play parties.

” I want to prod at the monogamy statement, but my gut tells me she will clam up.

Saff perks up at the mention of play parties.

“There’s some good parties up this way. That’s how Cam and I started playing. I wanted someone to go along with me, and he offered to come.”

“So you guys really aren’t together?” Pixie’s gaze flits between us. “You seem so in sync.”

“Just occasional fuck buddies. We’re friends more than anything else.” Saff flashes a smile at me.

“What are your preferences for play partners? If you don’t mind me asking.

I know there were some listed in the app, but I think sometimes people get happy with the options and tick bloody everything.

” Pixie’s silver-green eyes are full of curiosity.

They’re so expressive, and I want to drown in them.

Saff answers first, “I’m good with he’s, she’s, and they’s. It’s more about the vibes for me than how someone identifies.” Pixie nods her agreement before she turns her attention to me.

I take a sip of my water as I contemplate my answer.

“I’m bisexual and have experience with men and women, but I’m open to other possibilities.

” Her soft smile is like a reward. I could happily sit here all night and get to know her better.

“So, you head back down south tomorrow? What brought you up here?” I ask Pixie.

“I came with a friend. Her brother, he’s my friend too, just moved up here for six months. I’ve always wanted to visit, so I offered to travel up with her.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Tonight’s our third night. I would have loved to have spent longer or gone further up north. I’d love to visit the Highlands and especially Skye.”

“Cam’s from up that way,” Saff interjects. “He could give you a special tour.” She nudges me with her elbow. Always meddling, that one. She’s noticed I’m rather taken with this pixie.

“Bit late now, unfortunately. But if you’re ever going to be up this way again, perhaps you can reach out and we can arrange something?”

“That would be good. I can contact you via Saffy on the app?” she checks.

“I’ll give you my number. No pressure. I don’t need yours back,” I tell her. She glances downwards as she mulls it over.

“All right then, thank you,” she says with a hesitant nod.

A week later, I can’t help my eager anticipation when the vibrating buzz of my phone makes itself known in my pocket. Could this be her?

After our Italian meal, we headed back to my place and had another incredible round of debauchery. Pixie and Saff certainly made it a night to remember.

I’d been frustrated when she’d climbed from the cuddle pile not long after we’d all got our breath back, and started to dress. Saff tried to coax her to stay, but I could tell from the glint in her eye that she’d stubbornly decided that was that, and it was time to go.

I’d recited my number and watched as she typed it into her phone, just before she snuck out the door.

My disappointment increased when she refused a lift to her hotel.

I’d been so tempted to follow at a safe distance to check she was safe, but it felt like a step too far when she was already so cagey about her real identity.

I’d found myself skimming the local news for the next couple of days, checking for reports of a missing tourist or any attacks. Despite not finding any, unease still floats in my gut each day that I don’t hear from her.

I give myself an extra moment of hope before easing the phone out from the pocket of my jeans.

A glance at the screen squashes that dream when it shows the name of my grandmother’s lawyer on the caller ID.

I’ve had plenty to keep me busy, trying to sort out the estate.

And in doing so, at least I feel helpful, taking some of the workload off my parents.

“Cameron Macleod.” My greeting is brusque because I’d much rather be talking to a certain lilac haired pixie.

“Mr Macleod, I’ve found something in the paperwork you supplied. I think you need to see this.”

“What is it?” I ask, not wanting to trek across town to the stuffy solicitor's office if I don’t have to.

“I’ve found some deeds to a building.”

“Where? In Glasgow? Or on Skye?”

“No…” there’s a pause, “that’s what’s a little unusual. The building is in a suburb in London. But there’s a personal letter with the paperwork. I would rather not read it over the phone. It contains some… delicacy that would be better read in person.”

Well, colour me intrigued . The solicitor almost sounds embarrassed by this letter. I need to know what it says.

“I can make it this afternoon. What time would suit?”

“I have space at 2 pm, Mr Macleod. Why don’t you come in just before that and read the letter, and we can discuss it after?”

