Andrew had been summoned home.

It was just as well, as he needed a distraction. In the three days since he’d seen Colin at training session—looking infuriatingly delicious in that football kit—Andrew had been able to think of little else. The lad hadn’t phoned or texted, not even Thank you for a lovely weekend or Sorry I was a complete wanker, much less Can I see you again?

Driving through the stone gates of his family’s estate, Andrew lowered the Tesla’s window in hopes the fresh country air would clear his head. Feeling instantly calmer, he slowed down upon the white-gravel, tree-lined lane that meandered among the green rolling hills.

Only the grassy areas near the lane were maintained and manicured. Most of Dunleven Castle’s twenty thousand acres were kept as a wild haven for deer, grouse, and other creatures people would pay dearly to come and shoot for sport—were they permitted, which they weren’t. Lord and Lady Kirkross were notorious animal lovers, a trait only Andrew seemed to have inherited.

He slowed further as he approached the dirt road leading to the loch, but after checking the time, he reluctantly continued down the main lane. Andrew made a mental note to rise early tomorrow to have some quiet time at his boathouse before heading back to Glasgow. He never felt more himself than when he was sitting on the porch of that tiny house, or swimming in the cold, breath-stealing waters of the loch.

Arriving at the stables, Andrew was greeted with a wave and a smile by none other than Timothy, who six years ago had been Andrew’s first…well, his first satisfier of curiosity. Now twenty-three and head groom, he was more tempting than ever.

Usually.

Timothy opened the Tesla’s door. “Lord Andrew, welcome. I was hoping you’d pay us a visit during your stay.”

Andrew greeted Timothy with a warm handshake. “It’s good to see you. Is Gretchen inside or is she out terrorizing the Thoroughbreds?”

“I brought her in just for you, and let her stay nice and dusty in case you wanted to groom her.”

“You know me well.” Andrew winced inwardly at the flirtatious lilt in his voice. Old habits died hard.

“Yes, sir.” Timothy shut the car door softly. “I know you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty.”

Andrew gazed down into those laughing green-blue eyes and wondered why they had no effect on him this evening. Usually the prospect of bending over a hay bale to receive Timothy’s worshiping mouth, then his punishing cock, would make every inch of Andrew’s skin pulse with life.

“Yes, well…” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve only a short while before I’m expected at the house.”

Timothy straightened up and gave a brisk nod, averting his eyes. “Of course, sir.”

As they entered the stable, Timothy stopped them at his office, where he reached behind the door and pulled out a coat hanger holding a large flannel shirt. “I suggest you trade me your blazer for this. Lady Kirkross will have both our heads if you come to dinner covered in horsehair.”

“Good thinking. Even Mum’s love of animals has its limits.”

Timothy relieved Andrew of his summer-tweed blazer, then held up the flannel shirt so he could put it on over his linen dress shirt. Andrew noticed how the fingers of his erstwhile lover failed to linger on his shoulders or trace the nape of his neck. They were all business now.

Andrew wished he and Timothy could share something other than service or sex. Friendship, perhaps? Surely they could talk horses for a few hours over a pint at the local pub. But things had been awkward since he’d foolishly let Timothy spend the night with him in Glasgow a few months ago—at Andrew’s own flat, no less. Perhaps the old boundaries were necessary.

“I saw Etienne’s car pass by a few hours ago,” Timothy said. “Should be a lovely dinner.”

“Indeed.” Their part-time French chef was keen to unveil some new recipes at next month’s ball, so he was coming tonight to test them on the Sunderland family. “Be sure to come to the kitchen around nine. I’ll see to it you get a portion of the staff’s share.” He bit his lip, expecting a snide retort about eating Andrew’s leftovers. Like Colin would have done.

“That’s very generous, sir,” Timothy said without a trace of sarcasm.

A high-pitched whinny came from the far end of the stable, followed by the slap of steel against wood.

“I’d better attend to Her Highness before she kicks the barn down around our ears.” Andrew hurried through the stable, buttoning the flannel shirt as he walked. “Who’s my wee princess?” he called out. Gretchen answered with another kick, this time to the wall beside him. “I thought so.” He stopped at the stall door, leaning on the bottom half. “Well, aren’t you a vision in silver and dust?”

