I laughed and glanced out the window. “How did Andie seem when you left her?”
Georgie had texted me to let me know she was getting ready with Andie. The fact that the two of them had become friends definitely made my life easier. I was in the middle of my races and away from my phone most of the day.
“What?” Georgie asked, sliding her pale green eyes to me. “Do you mean to ask if she was moaning on about how much she missed you and all that?”
I smiled. “A little bit of moaning never hurt anybody.”
“Well that’s too bad. She went on about a dozen or so footballers she’d like to romp around with.”
“Georgie…”
She groaned. “Fine. Actually, she’s smitten, though God knows why. She’s much prettier than you and could have any bloke she fancied, with half the trouble.”
“Have you ever thought maybe she finds me good-looking and worth the trouble?”
She narrowed her eyes on me as if trying to assess me in a new light, then shook her head. “No, that’s not it. She must really like the accent. Or maybe it’s the gold medals.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, G.”
She reached out and touched my hand. “In all honesty, I really like Andie. She’s funny and beautiful, and you and her really appear to be meant for one another.”
Flashing cameras drew my attention away from Georgie before I could agree. The driver had pulled up in front of the event space and suddenly I found myself faced with another red carpet. The Olympics were trying enough—what with fifteen races (heats, semifinals, and finals) taking place over six days—without all the extracurricular events they piled onto us night after night. At the end of it all, more than wanting to party and celebrate, I knew I’d crave a decent weekend back in my flat in London: no press, no cameras, no intrusive questions. Just time alone with Andie.
The driver opened the back door and I stepped out then reached back to lend Georgie my arm. They’d started shouting my name the moment our car had pulled up, but with Georgie in tow, the frenzy kicked up another notch.
“Georgie who are you wearing?!”
“Who designed those shoes?”
I pushed her ahead of me on the carpet, letting her taste the limelight for a little while. At home, the press couldn’t get enough of Georgie. She was the youngest member of the Archibald family, and after the deaths of our father and Henry, the press were keen to see Georgie unravel into the emotional wild child. She did generally assume rules didn’t apply to her, but she had a better head on her shoulders than most adults.
“I’m proud of you, Georgie,” I said, leaning in and giving her a tight hug.
For once I was glad the cameras were firing. I’d have appreciated a copy of that photo, if only because Georgie wasn’t a fan of public displays of affection and there was a fifty percent chance she’d pulled a sour face as soon as I hugged her.
“What an adorable family reunion.”
I released Georgie and turned to find Caroline standing a few feet away, dressed as if she’d just stepped off the top of a frilly cupcake. Her light pink dress looked like something a year one student would wear to a dance recital. To solidify the look, she’d added on a delicate pearl necklace.
“Caroline!” the cameraman called.
She turned to pose for photos and I used the opportunity to push Georgie toward the end of the red carpet. There was a group of reporters hovering near the entrance, and though I wished I could ignored them, one of them shouted out a question about the betrothal that I couldn’t ignore.
“Did she forgive you, Freddie? Are you still set to marry Caroline?”
I motioned for Georgie to continue on inside and then I turned toward the cameras. If I wanted to shut Caroline down, this was the simplest way. Live television couldn’t lie.
“Freddie! Could you tell us any details about the wedding?”
“There will not be a wed—”
I felt a hand hit my lower back as Caroline swooped in to interrupt me.
She coughed, a light airy ahem that made my stomach churn. “We’re still working through this challenging time, and we would appreciate it if you would respect our privacy.”
“Are you two engaged?” they asked anyway.
“No,” I answered.
Cameras fired.
“Is the wedding off because of the cheating scandal!?”
She laughed again and shook her head. “If you’ll excuse me, I really must speak with my fiancé.”
“There is no wedding,” I continued, staring straight into one of the cameras so my words couldn’t be misconstrued. “There is no betro—”
“Freddie!” Caroline shrieked, suddenly on the brink of tears. “Please don’t do this.”
Her hand was pressed to her stomach as if she were about to be sick, and then there were actual tears slipping down her cheeks.
I reached back and gripped her arm to drag her off the carpet. There would be no honest interviews as long as she was present. I pulled her into the party and bypassed the coat check and the cocktails. I found the first quiet corner and turned to lay into her.