Say Hello, Kiss Goodbye - Jacquelyn Middleton Page 0,103
toile-inspired wallpaper—”
“Oh, man, you saw it, right?” Nick’s smile beamed beneath his Tom Ford aviators. “It’s got Brooklyn Bridge, hot dogs, and Notorious B.I.G. in the design!”
Tarquin plowed his hand into the pocket of his shorts, silently cursing into the midday sun. Why did I let him talk me into coming here? I agree, this hotel is smashing, but I’d much rather have this go-see on my own without know-it-all here pissing himself about every… single… detail. I should’ve stayed at my hotel, chilling out with Harry before his club opening tonight.
“It’s the Where’s Waldo of wallpaper! And a Beastie Boy designed it—”
Oh, for fuck’s sake! “Nick, enough! You’re doing my head in! How about you leave building development and renos to me, okay? I don’t tell you how to make reality shows or whatever the hell it is you do all day.”
Nick raised his shades and gave Tarquin a searing dose of side-eye. “Someone skipped coffee this morning! Christ, what’s eating you?!” He lowered his sunglasses and dragged several corn chips through a bowl of guacamole. “Oh!” With a mischievous nod, Nick pointed at his brother. “I get it.”
Tarquin curled his lip, watching Nick crunch his way through whatever ridiculous revelation he’d concocted.
“Sexual frustration, thy name is Tarquin! Aw, baby brother’s missing Cressida.”
Tarquin toyed with the damp edge of their bar bill. “At least I’m not plastered all over The Mail in a sordid three-way kiss-and-tell.”
Nick’s face soured. “That’s old news. Banff happened months ago.”
“But it’s like herpes, mate—it’s the horrible gift that keeps on giving!” Tarquin reveled in his brother’s public embarrassment. “Talk about making Mum proud, eh! What was last week’s headline again? Lairds Stunner Bree Nicked With Stripper—”
“Stop being a tit!” Nick muttered into his Aperol Spritz. “How was I to know the woman Bree brought to her room would sell her story?”
“You could’ve prevented it.”
“And let her blackmail me? No, better to call her bluff.”
“And lose big! You always were a rubbish gambler.” Tarquin laughed, his cheeks pink from the heat.
“Bree still won’t take my calls.” Nick raked his hand through his dark waves. “She shouldn’t be pissed at me! It’s all that hack’s fault, paying over the odds for the ridiculous sex tape. It’s not like we did anything kinky, for fuck’s sake. Three-ways are ten-a-penny these days.”
“But Lairds and Liars is a hit worldwide, and Bree’s a household name in Britain.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not. My acting career tanked when my balls dropped.”
“Ahh, but you’re not just any child star, Nico. You’re the son of British telly’s comeback queen. If I were you, I’d be more careful. If they’ve sniffed out one salacious story, they’ll dig for more—guaranteed.” Tarquin chuckled and sipped his beer. “Come to think of it, I should be thanking you.”
Nick narrowed his eyes. “Because…?”
“You’ve usurped me as the Balfour family fuck-up! My past indiscretions pale in comparison to you landing on the front page of every red top in Britain. Now, I can go to Poppy’s baptism in November and watch you take all the flak for a change.”
“Hey, don’t throw a parade just yet. Knowing Mum, she’ll probably forget by then.” Nick stared at the mint leaf discarded on his cocktail napkin. “And I hope she’s not the only one. If this mess costs me the senior VP position, there’ll be hell to pay.” He drained his drink and slammed it on the bar, sending melting ice cubes swirling around the bottom of the sweaty glass.
“You think it might?”
“Who knows. I keep getting funny looks in the halls, mostly from junior staff snickering behind my back.” Nick pushed his sunglasses up his nose. “From now on, I’m only getting involved with women who’ve been properly vetted. Like Cressida was for you.”
Tarquin raised an eyebrow. “It’ll cost ya.”
“What was the fee? Ten thousand quid? Won’t even miss it.” Nick slapped him on the back. “Right. I’ll have a wee and then we can head out.” With a nod, the elder Balfour strolled off, checking his phone while he weaved through the maze of poolside daybeds crowded with sun-worshipping hipsters.
Tarquin downed his beer and dove into his phone. 1:47 P.M. already? He yawned. I should’ve flown in last night instead of this morning. Can’t believe I fell asleep in the shower. I’m so knackered. Blinking through his jetlagged daze, he scrolled through the day’s texts, the only unread message from cat-sitter Freddie: a photo of Mrs. Chuzzlewit sitting on a frowning Simon. At least Chuzza looks happy. Damn, I really should’ve