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“Like, what the fuck was I doin’ till now?” I shrug it off. “Who the fuck was I singin’ about?”

And she looks lost for a second, caught in the same windstorm I guess I’m in, but then—fuck—gets a handle on herself, doesn’t she? Takes my hands off her face—which makes me heart fucking ache in my chest as she does it—like, what the fuck is that—? What’s happening to me right now?

Ysolde straightens up.

“Yes, Joah.” She gives me a look. “Who were you singing about?”

“I—” Oops. I chuckle. “—Fuck, I dunno. They don’t matter anymore, though.”

Rolls those eyes of hers again, like she’s going for some kind of record here. Or maybe I’m just exasperating.

“You’re incredibly full of shit,” she tells me. “Do you ever give a real answer to anything?”

I sigh, then shrug again. “My ex. And my brother’s—fuck, I don’t know what they are—? Sometimes girlfriend, sometimes not-girlfriend, always a fuckin’ pain in my arse…”

She nods, thinking. “Who was your ex?”

“Just a bird from back home.” I shake my head, like it don’t matter. “You won’t know her.”

“What’s her name?”

“Pippa,” I tell her. “Sparrow,” I add, dunno why. That’s her name, innit.

Ysolde’s face twitches, like she’s tryin’ to figure it out. “She sounds pretty.”

“Yeah. She is. Nowt on you, though…” I throw it out there, hopin’ it lands right.

She’s not havin’ it, though. “Hardly a fair comparison…”

I snort a laugh. “What, with you being a supermodel and shit?”

“ And shit , yes.” That has her givin’ me this fed-up smile, but ain’t really fed up with me. I can tell. “Why did you two break up?”

“Because I’m a piece of shit,” I tell her, dead serious.

“Oh.” She stares straight at me, flat as owt. “ Brilliant .”

“Or—fuck!—I was,” I clarify. “ Before . Till I met you. And now I’m—”

I stop talking there because to finish that sentence would make me a proper fuckin’ melt, but she goes and says it anyway, in a voice like she thinks I’m being stupid.

“ —a new man ?”

I don’t say nothin’ back, just nod. Yeah. Fuck yeah, I’m a new man. There was me before Ysolde Featherstonhaugh, and then there’s me now, after.

She laughs, shakes her head like I’m a bloody idiot—which, yeah, fair play, I am. But no one knows that, except my brother. And her, apparently.

“Oi, can I take you home?”

She pulls a face. “That feels as though you’re inviting yourself over to my home?”

“I am.” I nod.

“Why aren’t you inviting me to your home?”

That makes me chuckle, but it’s fucking sharp, yeah? Makes me think for a second.

See, I bring girls back to mine all the time, no problem.

Don’t even think about it. But with her?

Now I suddenly don’t wanna do that. Don’t even know why…

Don’t want her to be just another girl, I s’pose.

Don’t think she is one. And if I bring her back to mine, maybe she will be or she could be, and no—can’t be having the likes of that.

Folds them arms of hers. “Wife and kids?”

“No, just don’t reckon my sheets would be up to your thread-count standard…”

“Oh!” Her cheeks go all pink. “We’re getting into bed now, are we?”

I tilt my head, proper smirk on my face. “Ain’t we?”

“You’re very cocky.”

“Aye,” I admit, no shame. “For good reason.”

“Well, maybe I don’t want you in my fancy sheets…”

“Right, first”—I throw her a look, like she’s mad if she thinks otherwise—“you do. But second, that’s sound. We can—I dunno—do it on a fuckin’ table or summat… I’m easy.”

She laughs. Proper laughs. Best sound I heard since that first time me mum showed me “Here Comes the Sun,” which is funny now that I think of it.

I reckon—somehow—them boys wrote that one about her.

Feel like science might one day prove it that she, in fact, is the proper fuckin’ sun.

Shove me hands through my hair because my brain is stressin’ me out.

I don’t fuckin’ think about girls like this.

I ain’t a poetic lad—don’t breathe a fucking word to anyone, but me brother writes most of the songs, and like, happy days, good for him, he can’t sing for shit.

Not compared to me anyway. We all need summat to get up in the morning for.

I’m not out here thinkin’ about girls how I keep fuckin’ accidentally thinkin’ about her, know what I mean?

She’s beamin’ away at me though—it pulls me out of me head for a sec.

“How very big of you,” she says, all cheeky.

“Well.” I grin right back at her. “I am very big.”

She blinks twice, her eyes flicker down—like, down , you get me?—just for a second—bit cheeky—then they meet mine again, and fuck, her eyes hit like a punch to the gut.

“We shall see,” she says, her eyes all sparky.

Feels like there’s electricity in my blood, like a fuckin’ engine roarin’ in me stomach, and I want her—fuck, I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anyone, ever.

And then I’m fucking kissing the daylights out of her, right? Because how the fuck could I not?

