There you had it. Twenty-seven years on the planet, and that was all she could say about herself.
Violet Huntingdon-Cross—kick-ass flower arranger, wannabe crocheter. Potential cat lady in waiting.
No, that wasn’t all. That was just all that other people saw—and she was happy to keep it that way. She made a difference in the lives of young people and teenagers every day, even if no one ever knew it was her. After all, if word got around that Violet Huntingdon-Cross was manning the phones at the troubled teen helpline, their calls would skyrocket with people wanting to ask her about her own past, or just talk to a minor celebrity—and the kids she really wanted to help wouldn’t be able to get through at all. So she helped where she could. Even if she wished she could do more.
Her parents did the same, helping out charities anonymously when they could. The only difference was, they also did enough charity work—as well as music and the occasional modelling gig respectively—in public that everyone assumed they already knew everything there was to know about Rick and Sherry Cross.
But with Violet...well, Violet could only imagine what they were still saying about her. Probably the nicest was that she’d become a recluse.
Still, that was a hell of a lot better than what they’d been saying about her eight years ago.
Pulling her phone from her tiny clutch bag, she checked the time and then double-checked the email Will had sent her from Rose’s account with the reporter guy’s flight details. Thomas Buckley...that was his name. She must make an effort not to just call him reporter guy all the time. Although it never hurt to have a reminder that the press were press and always on the record, whatever they said. Not something she ever wanted to forget again.
Time to go. She’d get changed out of her bridesmaid’s dress, grab the ridiculous name card Rose had left for her and be at Heathrow in plenty of time to grab a coffee before his flight landed. And, best of all, she wouldn’t be stuck in romance central another minute.
Moving towards the side door to Huntingdon Hall, Violet paused as she caught sight of her parents, dancing in the light of the just risen moon. So wrapped up in each other that the couple of hundred people watching, who’d come all this way to celebrate with them, might not even be there at all. Sherry Huntingdon and Rick Cross were famously crazy about each other, but it wasn’t until Violet caught them in moments like this that she really believed the media hype.
And that, she finally admitted to herself, was the real reason all this love stuff was getting to her. Deep down, she’d always believed that she’d just fall into a perfect relationship like her parents had, like both her sisters had now found too.
Instead, she’d got something else entirely. Like anti-love. The sort of relationship that tore up your insides and made you someone else. After that, if she was honest, Violet wasn’t sure she’d ever have the courage to try again.
Her phone rang in her hand and Violet answered it automatically, glad for the distraction. ‘Hello?’
‘I was under the impression that you, whoever you are, were supposed to be meeting me at the airport about twenty minutes ago.’ The American drawl made Violet’s eyes widen. The reporter guy. Except Rose’s email had him landing in an hour and a half. Dammit!
‘I’m so sorry, Mr...’ Oh, God, what was his name?
‘Buckley.’ He bit the surname out. ‘And I could care less about apologies. Just get here, will you? I’ll be in the bar.’
And, with that, the line went dead.
Picking up her skirt, Violet dashed for the garage and prayed no one had blocked her car in. She’d have to borrow one of her dad’s if they had. No time to change now, or even pick up that specially made name card of Rose’s. If she ever wanted to be relied on for more than flowers, she needed to not screw this up. And since the bad impression she—and by extension her family—had made on the reporter guy was already done, she needed to find a way to fix it. Starting with getting to Heathrow as fast as humanly possible, before he started drafting his story. She knew journalists. The truth seldom got in the way of a good story, and once they thought they knew all about a person it was almost impossible to convince them otherwise.
And Violet had already earned the Huntingdon-Cross family enough bad press to last a lifetime.
TOM PUSHED HIS way to the counter, dragging his suitcase behind him like a weapon. A coffee shop. What the hell kind of use to him was that, especially at this time of night? He needed a drink—a proper one. But that was arrivals for you—never as good as the departures lounge. After so many years travelling the world, you’d think he’d remember that. Except he was usually being collected straight off a plane these days, and got whisked through arrivals to some hotel or another without even clocking his surroundings.
He’d just have to hope that whoever the ditsy woman Rose had assigned to pick him up was would check her phone and see his text telling her to meet him here instead.
Staring at the menu above the counter with bleary eyes, Tom tried to figure out his best option. He’d already consumed so much caffeine in the last two weeks that his muscles appeared to be permanently twitching. Add that to the distinct lack of sleep, and he wasn’t sure another shot of the black stuff was quite what he needed. Of course, what he needed was a big bed with cool sheets, a blackout blind and about twenty-four hours’ solid rest.
None of which was a remote possibility until his ride pitched up.
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