Lawson's first mistake had been going to a party.
His second — and potentially more disastrous — mistake had been agreeing to family brunch the next morning. And then actually going to family brunch. He'd vomited twice on the tube, once in a public bin, and now he'd vomited again.
This time, right into his mother's prize-winning pansies.
"You know," Paige said, "you could have made it to the toilets, if you'd been a little quicker. Like, thirty seconds quicker."
His sister was sitting on a stone ledge in the conservatory, her legs dangling off the edge. Sunlight filtered through the window, illuminating bits of gold in her dark plaits. Then again, Lawson thought, his older sister's hair was always neatly plaited; Paige was allergic to any form of mess.
Lawson pulled a face. "Thank-you for your sympathy."
"I'm just saying." Paige shrugged. "You should take up running."
"I hate running," Lawson said.
"Cycling?"
"Let me rephrase." Lawson lifted his head, wincing as his stomach lurched. "I hate any form of cardio."
"Untrue." Paige popped a piece of gum. "I've seen you sprint to grab the last bottle of champagne. That counts."
Lawson groaned, resting his head against the cool stone. "Please don't mention champagne right now. I'm feeling very fragile."
Paige smirked. "And whose fault is that?"
Lawson cracked one eye open. The conservatory roof was swaying slightly, a carousel of stained red glass and leaves. The smell of damp earth and oranges filtered through the room. His stomach lurched again, and he gripped the edge of the pot.
That last breakfast sausage had been a mistake.
A big mistake.
Paige hopped off the ledge. "Where's your ring?"
"What?"
Paige nodded at his hand. "Your signet ring." She drew closer. "You always wear it on your left hand. Like some sort of pretentious twat."
Lawson squinted through bleary eyes. "Oh. Shit. I must have left it with—"
He cut off. Unfortunately, the damage was done; Paige's eyes lit up. His sister knelt next to him, looking disturbingly like a cat encircling a mouse.
"With...?" Paige prompted.
He gripped the pot. "Never mind."
"It's a girl, isn't it?"
Yes. "No."
"Liar," Paige declared. "You met a girl last night. And you gave her your ring." She sprawled next to him, kicking her legs out. "What's her name?"
Harper Lane.
Lawson rubbed his eyes. Christ. All that time in the airing cupboard, he'd never even considered the fact that she might be Griffin's sister. Admittedly, he'd been... Lawson grimaced, his grip tightening on the pot. Well. Out of it.
But he'd wanted her. Drunk or not.
There was no question about that.
He could still remember Harper's explosion of brown curls, the way her mouth dimpled at the corner. The smell of orchid and dark amber had haunted his dreams. Lawson had woken up at six in the morning, dry-mouthed and heart thumping, and snuck out of the house before anyone else was awake. He couldn't face Griffin.
Or Harper.
Lawson winced. For the love of all that was holy, why did she have to be staying with them? It was like dangling cocaine in front of a recovering addict. Surely this wasn't humane.
"It doesn't matter," Lawson muttered. "She's not interested."
"Finally." Paige poked him in the side. "A girl with some sense. What's she like?"
Lawson sighed. "Off-limits."
"Why?"
He frowned at his sister. "Leave it alone, Paige."
Lawson's tone must have been more defensive than he'd intended because Paige's whole face lit up. "Oh, my god." She scooted closer. "You actually like her. I can tell by your face."
"My face," Lawson said, "is saying that I'm about three seconds away from vomiting again." He shoved his sister off. "So if you could kindly step aside—"
"Is that you, Lawson?" a voice called.
Shoes clicked on the tiled floor. Lawson bit back a groan. Bloody brilliant — just what he needed: his mother, witnessing the slow demise of her prize-winning pansies. Days before her gardening show.
Paige patted his shoulder. "You're in so much trouble."
"Thanks," Lawson muttered.
"Lawson?" Moira popped her head into the conservatory. "Why did you run off so quickly? I thought I heard—" She paused, sucking in a breath as she took in the scene. "Oh, god. Please tell me that's not my prize-winning pansies."
"Technically," Paige said mildly, "it only came runner-up."
Their mother ignored this. "You did not get sick on my pansies." She crossed the room, shaking the pot at him. "Really, Lawson?"
Paige rose. "And that's my cue." His older sister skirted towards the door, dodging plants and sprawling roots. "I'll just... er... see if Dad's still at the table..."
Lawson gave her a look that said, walk-out-this-door-and-I'll-actually-kill-you. Paige gave him a look that said, this-is-your-mess-to-deal-with. Lawson sighed.
Fair play.
"You know, Mum," Lawson said, sitting up as Paige tiptoed from the room, "you're looking splendid today. Is that a new top?"
Moira's mouth thinned. "You must be joking."
"I'm really not," Lawson said. "I can see the tag on it."
"My gardening show is in three days, Lawson. Three days." Moira balanced the pot protectively on one hip. "I've got some of the best horticulturists in England coming. For god's sake, I've got a journalist from Tatler coming specifically to inquire about the pansies."
"I'm sorry." Lawson swallowed. "I'll buy you some more pansies."
"Lawson." His mother's face softened. "I know that this time of year is... difficult, but I'm worried." She shifted the pot. "I have a wonderful therapist that's willing to talk to you. She specializes in behavioural cognitive therapy, and she thinks—"
"I don't need therapy," Lawson cut in.
"Think of her more as a life coach."
"I'm fine."
Moira looked at him pointedly — sprawled on the tile floor, covered in sweat — and lifted an eyebrow. "My pansies beg to differ."
"I really am sorry," Lawson said.
He meant it, too; his mother found solace in gardening. She spent most mornings puttering around the conservatory, repotting plants and removing root rot. Moira was proud of her pansies, and now Lawson had ruined them.
Just like he ruined most things.
"It's okay," Moira sighed. "Tuesday's going to be a disaster, anyway; the photographer's cancelled and half the guests have the flu." She set the pansies safely on a shelf. "I'm getting a migraine just thinking about it."
Lawson sat up, holding an apple tree for support. "Did you need something?"
"Oh," Moira said. "Somebody's here to see you."
"Tell Dalton to fu—" Lawson caught himself. "Er, to leave. Politely."
It would be Alisdair. Of course it would be; Alisdair spent half his time in the library and the other half chasing the Wilder Boys around like an overbearing mother hen. Alisdair would probably force Lawson to drink half a litre of water and then charm Moira into letting him stay for brunch.
But Moira shook her head. "It's not Alisdair. It's a girl."
Lawson looked up. "A girl?"
"Yes." Moira frowned. "She said her name was Harper?"
A/N: Hello lovely readers!
Happy (almost) December! I'm wayyy too excited for the holidays this year — we've put up a Christmas tree and a candy-cane balloon arch in our flat, and that's just the beginning. Has anyone else started decorating?
Question of the Day: what's your favourite Christmas film? I'm obsessed with "Love Actually," although I haven't seen it yet this year...
Affectionately,
J.K.