Gretchen tossed her head and snorted, nostrils flaring. Then the Shetland pony turned a full circle, displaying her tiny furry self like a model on a catwalk. Her white coat was dotted with clods of dirt. It looked as though she’d had a grand time giving herself a mud bath.

Andrew picked up his battered black footstool, then unlatched the stall door and slid inside the clean-smelling, straw-covered space. Gretchen zipped to the opposite corner, showing him her backside. It was always this way.

He sat upon the stool and took the grooming kit Timothy had left hanging on the stall door. “I’ve no time for your coyness, love. Come, let me save you from your poor choice in shampoos.”

Her only response was a swish of silver tail.

Andrew settled back against the stall wall. Gretchen wasn’t being cheeky—or at least not merely cheeky. Despite fourteen years of loving care here, her soul still bore scars from the two years prior. She’d never allowed another child besides Andrew near her, and few stable workers completed their first week of employment without a bitten hand or a stomped toe. (In fact, it had been Timothy’s relatively warm rapport with Gretchen that had drawn Andrew to him in the first place—well, that and his curly brown hair and thighs of steel.)

Gretchen simply didn’t know how to trust. But she knew how to love, of that Andrew was certain. These two warring factors drove her schizoid behavior. Eventually, if he waited quietly, her aloofness would give way to her desire to be touched.

And her desire for this carrot.

He held it out, turning his face aside, not challenging her with eye contact. “You silly kitten, you know you want it.”

Her ears twitched at the sound of his voice. Then she rubbed her face against an outstretched knee, as if to say, I’m not looking at you, I’ve simply got an itch.

When she’d stopped the farce of scratching herself, he spoke her name, as softly as he could. She stilled, her neck curved to the side, ears pointed forward. Waiting for her cue like a diva standing offstage.

“Come here.”

The pony spun about, hindquarters bumping the wall as she turned. Then she trotted over to him, casually, as if she’d only just noticed him sitting there. In three steps her head was in his lap, muzzle nudging his chest.

“I’ve missed you too,” he murmured, his voice cracking with emotion. He stroked beneath her heavy, square jaw, then ran his hand up behind her left ear, where she most fancied a good scratch. She gave a soft snort, her breath fluttering against his borrowed flannel shirt.

“Here, take this so I’ve both hands free to dote on you.” He pushed the carrot against her mouth, where it promptly vanished. Gretchen nodded as she crunched, and Andrew had to lean to the side to avoid a fatal knock to his skull.

Then he began, drawing a wide-toothed comb through her forelock and letting the hair flop over her face. She blinked her long dark lashes, then shook her head to clear the mane from her eyes.

“You know you’re the only girl I’ve ever loved. That’s why you’re so vain and cheeky with me. Now turn around.” He clicked his tongue and gave her neck a gentle push. Still crunching the carrot, she shifted to present him with her left flank. “Good girl.”

Andrew scrubbed her snowy coat with the curry comb, using counterclockwise circles to dredge up dust and hair and dead skin. Soon he was coated with all that, plus his own sweat. Currying was a rigorous task in any case, but Shetland ponies had the thickest coats of any horse.

She grunted as he transitioned from her back to her hindquarters, and he remembered to curry in smaller circles to avoid scraping her scars. As he progressed, his left hand found the dark slashes in the white landscape of her rump, marking each one to protect it from the comb.

As always, he had to swallow the rage he still felt toward her former owner. The little shit, who by now was probably a council leader or a commodities trader, had whipped her mercilessly for her slowness in pulling a cart. Once she was given over to the Scottish SPCA, her beauty and spirit had attracted many adopters, but her mercurial nature proved too much for them. Five families in a row had adopted her, then returned her to the SPCA. She was too stubborn for riding and carting, too unpredictable for therapy work. But Andrew, only six at the time, had loved her from Moment One.

