Golden Luckenbooth

Thirty

"Your new roommate is obnoxious, overbearing, annoying, and just a general pain in the arse," Blair snaps at me when I sit across from her at the pub on Friday night.

"I've just arrived, Blair. Can you let me breathe for a minute before you start attacking Harry?"

"Harry? Harry is a dream compared to that bearded monstrosity. Comparing the two of them is like saying night and day are the same. Harry is kind and thoughtful. That tattooed beast is a pig in the purest form of the word."

"Arran? You're talking about Arran?"

"Who else has moved in with you lately? I cannot believe that Shortbread and Piper tolerate him. They're usually great judges of character, but not this time."

My head swivels as I observe the crowd, much larger than a typical Friday night. And much younger. And certainly more female.

The fans have found where we hang out.

I spy three of them standing behind Harry at the bar, clutching albums or magazines to their chests as they stare longingly at his back, willing him to turn in their direction. I keep watching, curious to see how he handles them this time. Sometimes, he'll greet them warmly and have a chat. Other times, he thanks them politely and turns them away. Which will it be tonight? Almost like it's a game for me, I watch the events like one would a play-by-play in footie.

Standing next to my boyfriend is Arran – the devil Blair has been describing. Tonight, he's wearing a short-sleeved shirt that shows off his multiple and colourful tattoos – both in actual colours and in their designs. His beard has been freshly trimmed and maybe oiled, and I wonder if he's planning to hook up with one of Harry's fans. I'm sure it's not unheard of in Harry's world for fans to fancy those close to Harry – simply so they can be in Harry's orbit. I will have sadly misjudged Arran if he's out with us so that he can get a leg over on a fan though.

But when he glances at our table twice, his eyes landing on Blair, I am certain that my new intern has no interest in Harry's fans. He does, however, stand politely by Harry's side as my boyfriend signs the albums and magazines, refusing photos with a shake of his beanie-covered head.

"You really think you can fool people for nine months?" Says a voice by my side, and I startle, looking up at a woman who must be in her thirties, which makes me sad. I can kind of understand how the young women who collect in the parking lot at the clinic believe the conspiracies. After all, I have no doubt many want to be partnered with Harry. It's possible this woman is the same.

What makes me beyond disappointed, though, is that she has the gall to approach me in person. The online hate and ugliness doesn't bother me much because, frankly, I don't have time for social media so I don't often see it. It's easier for people to be ugly and negative when they are anonymous, but in a public place it's rare for rudeness. To my face at least.

"Thanks for your concern," I comment to her with as much restraint as I can muster while placing my hand on Blair's arm to stop my best friend from defending me in whatever manner she might choose – none of which would actually impact this woman.

Harry peeks at me from his conversation with the fans, and his face hardens. He says a few words to them before twisting to Arran and muttering something. I can guess at what he's said. Picking up our drinks from Brodie, the two most objectively handsome men in the room make their way to our table, and I know it's not just my imagination that nearly every head in the room twists to watch them walk.

Yes. Even Blair.

And the woman standing next to me 'humphs' as she twirls and stomps away, not staying around to see what Harry might have to say about her speculation on my pregnancy.