Girls’ mouths are always soft but her lips are pillows, and I don’t know how many girls I’ve kissed at this point of my life—arguably, some might say too many—doesn’t matter anyway, because fucking none of them hold a candle to this.

I don’t believe in fate; I don’t believe in all that shit about “the one”—or I didn’t.

Might do now. Now that I’ve kissed her and it’s like, what the fuck was I doing kissing other people before?

Waste of my fucking time, wasn’t it? Didn’t know bodies could slot together like hers does as I’m holding her against me now.

It’s about a ten-minute walk from 5 Hertford Street to Claridge’s but walkin’ would mean I’d have to stop kissing her, so fuckin’ fuck that. Just pull her downstairs towards a cab—and if you can believe it, that security lad of hers, he grabs me—fuckin’ grabs me arm, he does.

I fling him off me without a thought and give him a proper shove. “Fuckin’ touch me again, lad, let’s see what happens.”

She shakes her head at me quickly like, puts a hand on me chest to calm me down—like that. “He’s just doing his job,” she says. “It’s his job to keep me safe.”

“She’s fine, mate. In good hands.” I pull her into the taxi, and that fucker’s face? Looks proper worried, and it’s startin’ to wind me up like.

What’s the fuckin’ problem, you know what I mean? Either he cares too much about his job or he’s bollocksed in love with her. Neither’s grand, but one of ’em’s proper pissin’ me off right now.

“I’m okay,” she says to him, voice mostly steady, but then she turns and looks at me. “Right?”

It’s a genuine question, that, and it fucks with me a bit. This girl’s askin’ if she’s gonna be alright with me. Like, she’s not sure if I’m gonna fuck it all up, and for a split second, I start thinkin’ maybe she’s got a point.

I nod once, feelin’ this weird responsibility that wasn’t there three seconds ago. Don’t know if I’m ready for it or even want it, but fuck it. Heavy is the head, and she’s the fuckin’ crown.

“I’m right behind you,” the bodyguard tells her before he slams the cab door shut.

I sit back, arm slung round her like I own the fuckin’ place.

“He’s a bit intense.”

She gives me some Mona Lisa–PR smile, doesn’t say a word. Can’t tell if she’s happy or sad, but there’s somethin’ there, innit? Something she’s not sayin’.

Mood shifts after that, not for the better. It’s only a three-minute drive to her hotel, but she’s holdin’ my hand the whole way, playin’ with it like it’s nothin’. Kinda like it, but.

She says hi to the doorman and the bellhop like she’s fuckin’ Eloise, all casual and confident.

We take the lift up to the seventh floor, follow her down the hall—still hand in hand—towards some fuckin’ big, posh door.

She swings it open and chucks her bag on a chair.

I glance ’round. “Being a model pays well, huh?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” She leans back against a table. “We don’t get out of bed for less than ten thousand pounds.”

“Ten thousand quid to stand there and look pretty—? Fuck off.” Like, come off it… That’s fucking annoying.

She stares at me unapologetic. “Ten thousand pounds to stand there and look pretty and convince you in a singular frame that whatever I’m touching or wearing or representing is something you must possess at all costs.”

And fair play to her, I don’t know what the fuck she’s peddlin’ right now but, yeah, I’d take ten of ’em, so I guess she’s worth every penny.

Fuck, she’s fit. I go to say somethin’, but then there’s a bang at the door.

I glower over at it, and she rolls her eyes.

“It’s just Kekoa. I’ll only be a second.”

And I watch her the whole way. How she moves across the room, how she slides the brass door chain unlocked, how she opens the door. All proper mundane shit, but I can’t take my eyes off her.

“Everything all good in here?” I hear that fucking bodyguard say.

“I’m fine,” she says, all calm.

“You sure?” the nosy prick asks.

She lowers her voice, like I ain’t supposed to hear. “I think he’s quite sweet.”

That proper throws me. Fuckin’ shits me, even. Sweet? I ain’t sweet. What the fuck is she on about?

And to his credit, the bodyguard backs up me point. “He isn’t. But I’m down the hall. Panic button if you need me.”

Panic button—? What the fuck?

“Good night—” she calls to him before she slams the door shut and walks back towards me, all ginger like, like I’m gonna bite her or somethin’.

“What’s his deal?”

“No deal,” she says all cool.

I give her a look like I ain’t buyin’ it, which I’m fucking not, by the way—I’m no muppet. But she just gives me that same look back, only this time it’s a bit more stubborn, more defiant.

I breathe out, fuckin’ annoyed. “You still wanna do this?”

It’s starting to feel complicated, and thank fuck it is, cos I ain’t lovin’ these fuckin’ butterflies, and honestly? Probably be a bit relieved if she said she don’t wanna do it no more.

“Yes.” She nods. “I’m just a tiny bit in my head now.”

“Yeah—” I jerk my head towards the door. “Your mate’s a right fucking mood killer.”

She goes stiff at that. “I’ll be sure to tell him.”