“See you then.”

Gran, what on earth have you been up to that’s got this guy all flustered?

The receptionist leads me to a small meeting room with two small armchairs and a round coffee table.

The bookshelves that fill one wall are full of volumes of official-looking books.

I poke my fingers through the slats in the blinds, trying to get my bearings, ignoring the manila folder on the coffee table, which, according to the receptionist, contains the mystery letter, for just a moment longer.

No wonder they keep the blinds closed. All I can see is tall brick buildings and office windows.

I turn to the table and stare at the folder. After my earlier chat with the solicitor, I’d been curious enough. But as the last couple of hours passed, I got more antsy about the whole thing.

I can’t help but wonder how I didn’t spot a personal letter amongst the paperwork when I’d sorted it out for the lawyers to do the official work of the estate.

Would I have opened it if I had? I don’t even know if it’s addressed to anyone.

The sensible thing right now would be to plonk myself down in that chair, pick up the folder, and open it.

But something holds me back. I pull out my phone to check the time, hopeful a call comes in right at this moment or there’s a text that needs answering.

Pixie, now would be a great time to reach out.

I blow out a sigh, exasperated that I’m putting this off. I’ve only got ten minutes until I’m meeting with Mr Richards. I need to get this letter read and work out what the fuck is going on.

I pick up the folder, lowering myself into the armchair facing the door, and spread it open on my knees. On the top is a compliments slip with a handwritten scrawl:

Mr Macleod,

As discussed, please read the contents of this folder, including the letter. I’ve put it all back together as it was found.

Regards, Simon Richards.

The first sheet is yellowed with age. I run my thumb over the imprinted words from a typewriter. It’s titled: DEED OF SALE and is dated well before I was born.

I study the document, taking in the details. The address listed holds no significance to me. I’ve never heard of this building. There’s a rusty, golden staple on one corner holding the pages together. As I lift the top sheet, I spot the envelope.

It’s hand addressed to ‘Elizabeth’.

My hand trembles as I reach for it. I always knew my grandmother as Beth, but someone used the full version here, although they weren’t formal enough to use her full name with title and surname.

The envelope is a cream colour and sturdy. It’s stood the test of time, although the gum has gone orange and flaked off in places. I ease out the sheet of writing paper and unfold it, grateful it’s written in a readable hand.

My dearest Elizabeth,

I’m sorry, my love. I have brought so much trouble to your door. It was not my intention. I hope you can find it in your gracious heart to forgive me. If only, so that it brings you peace.

I know you said you want to brazen it out and stay close to family and friends, but I want to give you an option in case you feel the need to flee.

These deeds are for a building in my hometown. I have signed them over to you. To make it official, you had to have paid me something. I hope you won’t find me too sentimental to have listed the sale price as the same amount of money you gave me for my train ticket back to London.

Your signature has been added by proxy - should you need to contact them, it’s the wife of my solicitor, who is a romantic and wanted to expedite this official paperwork for you.

It’s there if you need it. It’s tenanted and managed by the solicitor listed on the deeds.

I have nothing to do with it anymore. I signed the management rights over to him the same day I transferred ownership to you.

You’ll need to contact them with your bank details for any profits from the rentals, but there shouldn’t be any expenses for you to incur, as there’s a trust in place to cover that.

Sell it, live in it, rent it out. Whatever you need to do. It’s yours. A gift for the time we spent together. It meant the world to me. I only wish we could have made something from the passion we shared. But we come from such different worlds, it wasn’t to be.

Please know you will always hold a place in my heart,

Faithfully yours,

William x

I stare at the handwritten note in astonishment.

None of it makes any sense. I knew nothing about this building before today.

My grandmother came from a wealthy family, but I didn’t know they owned property outside of Scotland.

My eyes scan over the next page, showing the very low sale price, and it’s signed and witnessed at the bottom.

Who is this William guy? Why have I never heard of him? And why did he gift my Gran a building?