That One Moment (Lost in London #2)(71)

This makes me nervous. Diving into family details so quickly wasn’t expected. I thought they’d start talking football to be honest.

Hayden swallows but keeps his tone light. “My family is great. My parents and youngest sister live in Essex. I live with my brother not far from here. And I had an older sister who passed away four years ago.”

My brothers all look at him in stony silence.

“Fuck,” Camden says first, his face paling slightly as he looks at me with a renewed sense of appreciation.

Gareth’s moody expression turns cold and bleak. Tortured. I lean forward when his eyes start to look glossy, but Booker’s comment distracts me.

“Is that why you don’t drink?” Booker’s prying voice is challenging and cocky, clearly not worrying over any ounce of decorum.

Hayden cuts his eyes to Booker and I see Booker actually shrink in his seat. “Partially. It’s complicated,” Hayden replies, sipping his water. “So what about you lot? Can I ask you questions, or am I the only one under fire here?”

Tanner laughs and they eagerly start discussing football. This feels better. Talk of emotions at a table full of British lads is never top on anyone’s list of hot things to do in London. Gareth remains eerily silent the entire time, though, staring at his glass with morbid intent.

“Wanker,” I hear Booker mumble as Hayden answers Camden’s question about who his favourite footballer is.

“Booker, a word,” I hiss, knowing I can’t take another second of his pouty teenager act. I pop out of the booth, motioning with my head like a maniac. “Can I trust you guys not to be arses while I’m gone?”

“Probably not,” Camden replies, taking a swig. “But it’s worth a shot.”

I roll my eyes and Booker follows me to the loo hallway. I stop and turn a murderous gaze on him. “What the hell, Booker?” I seethe, barely able to contain my temper.

“What?” he barks back defensively.

“What are you trying to do? Win the award for the biggest arse of a brother tonight? Christ! I expect it from them, but not you. You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“He’s not good enough, Vi,” he snaps back, shoving a hand through his short brown hair.

“You’ve barely spoken to him!”

“I don’t have to. I can tell. He doesn’t drink…at all,” he growls. “What is he? A recovering alcoholic? Boy, you really picked a winner.”

I shove him hard and catch him off guard enough that he stumbles back into the wall. “You listen here, baby brother. I’m still your big sister. I practically raised you. If I tell you someone’s important, they’re bloody important. End of.”

“Everything okay?” Hayden asks, coming around the corner. He narrows his eyes knowingly.

I cut one more withering glance at Booker. “Everything’s fine.”

“Okay, well a pack of fans have descended and Gareth told me you’d know what to do?” Hayden looks at me and shrugs his shoulders.

I nod and sigh. Welly’s is supposed to be sacred. The pub owner loves the guys and keeps a lid on the fact that they stop in regularly. Most pubs broadcast it for business, but I suppose it was bound to happen eventually.

“All right, just maybe hang back here with Booker. It’ll be easier for us to get out that way.” I throw a warning look at Booker and he nods subtly knowing that Hayden is not to be messed with right now.

I pull off my denim jacket and toss it haphazardly at Booker. Hayden eyes me in confusion as I crack my neck and put on my own game face. I stroll over to our booth and blanch at the larger than expected crowd swarming the table. There’s at least six middle-aged blokes decked out in football fan gear and everything. Super fans to be sure. Two have slid into the vacated side where Hayden and I were seated. Gareth seems to be blocking anyone from sitting down next to him.

I clear my throat loudly as I approach and poke one gentleman on the shoulder. “Oi! Pardon me, but I need to talk to that bloke right f*cking there.” I hitch up my accent to sound thicker and more Manchester by dropping off the ends of most of my words.

The heavier-set of the bunch turns on me with his nose wrinkled. He reeks of alcohol and fish n’ chips. “Get stuffed.” He turns back to the table like I don’t even exist.

I could be offended by his cheek. However, I’m a Harris, so I’m not so easily derailed. I tap the man next to him. This guy has to be pushing fifty and idolizing Gareth like he’s f*cking royalty. “That f*cking footballer has loads of explaining to do, so I f*cking need to get in there. Get out of me way!” I exclaim, ramping up my performance to be a bit more wild and dramatic.

Several of the guys turn and look at me now, clearing a path for me to slide through. Gareth’s eyes land on me with a silent cheer of appreciation. Then he realises he’s on, so he’s got to react. “Freya! What on earth are you doing here?”

“Don’t you Freya me. Your arse is coming with me, mate. You haven’t rang me in weeks!” I crow out in my best jilted female voice. “And bring those worthless brothers of yours. All of yous is about to get it good from me and me flat mates.”

“Oi, shove off ya bird,” one bloke croaks from a few bodies away.

I frown and motion for Gareth to come along. He attempts to slide out, but the older man steps in front of him. “You don’t have to shove off just ‘cause of this f*cking jersey chasing slag!”