So he’d set aside his desire for a flashy cart pony and settled for a pet. He’d spent hours with her every day that summer, simply keeping her company. He’d read to her, first sitting outside the stall, then, when the trainer thought it safe, inside the stall on this very footstool. He’d begun with Black Beauty, but thought the abuse sections might upset her, so he’d chucked it and moved on to Marguerite Henry’s Misty of Chincoteague, then Walter Farley’s Black Stallion series. Stories of special horses who’d overcome outrageous odds because one human loved them for their flaws, not in spite of them.

After a month of Gretchen ignoring him, Andrew had gone crying to his mum. She’d told him that what the pony needed first and foremost was stability. To know that no matter what, she would have a home here forever. No matter what, they wouldn’t send her away. They wouldn’t reject her.

His fingers stilled on the longest scar of all, a thin black line at the point of Gretchen’s hip. Oh. How could he be so stupid?

“Pardon me for a moment, dear.” Andrew dropped the curry comb into the grooming bucket.

This phone call to his friend John wasn’t a complete impulse. He’d considered this move all week, driving himself mad with indecision. But the choice was clear now, after seeing Gretchen’s scars and remembering what she’d needed.

“If it isn’t Lord Andrew,” John answered in his robust voice. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“Greetings. How’s the new love nest?” He didn’t really care, but it was good manners to let someone prattle on a bit before asking a favor of them. As John regaled him with updates on his and Fergus’s cohabitation, Andrew brushed Gretchen’s snowy coat until it glimmered.

“That’s fantastic,” he said finally. “Look, I need a bit of information from you, or rather from your darling boyfriend.”

When he explained, John laughed. “I’d pay a thousand quid to see that.”

“You and Fergus can see it for free, if I have my way.”

John gasped. “If you have your way? When is that ever in question?”

“Never.”

Until Colin, that is. But in this matter, Andrew would have his way, whatever disasters it might spawn.

“Andrew, darling!” Lady Kirkross swept into the foyer the moment he came through the castle’s front door. “You look dashing as always.” Andrew’s mother hugged him, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Oh, you smell like horses.”

“Do I?” Andrew tugged his blazer closed. He’d thought the sweet scent of dust and pony sweat had lingered only in his nostrils and his memory. “I’ve just come from seeing Gretchen.”

“And Timothy, no doubt,” came a deep, disapproving voice.

Andrew turned to greet his older brother, George, Earl of Ballingry, who was ambling from the Hall of the House with a drink in his hand.

“Timothy was there,” Andrew told him, “but we spoke only briefly.” They shook hands, George’s meaty grip too tight as always, as if there was anything left to prove. “Are the children here? I brought gifts for them.”

“I’m afraid not.” George glanced at Mum. “Tonight’s dinner conversation would only upset them.”

“You mean bore them,” she chided. “Don’t worry your brother with such dramatic statements.”

Too late. “What’s wrong?” Andrew asked her. “Is Dad well?”

“He’s splendid. We’re all splendid. It’s a beautiful summer evening, and we’re going to enjoy it as a horrifically happy family.” With a swish of her flaxen summer suit-dress, she swept down the hall’s red carpet in a manner of one who expected to be followed. Which they did.

“What have I done now?” Andrew whispered to George as they walked.

“Besides gallivanting off to Edinburgh last weekend instead of keeping your social commitments?” His brother gave a weighty sigh that matched his ever-expanding waistline. “You’ve done nothing.” His emphasis on the final word was an indictment in itself.

In the drawing room they joined their parents and the rest of the family—Andrew’s older sister, Elizabeth, and her husband, Jeremy; as well as George’s wife, Sarah.

“I’m on time, aren’t I?” Andrew asked his father. He rather enjoyed being the last to appear at friends’ parties, but not at family gatherings. It gave him the paranoid sense of having been discussed before his arrival.

“Of course you’re on time. Welcome.” Lord Kirkross rose from his armchair and offered his son a hearty handshake, showing no signs of the arthritis that had plagued him of late. His favorite deerhound, Spenser, gave a languid stretch, tongue unfurling as he yawned. The dog ambled up to Andrew for a pat on the head, standing so tall Andrew barely had to stoop to reach him.

Elizabeth’s greeting was nearly as cold as George’s. As she leaned in to kiss the air beside his cheek, Andrew tentatively patted her back, taking care to avoid her long, sleek raven locks. Elizabeth hated anyone touching her hair—Andrew suspected it was the secret source of her diabolical power.

