Freddie pulled a face. “We’re mostly just friends, Bex.”
I cocked a skeptical brow.
“Not everything is about getting my kit off,” he insisted. “Only about sixty percent. Perhaps seventy.”
I chucked another paper ball at him.
“Fine. She’s been a very nice friend and I’m glad she’s back,” he said, swatting away my missile. “I like Lacey. I also like Tara and Naomi and Farthing—”
“I thought Farthing moved to Ireland.”
“That was Tuppence. Farthing is someone different entirely,” he said impatiently. “Do try and keep up.”
“Usain Bolt couldn’t keep up.”
“We’re consenting adults,” he said. “You can’t dangle that twin of yours in front of me and not expect me to jump.”
The conference room door burst open and Lacey sailed inside.
“Twice as many paparazzi today,” she said by way of greeting. “And three of them totally whistled at my oh my God, Bex. I hate that shirt. Is it polyester?”
“My loving sister, ladies and gentlemen,” I said.
“No gentlemen in here,” Freddie said, getting up to give Lacey a peck on the cheek.
“What are you doing here?” she asked delightedly, putting a hand on his arm and then rubbing it slightly. In her defense, once you touch Freddie’s bicep, it’s hard not to linger. “Are we still on for tonight?”
“Of course,” Freddie said. “I never offer a lady something I don’t deliver.”
Lacey giggled, then came over to me and stared very intently at a spot on my neck.
“It does look like a hickey,” she announced. “About an hour ago someone tweeted that they saw you in the elevator with one.”
“I had wondered,” Freddie said. “Doesn’t seem like Knickers’ style, though. I’ve always been afraid he was one of those rose-petals-on-the-bed sort of blokes.”
I clapped a hand over it. “It’s a curling iron burn!” I protested.
“I believe you. I know what you’re like with that thing,” Lacey said. “But no one else will think you were actually using a curling iron when they get a look at your hair today.”
“Ugh. They’re going to want a picture of my neck,” I said. “Any chance you can distract them, Fred?”
He shook his head, guiltily. “I might have blown off Prince Dick and pretended it was for a Navy thing, so…?”
I let out a sigh. “I’ll take the bullet,” I said, pulling my hair out of my ponytail to cover my burn.
“No. It’s all stringy. Put it back up,” Lacey ordered me. “We can stop in the bathroom and use real concealer on the fake hickey.” She sighed. “Too bad we can’t conceal your shirt. I thought I told you to run all new purchases past me.”
Freddie clapped his hands together. “Right, you two do your thing, and let’s see who gets to the flat faster,” he said. “Remember, when all else fails, just chuck it and run.”
He saluted and was off, exiting the conference room with a very loud, “The Crown thanks you for your service, Miss Porter. Barnes will be giddy with girlish glee.”
Lacey shook her head. “What a goofball,” she said affectionately.
“A goofball and a man-whore,” I said. “Which I say with love. For both of you.”
Lacey looped her arm around my shoulder. “Don’t worry, I know what he’s like,” she said.
This made me feel better, until she followed it with, “I’m playing it cool, and it’s working. If you haven’t noticed, I’m the girl he keeps wanting to spend time with.” She sighed happily. “I have this weird feeling we’re both going to get our Prince Charmings.”
* * *
Lacey had been right: As soon as we exited the building, a sprawling group of at least twelve photographers, rather than my usual six, sprang to life with a new nosy aggression.
“Where’s the love bite, Bexy? We know you’ve got one!”
“Come on, girls, over ’ere, look ’ere.”
“Got a hickey from Nicky, eh?”
“Give us a smile—yes, Lacey, that’s right, I saw that, you love it.”
I nudged Lacey. “Head down,” I hissed.
“That’s not my best angle,” was her reply.
The photographers gave chase in an agitated cluster. Lacey and I picked up the pace to try to get away, but half the pack broke off and darted ahead to get in front of us, their frenetic flashes bursting in our faces. With every step, they encircled us tighter and tighter, like hands crumpling a piece of paper. They bumped and buffeted us, swiping at our bags, almost plowed us into traffic, and at least twice I felt hands roughly grab me. Even Lacey—who’d never felt like she was born for the spotlight so much as spotlights were born for her—looked unnerved.