Page 59 of How to Kill Your Rival

Fraser leans back and nods. ‘I understand. I need to check out some people too.’

The way he looks at me has the hairs on my arm raising. ‘You don’t think it’s me, right?’

Fraser shrugs. ‘Just being thorough.’

I stare at the tattooed pain in the arse a little longer. He seems so out of place twiddling with seeds and flowers. Like a gun amongst teddy bears.

I don’t tell Eliza I went to the greenhouse.

Nor about the confrontation.

You’re angry because you care about her.

Never has a truer word been spoken.

19

ELIZA

Priscilla’s birthday party isn’t quite as glamorous an affair as most of the Hamilton parties of the past have been, but it holds a tender charm. A little warmer than the usual glitzy, spare-no-expense parties, and less like a gathering of people who professionally remove other people from life.

Mrs Cairns and her team, including Fraser, have morphed the downstairs into a candlelit extravaganza. I sourced the sweetest scented peonies and other florals through a connection and haven’t bragged once about how epic they look in their abundance. The effort and considerable expense were worth it for how delighted Priscilla had been when she saw them. She full-on squealed, and it gave me a fuzzy feeling that I usually try to avoid.

Coffin is on the banister at the foot of the main staircase, looking utterly unimpressed by the florals that cover half of the available surfaces.

‘Can your step-mum be your mother-in-law?’ I ask my feathered friend, scritching his chest.

The bird tips his head.

‘Not that I’m saying I want to marry James. No. God forbid. Just hypothetically. Like, which one trumps the other?’

Coffin makes an odd chirrup noise.

‘I don’t have time to be marrying anyone. Dad’s sick. Maggie’s abandoned the business. Fraser is up to his elbows in herbs – and not even the fun kind. The old fuckers on the Council are closing in on me. Between the ruined contracts and a man literally blowing up in my face, I’m feeling the pressure from their interference. Romance is the last thing I need to add. Too messy. Too time-consuming.’

Coffin’s been there since guests started arriving. Using his one eye, he watches everyone with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. I imagine. It’s not like he ever talks back. Not for the lack of my trying to teach him how to converse.

‘It’s okay, buddy. A silent man is almost preferable.’

Taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, I make my way into the large drawing room where most of the guests gather. It’s less of the drawing room, and more the heart of the house, where everything else sprouts from. The huge stone fireplace, which we’ve covered in wildflowers and ornate candelabras, the high double-storey ceiling. The walls are the deepest of green, making it almost feel like a forest clearing with all the florals put in for the party.

The guests are the usual mix. Death Council families pretending to like one another. Some family friends from Priscilla’s old life, some who know what our family is, and others who are entirely oblivious. Dad’s in a leather-backed armchair, trying his best to hold court like he used to. Prior to the cancer. Prior to his departure from his position as the big dog of the Death Council. Dad’ll pay for the energy he’s spending to hold up appearances tomorrow. Tonight, he doesn’t care. The worried glances that Priscilla keeps throwing his way speak of her stress despite the smile plastered on her face.

Fraser is in the corner, dressed in black from head to toe, all tattoos and piercings and youthful broodiness. The servers all struggle to hide the lusty looks they give him. Little do they know they are wasting their time. Fraser is far too sullen to be found rutting away in a corner after a few drinks. If anything, he could really use a little relaxation and some fun.

Pot and kettle.

Fraser can’t hide his sweet side from his family, though. He’s worked his emo arse off to see Priscilla celebrated. It’s fucking adorable.

And, of course, there’s James. He’s next to the fireplace, sleeves rolled up to show off those fucking forearms that invade my dreams. He sweeps his dark hair back from his forehead with one hand and cradles a whisky in the other.

So hot that I want to cut his face off and put it on my nightstand to look at when he’s not there.

Whoa. Calm your tits, Eliza.

He’s hot but an absolute pain in the arse. We’ve been taunting each other for years.

I smooth down my dress, chosen for the way the green fabric clings around my hips and dips scandalously low at the back. James doesn’t see me. His eyes snag on a point across the room, and I turn to where he’s looking at the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.