Andrew’s in-laws were kinder, as always. He often wondered how his siblings had convinced such agreeable people to marry them. He chatted with them now about their children’s summers, letting the warning of dire news retreat to the back of his mind.

When their part-time butler, Dermot, rang the dinner bell, they went in—all but Spenser, who shuffled off toward the library, where his wool-covered, memory-foam dog bed awaited him. The hound strolled pass the staircase, which caught Andrew’s attention, reminding him of Colin’s awed reaction to the grand staircase at the Edinburgh hotel. The one here wasn’t nearly so vulgar, but Colin would no doubt be impressed by the arched stained-glass window near the top. Or perhaps he’d want to chuck a rock through it.

Halfway through the first course—a lovely smoked salmon with prawns, horseradish cream, and lime vinaigrette, topped with small greens—Andrew was already weary of small talk. So he committed the cardinal sin of speaking politics at the dinner table. “Did anyone watch last night’s debate?”

Silence thudded around him, replacing the clink of cutlery against Raynaud china. Andrew’s mother cleared her throat as she dabbed the corners of her mouth with her ivory silk napkin. “Debate?”

“On the referendum,” Andrew said, “between Alisdair Darling and Alex Salmond?” Darling, a Scottish Labour MP, led the Better Together campaign to keep the United Kingdom, well, united; while Scottish First Minister Salmond’s lifelong goal was to destroy said Union by yanking Scotland out of it. “Jeremy, surely you must have seen it.” His brother-in-law was something of an insider in the Conservative Party, and he and Andrew often talked politics—albeit after dinner, not during.

“I did,” Jeremy said, “and while I can’t say I enjoyed seeing a Labour man succeed at anything, I thought Darling did splendidly.”

“I agree on both counts.” Andrew lifted his wine glass, noticing his mother had yet to replace the old-fashioned Waterford crystal with the trendy alternatives he’d suggested. “I can’t wait until this referendum is behind us and we Tories can stop pretending to be Labour’s friends. It’s an unholy alliance, like wearing stripes with plaid.”

“But all for a good cause,” George said. “The only cause which matters at the moment.”

“Yes. So anyway, the debate.” Andrew regarded the rest of the table. “Salmond looked a blithering idiot when it came to the budget. He seems to think he can keep Scotland’s economy afloat by simply pointing at it and yelling.” Andrew flourished his wine glass. “All his obnoxious bravado? Gone. The cybernats on Twitter fell mysteriously silent.”

“What about you?” George asked. “Have you been silent?”

“Of course not. I’ve made my opposition to independence clear.”

“With Braveheart jokes and comments on Alex Salmond’s fashion sense—”

“Or lack thereof.”

“—rather than real arguments.” His brother shifted to get a direct view of Andrew around the silver candlestick holder. “If you want to be taken seriously as a politician someday, then you must speak seriously now. Use your trivial fame to tell your million followers the truth.”

“My million followers live all around the world, which means they don’t want me banging on about Scottish independence. They want my opinion on Beyoncé’s latest hairstyle. They want photos of me chugging champagne with Harry Styles. They want videos of me dumping a bucket of ice on my head for charity, whatever the point of that was.” Andrew sat back to allow Dermot to remove his empty plate. “Besides, isn’t there a law saying no one of my station can be serious until they’re twenty-five? I’m fairly certain it’s in the Magna Carta.”

“George, isn’t it cute,” Elizabeth asked, “how our brother still fancies himself a latter-day Oscar Wilde?”

George snickered. “He’s got Wilde’s proclivities, but none of his wit.”

Andrew fell quiet, feeling that familiar piercing deep in his gut, the one that had long preceded his coming out, even preceded his obvious differences. Ten and twelve years his senior, Elizabeth and George had always been a team. He was “Andrew the Afterthought,” an unexpected joy to his parents and an endless annoyance to the siblings he worshiped—or had worshiped, before realizing they didn’t deserve it.

Sitting to his right, Mum laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Andrew, your brother has a point. You know how devastating independence would be to this family. Our entire way of life could vanish overnight.”

