Falling for the Bridesmaid. Sophie Pembroke

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      Ordering a decaf something-or-other, Tom tossed his jacket and laptop into the nearest bucket chair and hovered impatiently between it and the counter while he waited for his drink. If he’d flown first class, or even business, he could have had as many free drinks as he liked on the plane. But old habits died hard and, since this job was entirely on spec and therefore on his own dime, he’d been paying for his own flight. Something inside him still baulked at shelling out that much cash just for a better seat, even though money wasn’t really an object any more. Certainly not the way it had been growing up.

      His music journalism career had taken off enough in the past few years that he could rely on his contacts for a good life and a better income. He’d come a long way from his first big, explosive story, almost ten years ago.

      So yeah, he could have afforded the upgrade, easily, and without tapping those savings. And if he’d remembered about the free booze aspect of things, he probably would have done. As it was...

      Snatching his coffee from the girl behind the counter, he settled at his table and prepared to hang around a while. God only knew how long it would take his ride to get there from wherever she was, but he might as well get some work done while he waited. Even if he felt as if his eyes might jump right out of his head if he didn’t close them soon.

      At least the work was worth travelling all the way from New York for. A story like this, a break this big...it could make him, permanently. He’d be the go-to person for anything to do with The Screaming Lemons, and that was serious currency in the industry. It would give him access, and opportunities with the newer bands coming through. He’d have the pick of jobs.

      He’d already made a pretty good name for himself with the bigger music magazines, websites and even the colour supplements. But this trip, these interviews, this was something more—it was a book in the making. That was what Rick Cross had promised him. And Tom was going to make sure the old man made good on his word.

      He was annoyed to have missed all the upheaval in the Huntingdon-Cross family over the past two months, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d already been committed to another project at home in the States and, anyway, who could have predicted that one of Rick and Sherry’s famously blonde and beautiful daughters would get married and knocked up all within the space of eight weeks? And who knew what was going on with Rose now? She’d been in the press recently herself, he remembered, pictured with the famous Runaway Groom—who he’d thought was famously her sister Violet’s best friend. Maybe something had happened there—and he’d missed it, again. All he’d had was a text message when he turned his phone back on after the flight, with a contact number and the information that, due to unforeseen but brilliant circumstances, someone else would be collecting him.

      Or not, as the case might be.

      Tom sighed. He’d just have to make sure he got good interviews with them all when he could. And, wherever Rose might be, at least one daughter was still living at home—probably the most famous one, if you counted notorious Internet celebrity, which Tom did.

      Opening his laptop, he pulled up his notes on the family. He was staying at the family home, Huntingdon Hall, so he needed to be prepared from the get-go. He’d spent weeks compiling old interviews, articles and photos of the whole family, and felt he had it pretty much down. And after speaking with Rose in New York and on the phone while planning the trip, he’d thought he had at least one ally there—until she’d decided to swan off and abandon him with no notice.

      Presumably she’d got an offer too good to refuse, no matter how much it inconvenienced anyone else. Celebrity kids—always the centre of their own world, however nice and normal Rose had seemed when they met. He needed to remember that.

      He’d only had one conversation with the man he was really there to see, though—Rick Cross himself. Rock star, family man, reformed wide boy. The interviews Tom had on file dated back almost thirty years, back to when The Screaming Lemons were the next big thing on the rock scene. Nowadays, they were the old standards—and they had to try harder to shock or surprise.

      With his plans for a tell-all book about the band and his family’s history, it looked as if Rick had plans to do both.

      Tom had asked him, ‘Why now?’ It couldn’t be money—the band still sold enough greatest hits records and got more than enough airplay that it didn’t matter if their latest album tanked. But all Rick would say was that it was time.

      Scrolling through his family crib sheet, Tom reminded himself of all the most pertinent facts.

      Most people in Britain and the States could pick Rick Cross out of a line-up and tell you his story. Same for his wife, the beautiful and rich mostly ex-model and now English society stalwart, Sherry Huntingdon. With his fame and her family, they made quite the impact.

      Then there were the girls. The youngest, Daisy, was the newest Lady Holgate, which seemed pretty much par for the course for celebrity kids, Tom decided. After all, if you already had money and fame, surely a title was the only thing left to go for? Especially in the UK.

      The twins were a few years older at twenty-seven. Rose, he knew from personal meetings with her, had been living in New York for the last few years, although she had planned to be in England until the annual benefit concert at least.

      And then there was Violet. Tom had enjoyed the hell out of researching her. The thought made him smile even as he rubbed at his gritty eyes.

      A commotion at the counter made him look up, and he blinked at the sight of a tall blonde in a ridiculous dress and heels crashing past a table full of customers. Was that Rose? Or a sleep deprivation induced hallucination?

      ‘Sorry!’ the blonde yelped, and he decided that she was probably real. Hallucinations didn’t usually yelp, in his experience.

      Shaking his head to try and wake up, Tom packed up his laptop. It looked as if his ride had made it after all. Any time now he could fall into that nice, peaceful, quiet bed and sleep for a week. Or at least until Rick Cross summoned him for his first interview.

      From all the reports he’d read, Tom was pretty sure Rick wasn’t an early riser. That lie-in was practically in the bag.

      ‘Rose,’ he said, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder and reaching for the handle of his suitcase. ‘I thought you were going away? You didn’t have to come all the way out here just because the idiot you asked to pick me up forgot. I could have just caught a cab, you know.’

      Rose looked up, eyes wide, her hands still gripping her skirt. ‘Oh, um, no, it’s fine. Thomas. It’s fine, Thomas.’

      Why did she keep repeating his name? And why was she calling him Thomas instead of Tom all of a sudden? They’d spoken plenty of times before, and even had lunch once. It wasn’t as if she might have forgotten it all of a sudden.

      Unless...

      The smirk formed unbidden on his lips. ‘I’m sorry, Violet. I thought you were your sister for a moment. And it’s Tom.’

      ‘That’s okay. You’re not the only one to get confused.’ She pulled a frustrated face, and Thomas couldn’t help but laugh. It was just so familiar. And not from Rose.

      ‘What?’ Violet asked, obviously startled by his outburst. Maybe he should have had caffeinated coffee. Obviously the sleep deprivation was starting to affect him.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he managed, trying СКАЧАТЬ