“Oh no, I just wanted you to have a good time,” Patrick says, drifting closer to Zeb and nudging me subtly out of the way. I open my mouth to object, but shut it as the two of them stare at each other like they’re mesmerised.

Max coughs and elbows Zeb who jumps.

“Sorry,” Max says cheerfully. “But I think the man heading towards me with the gun is indicating it’s my turn to shoot.” He winks at Patrick. “Unless he’s on a homicidal rampage, in which case I’m volunteering you to take one for the team.” He looks him up and down. “You’re so very good at that, after all.”

“Max,” Zeb warns, and Patrick bristles.

“Oh don’t bother, Max,” he says spitefully. “If I wanted some dinosaur of a reporter to cast judgement on me, I’d have gone to Piers Morgan. At least he’s famous.”

“You wound me,” Max says cheerfully. “I’m literally bleeding on the ground from your sharp words.”

“Better than bullet wounds because you couldn’t duck quickly enough,” Patrick says sharply and I gasp.

Now, I remember who Max is. He’s a famous reporter who quit after he was taken hostage in Syria. He was shot in an escape attempt but still managed to make his way through the country on his own until he reached safety. I hadn’t recognised him at first because his hair is longer now, and he’s grown a beard.

I glare at Patrick but Max just shrugs. “The bravest thing you ever did, Patrick, was to leave the house not wearing underwear. You’ll excuse me if I don’t take your words to heart.”

I laugh, and Patrick flushes and edges into Zeb’s side. I narrow my eyes, and Max stares at the two of them.

Then he takes the gun the man gives him, steps up to the line and calls, “Pull.” In one smooth motion, he turns slightly to the right and fires. A second later there’s the sound of breaking glass and a car alarm starts to blare.

“That’s my fucking Audi,” Patrick exclaims, and Max shrugs.

“Oops! Butterfingers,” he says casually.

Xavier starts to laugh.

Chapter Seven

Jesse

Patrick’s temper tantrum over his car rather puts the mockers on the shooting party, and people start to drift off back to the hotel, declaring their intentions of having a drink. Finally, there’s just Zeb, Max, Xavier, and me left standing by the field.

“Well, you know how to help a party along,” Zeb says wryly, and Max smiles happily.

“I think I might need my eyes tested.”

“Why? You hit his windscreen head on.”

Max shrugs. “I was aiming at the bonnet.”

The two men laugh before Max cracks the gun and wanders over to the man in charge, who looks like he’s preparing to give him a lecture. Zeb trails after him.