He nodded, though it was an exaggeration. It would take a generation, maybe longer, for an independent Scotland to become a full republic, rejecting the monarchy and aristocracy. But new taxes and land reforms could come quickly, reducing the Sunderland family’s estate to de facto nonexistence.

“I know, Mum, but any chance of Scotland voting Yes died last night at that debate. You’ll see once the new opinion polls come out.” Andrew patted her hand. “It’s over.”

“Still,” his father said, “it would boost the Better Together campaign’s morale if someone of your stature made an appearance on their behalf.”

“You mean officially?” The thought made him laugh. “Stand up with those bumbling fools?”

“What’s wrong?” Elizabeth snapped. “Afraid you’ll look uncool to your fans?”

“Yes. I’ve a brand to protect. Ask your husband.”

Everyone looked at Jeremy, who set down his wine glass before speaking. “It’s true, dear,” he said to Elizabeth, then turned to Lord Kirkross. “The Conservative Party has long-term plans for Andrew. We let him build up social capital now as a celebrity figure, then when he’s finished university, we introduce him to politics as a breath of fresh air. The new face of the Scottish Tories.”

Andrew beamed at his parents. He couldn’t wait for the day when he could go out and speak to voters, to charm them into seeing Conservatives as something besides heartless monsters. To prove that Tories just wanted hardworking people to achieve the success they deserved.

People like Colin, he thought, who prefer to live on handouts only because they’ve never known any other way of life. Those were the people Andrew wanted to set free.

“We’re not suggesting he stand for office now,” George said, “only that he help the No side win.”

“At what cost?” Jeremy set an unflinching gaze upon George. “You’re not out there on the ground like I am. You don’t see the savagery aimed at Better Together politicians whenever they dare speak in public. They’re shouted down, pushed about—and let’s not forget the egg.”

Andrew smirked at the memory. His least favorite politician, a Labour MP who gave hokey speeches full of football metaphors—so as to appear “of the people”—had had an egg chucked at him during a No campaign rally. For a microsecond, the cheeky gesture had made Andrew consider voting Yes.

Jeremy continued, now directing his words to the whole family. “We can’t have Andrew tainted by that venom. Standing him up with career politicians now would make him look like just another out-of-touch Tory.”

“See?” Andrew said. “My ‘trivial fame’ is my best asset. Which means it’s one of this family’s best assets.”

“That’s not saying much,” Sarah muttered.

Everyone gaped at George’s wife. “I’ve seen the auditor’s report,” she said. “How long are we going to carry on this farce?”

Andrew turned to his father as a chill zipped up and down his spine. “What’s she talking about?”

Lord Kirkross sighed. “I’d hoped to discuss this after the main course, but it seems I’ve no control over tonight’s dinner conversation.”

“The truth of it is,” Mum said to Andrew, “we have some difficult choices to make.”

“We?” Andrew had never been asked to take part in any family decisions. Perhaps his year at university had made him seem like an adult with valuable insights into running the estate.

“We’ve tried shuffling funds back and forth.” George gave a dismissive wave. “Never mind, it’s complicated. The bottom line is that it’s time to put certain portions of Dunleven on the market.”

“I was afraid of that.” Andrew knew the Sunderlands had been fortunate to escape such a fate thus far. Most great families had long ago been forced to sell off significant tracts of land, usually to foreign oligarchs who saw Scotland as their holiday playgrounds. “How much will we have to let go?” he asked his father.

“Our agent recommends a plan that will see the liquidation of roughly five thousand acres. That should secure enough cash for at least a decade.”

Andrew’s stomach sank. A quarter of the estate, gone to a stranger. “If that’s what it takes to ensure Dunleven’s survival”—such as the roof not collapsing whilst they slept beneath it—“then you have my full support.” Though saddened at the loss, he felt grateful his family had included him in the decision.

But then his siblings exchanged a significant look that made his skin crawl. It was a look straight out of a Hollywood spy-thriller scene in which the villains know they’ve got the hero where they want him.

“Tell him, Father,” Elizabeth said, her chin up and her eyes gleaming.

Lord Kirkross pressed a handkerchief to his forehead, where a light sheen of sweat had formed. “The portion to be sold is along the southern boundary. Including the loch.”

