Rich Boys Club

Chapter 5

Chris comes over in the evening. He's freshly showered, smelling of mint shampoo, and he's wearing a grey jumper that makes his blue eyes look bright. Emma lets him into the flat since my hands are filled with raw chicken, and I tilt my face up, accepting a kiss. His damp blond hair tickles my cheek. Behind us, Emma makes a retching noise.

"Do you mind?" She frowns. "This is a public space."

Chris smiles. It's the sort of smile that I love — the conspiratorial one, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar — and my stomach flips over. Even now, a year later, I can't believe how lucky I am.

A large part of me suspects that Chris is only with me because I cook a damn good lemon chicken, but you know what? I'll take it.

"I missed you." He kisses me again. "And your cooking."

"Whoa," Emma says, holding up a hand. "Slow down, Casanova." She grabs a packet of crisps off of the counter, shielding her eyes as she backs out of the kitchen. "Okay. Safe to resume, now."

I put Chris to work chopping onions to keep him from distracting me, but he still kisses my neck each time that he passes by. By the time that we're eating, my whole body feels like a live wire. Chris, on the other hand, is totally consumed by food. It's only been a week, but I forgot how much that boy can eat. He's like a cow with four stomachs.

I make a mental note to buy a second chicken just for him next time.

Or, alternatively, a sharper knife so that I can fight him for the last piece.

Chris does the washing up. I lean against the counter, listening to him recount a story about one of the other boys on the rugby team, half a watermelon, and some firecrackers. He's halfway through the story when I realize that he's saying my name.

"Sorry." I blink. "What were you saying?"

"Everything okay, babe?" Chris cups my chin with soapy hands, frowning as he examines my face. "You look tired."

"It's the presentation," I lie. "It's tomorrow."

And the fact that I inhaled half a river yesterday.

I want to tell Chris about what happened. I really, really do. But Chris is also six-foot-four and a competitive rugby player. I don't like Harry, but I'm also pretty sure Poppy would kill me if Chris throttled him to death with his bare hands.

"Let's go to bed." Chris's face softens. "I'll stay with you, if you want."

Warmth unfurls in the pit of my stomach. I press my hand to his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat through the wool of his jumper, a steady drumbeat under my palm. Being with Chris is like wearing my favorite pair of jeans: it's soft and cozy and comforting. And I never, ever want to give him up.