Trust (London Love #5)

“Well…he’s got money. Looks. A very profitable occupation.” My dad was joking, and it was kind of funny.

“Yeah, and predictably enough, I’m on minimum wage carrying bags for a living, problem solving rich people’s First World problems. I don’t see a glittering future.”

“Noted.” Dad smiled and got up. “Just protect that heart, yeah?”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s any heartbreak forthcoming here.” I threw back the covers, revealing my hairy legs, my big knobbly toes. I was no oil painting. No woman had ever fainted at the sight of me wriggling my hips. I told my dad that too, and he shook his head.

“Son. It’s not all about you.”

“That’s what I keep saying to him. He’s a spoilt dick. His world revolves around being The Great Dieter. He’s actually just a dude with issues. And it’s not all about him.”

“Good advice.” My dad was always smart. Smart enough not to argue about things, unless he was right, in which case, he would argue to the death. Gah. “I wasn’t talking about your heart, though. I may carry bags for a living too, kid, but I’m a wise, old man. You know? Silver in my beard. Cash in my pocket. Keys to my own flat. All that crap.”

“Wise words, Dad,” I muttered sarcastically.

“Maybe not, but these ones are.” He reached over and tipped my chin. “You might not be that way inclined, and that’s really not important here. We never truly have a say in who we fall in love with. Your heart chooses for you. But that boy has a thing for you, and it’s not you who’ll be crushed. It’s him. And I told him he was always welcome here, so you’re going to figure out how to let him down gently. Turn this into something that won’t end with him crying on your shoulder.”

“Oh, Dad. Fuck off.”

He did, with a wink and a small smile as he closed the door. Sometimes I hated my dad. Sometimes I was so bloody grateful for his gentle wisdom. Not that I believed a word of it because he was obviously bat-shit crazy.

I still rode with him to work and turned up on the desk in a clean shirt and pressed tie, my shoes polished to death. I took pride in my uniform at least, and my dad nodded approvingly as he went outside to tally up the taxis on the taxi stand and chat to the drivers, get his shift under control. My dad had everything under control.

“Reubs!”

I grinned at Amy skipping across from reception, a cheeky smile on her face. Amy. Receptionist extraordinaire. Also gossip queen, drama queen and all-round shit stirrer.

“I heard we had The Dieter here again. Eddie checked him in, apparently, but he said you did all the talking. What the fuck? Keep on your side of the desk, babes. But anyway, give me the lowdown. I mean, who was there with him? I read he’s dating that hot dancer who went on that what’s it called…Married at First Sight or something.”

“No,” I said, a little stumped by her outburst. I should have expected it because we all kept tabs. Everyone knew when we had celebs staying, and we gossiped like the best. Now I’d have to give her something or people would talk, and I wasn’t going to be anyone’s gossip fodder. “Nothing to tell. Seriously, Ames, he’s dull as anything. Asked for a takeaway and pissed off. Can’t help you there.”

“Housekeeping said it was like he hadn’t even been there. Bed wasn’t slept in and hardly any rubbish. Suspicious if you ask me.”

“No. Just someone who needed a place to crash. We’re a hotel, remember?”

She rolled her eyes at me, obviously disappointed by my lack of tea. I had nothing to spill. He’d appeared, we’d talked, shared a greasy meal and then he’d panicked and stayed the night with me and…and then what? Nothing. It was almost like remembering some kind of messed-up trip, except I wasn’t tripping. No drugs required.

“You okay, Son?” my dad asked, as I was still standing by the desk, deep in thought. A line of cars were unloading out front and my dad was shoving along a fully stacked trolley. He must’ve been wondering if I’d lost my marbles. I had.

No, I hadn’t. I was fine, absolutely fine.

***

“I’m absolutely fine,” I repeated to Dad almost three weeks later as he headed home for the evening, leaving me to the deal with the late shift from hell.

We hadn’t seen The big fabulous Great Dieter since. Gray. G. Whatever. He’d become a distant figment of my stupid imagination. A nice warm memory that kept me awake at night as I snuggled into Mr Snuggles and allowed my exhausted limbs to rest. The thoughts of him made me smile. And the days just passed in a blur.

Work was ridiculously busy. Several Far-Eastern tour groups with way too many huge, colourful cases and lists of requirements a mile long. Big conferences and excited tourists. People with too much self-importance requiring their pointless demands to be carried out within seconds. We had a classic car convention. At an inner-city hotel. Yes, even my dad had had a small meltdown when someone’s prized possession, which was double parked outside the entrance, endured a collision with a cyclist that had everyone in tears. Not least the poor cyclist who had been bleeding out on our red carpet. Had I not been on my lunch break, I would no doubt have been crying too.

I wasn’t crying, though. My one-night stand of friendship—I was laughing even thinking it—was in the past, one of those things I would tell my grandchildren about one day, a stupid anecdote to make everyone laugh over Grandad’s poor memory and delusions about having spent the night with a famous pop star.

I wasn’t heartbroken. I was just…a little pissed off. He could have texted, said thanks for letting me stay or something polite and cheery like that. Instead? Silence.

He’d have an excuse, I knew he would, should I ever lay eyes on him again. He might not even remember me. I snorted to myself stomping down the road, because it was almost one in the morning. I’d had to stay late dealing with a bar fight and the police and God knows what, and I once again had to park my car miles away.

Three weeks of nothing.

Not that I was counting the days. I wasn’t. Honestly.