Andrew froze. “The loch?” He sat up straight, heart pounding. “Have we got more than one loch?”

“I’m afraid not,” George said. “Just the one with the boathouse.”

Andrew gripped the edge of the table, feeling the damask cloth slip under his fingertips. “But the boathouse is mine.”

“We’ll make it up to you,” Mum said. “Once you’re finished university, we’ll buy you a much grander home in Edinburgh or London.”

“My home is here.” He looked around the table. “Isn’t it?”

“Of course you’ll always have your chambers in this house,” his father said. “The rooms you grew up in.”

“But George and Elizabeth have homes on the estate. A place to raise their families. Why can’t I have that too?”

His sister laughed. “What sort of family would you raise?”

“Scotland will have marriage equality in just a few months. Someday, Elizabeth, I’ll have a husband and children just like you.” He held up a hand. “And yes, I know the boathouse is too small to live in year-round, but I love it and it’s mine.” He slammed his palm on the table, making his mother gasp.

“Not for long it isn’t,” George said.

“That’s quite enough.” Their father’s glower shut George up. “Andrew, I know this is difficult for you, but if you have a look at our agent’s recommendations, you’ll see this is the most practical solution.” He spread his hands. “The survival of Dunleven takes precedence over all of us.”

Andrew could feel the regret radiating from his parents, and the quiet sympathy from his in-laws. What his father said was true. Ultimately, Andrew didn’t matter. None of them mattered. Dunleven Castle had stood for nearly six centuries, and it was their duty—his duty—to keep it alive.

“I understand,” he said softly.

“Thank you.” Mum squeezed Andrew’s arm. “I promise you will be fairly compensated.”

He nodded, though he knew that no amount of money, no multi-million-pound terrace home in Knightsbridge would give him back what he’d lost today.

There’s no place for me here. Not as an adult. And one day, when his father and mother were gone and this castle belonged to George, Andrew might not be welcome at all.

Despite the fact that his entire football kit—boots included—was rain-drenched, and despite the fact that after nine days of silence, he’d given up on ever hearing from Andrew again, Colin was in a jolly mood as he entered his flat after practice Tuesday night.

Emma and Gran were watching River City, Emma nervously twisting her own hair while she stared at the TV screen. Colin knew his sister hated interruptions during her favorite show, so he decided to make the most of it.

He threw down his kit bag as he leapt across the living room to join them. “Who’s got two double-jointed thumbs and is playing in our first preseason match Saturday?” He bent his thumbs at right angles to his hands and pointed them at his chest. “This lad!”

Gran whooped and applauded. Emma groaned and wrapped her thick dark braid around her head to cover her eyes. “That’s so disgusting,” his sister said. “I hope the other team breaks your thumbs so they can be surgically normalized.”

“Thanks for your support.” He peered into the dim kitchen. “Where’s Dad?”

“Bedroom.” Emma turned back to the telly. “Said he was knackered.”

“Bit early, yeah?” Colin spied a stack of mail on the table and started sifting through it. Beneath a hardware-shop flyer was a facedown trifold letter. He turned it over to see a notice with the green-and-yellow Jobcentre logo at the top.

Dear Mr. MacDuff,

We regret to inform you that your Jobseeker’s Allowance (JSA) will be suspended 4 weeks due to your failure to appear for an interview on Friday, 9 May. A second such infraction will result in a 13-week suspension of benefits, and a third will result in disentitlement.

Colin didn’t read the rest. He stalked down the hall, through his father’s open bedroom door, which he shut behind him.

“Dad, what is this?” He shook the letter. “Why didn’t you go to the interview?”

His father looked up from the bed, where he was sitting atop the covers with his laptop. “Emma was ill and needed the doctor. I phoned the Jobcentre to reschedule. They said since it was a last-minute cancellation, a benefits manager would contact me. They never did, and frankly, I forgot.”

“Dad!”

“I’m sorry, all right?” He took off his reading glasses and rubbed his nose. “It wasnae an interview for an actual job, just the usual bureaucratic pish.”

“All the same, you gotta jump through their hoops. I could’ve taken Emma to the doctor, or Gran could’ve.”

“You were in exams, and Gran was ill at the time too. Besides, I’m the only one who knows everything about Emma’s asthma, all her medications and symptoms. I’m her dad, I should be there.”

Colin frowned at the letter. “Don’t they give exceptions for things like this?”

“Aye, but only to single parents.” He passed a hand through his thick, prematurely gray hair. “Until your mum is permanently institutionalized—which I pray to God never happens—she still technically lives here.”

“Christ, what a fucking mess.” Colin sank onto the edge of the sagging mattress, squeaking the springs beneath it. “How are we supposed to live four weeks without your JSA? My student grant for year two doesnae kick in for another month.” He lowered his voice. “We’re barely getting by as it is.”

“I know.” Dad tapped his glasses against the laptop’s lid. “I’m seeing what we can sell on eBay. Old video games and all.”

“Good idea.” Queasy with worry, Colin drew his finger through a mud stain on his leg, smearing it into a star-shaped pattern. “I’m sorry I couldnae find work this summer.”

“Hey. We discussed this. If you worked a shit job for a few quid a week you’d no longer be a dependent and I’d lose the money to support you. It’s not worth it.”

“I hate that,” Colin said with a snarl.

“I hate it more.” Dad’s voice rose. “Don’t you think I’d rather have us both working? But unless it’s a decent job, the numbers don’t add up. We earn more on benefits, and while that might not appeal to our manly pride, what matters most is making sure your gran and your wee sister have enough to eat.” He put his glasses back on and opened the laptop. “Right?”

Colin hesitated. “Right.”

“Just keep up your studies and when you get your degree, it’ll change your life. Maybe change all our lives.”

“Yeah. Sure.” But what if it didn’t? What if in three years, the economy was still pure crap, thanks to government austerity measures? What if a bachelor’s degree was nothing but a waste of time?

Still, he had to keep a brave face for Dad. “I’ve been doing extra reading for my business course this summer. All those hours on the exercise bike gave me loads of time.” He tapped his knee. “Talking of which, it’s official—I’m to play Saturday in the friendly match against Shettleston.”

“On your birthday? Well done! But you’ll be careful, aye?”

“Me? Careful?”

“Right. Never mind.”

Colin stood slowly, thrilled when his knee didn’t pop. “I’ll just have a quick shower, then we’ll work out next month’s budget, okay?”

“Thanks, lad. I could use your magic with numbers.” As Colin opened the bedroom door, his father added, “Did you see what else came in the post? Some posh-looking invite from someone in Kirkross.”

Colin froze. “Oh.” He eased open the bedroom door, trying to look indifferent. Then he tore off down the hall to the kitchen table, football boots thundering on the thin carpet.

He’d never expected to hear from Andrew again. A dozen times over the last week, he’d picked up the phone thinking to text an apology or explanation. But the thought of getting no response had stopped him cold.

Colin shoved aside the other mail until he found a white-linen envelope with his name and address engraved—fucking engraved—in black on the front. “Whoa.”

“What’s that?” Emma asked, her attention drawn from the telly, where River City’s end credits were rolling.

He turned his back. “None of your business.”

She vaulted out of her chair to land next to him. “Is it a love letter?”

“No.”

“I bet it is. I bet it’s a letter of loooooooooooove.” She grabbed for it, and when he held it out of reach, she bounced around him chanting “Colin’s got a boyfriend! Colin’s got a boyfriend!” She started forming letters with her arms and legs. “B-O-Y—”

“Shut it,” he said, “or I’ll hide your inhaler again.”

She stopped. “What do you mean, again? When did you hide my inhaler?”

“He’s having you on, Emma,” their gran said. “And just for joking about it, he should let you see the letter.”

Colin scowled, but in this flat, their grandmother was the arbiter of justice. “All right, Gran, but it’ll be your fault if there’s filthy photos inside.”

“Ugh.” Emma made a face but opened the envelope anyway, sliding a long, blue-lacquered fingernail to break the seal. “Ooh, it’s complex.” She withdrew a small envelope and a piece of tissue paper, then the invitation itself. Her lips moved as she read it silently.

Then she began to laugh.