paper roses

Confetti Hitched

Book Three

lily morton

Copyright © 2025 by Lily Morton

Book cover design by Natasha Snow Designs

www.natashasnowdesigns.com

Cover Photographer: Wander Aguiar

Professional beta reading by Leslie Copeland

Editing by Edie Danford.

Proofread by Lori Parks.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

References to real people, events, organizations, establishments or locations are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Please purchase only authorized editions.

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following products mentioned in this work of fiction: Alexa, BBC, Hello magazine, The Sun, Santoni, Harvey Nichols, Greggs, Starbucks, Wordle, Bose, Asda, LinkedIn, Elizabeth Arden, Quality Street, Zegna, Prada, Dior, Instagram, LinkedIn, British Airways, Homebase, Werther’s Original, L’Oréal, Ferraro Rocher, Vans.

All songs, song titles and lyrics mentioned in the novel are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

warning

This book contains material that is intended for a mature, adult audience. It contains graphic language, explicit sexual content and adult situations.

paper roses

Jed Walker thinks he’s having a midlife crisis. The only trouble is that it feels too good to stop.

Widowed at a young age, he’s spent his life since then avoiding any relationships that might end up hurting him again. He has his successful wedding planning business, Confetti Hitched, and a series of uncomplicated hookups, and that’s all he needs in life.

The one person disrupting this controlled stoicism is his younger assistant, Artie. He’s sweet and kind and has a funny way of calming Jed’s mind. So, when Artie comes to him with a problem, Jed moves heaven and earth to help, which is how he finds himself entering a fake marriage with the younger man and catching feelings. Too bad it’s all pretend. Or is it?

From bestselling author Lily Morton comes a story about how love can completely derail the best-laid plans.

This is the third book in the Confetti Hitched series, but it can be read as a standalone.

For Dan.

My sunshine boy. This is for all the laughter, the sweetness, and the eyebrows. I wish you the best happy ever after, darling.

“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever.”

— Alfred Tennyson

one

. . .

jed

I sit in a chair by my bedroom window. The soft summer morning light burnishes the naked body of the man in my bed, highlighting his beauty. I rub my lips idly while observing him. He’s stunning, with thick, dark hair and a long, angular body. He sleeps peacefully, the tiny smile playing on his full lips hinting at sweet dreams.

I regard him some more, and then I lean forwards and poke him. Hard.

He wakes up with a jerk. “What?” he mumbles, knuckling at his eyes.

I smile sweetly at him. “Time to go.”

He lowers his hands. “Are you serious?”

“Always.”

“Your bedside manner could do with some refining.” He directs a glare at me.

I take a moment to consider his statement and then shrug. “I think it’s just fine, thank you.” I hand him his clothes. I’d picked them up from my bedroom floor earlier and folded them neatly. “Bye.”

He grunts and kicks the covers off, muttering, “Gave you a world-class shag and not even the offer of a fucking coffee.” He stands and dons his clothes in sharp, irritated jerks.

The sex had been barely above subpar in Chelsea, let alone the world, but I dismiss the impulse to tell him. “I can do coffee,” I say amiably. I stand up and stretch, feeling the pleasant soreness in my body. “I’ve got a to-go cup.”

“Wanker.” He stalks into the bathroom and slams the door.

“Does that mean yes or no to coffee?” I call, but he’s banging around in there and doesn’t reply.

I search for a feeling of guilt but don’t find it. I didn’t make him any promises. In fact, I distinctly remember telling him that I didn’t like spending the night with anyone. He’d seemed okay with it at the time. This is what comes from falling asleep before I can show my bedmate the door.

From the photo frame on the bedside table, my husband stares at me, his blond hair perfectly styled as it was so rarely in life. His eyes are very blue, a result of contacts and not the superior family genes he used to tell me about. A wicked smile tugs at his lips.

“You’d be laughing your head off right about now,” I inform him. “And telling me I’ve made a rookie error with my conversation this morning. You’d have sandwiched those comments with particularly salacious stories of things you’d done in the past.” I shake my head. “I’m ninety percent sure those stories were made up, but it’s the ten percent that still concerns me.”

His image continues to silently stare at me. The room’s mocking quiet is suddenly broken by the blare of “Rock ‘n’ Roll Star” by Oasis. I grimace at the speaker. I’ve always fucking hated that song. It had been Mick’s choice for an alarm, and ten years after his death, I’m still waking up to it. My sentimentality is ridiculous and something Mick never really understood. He protected it but wasn’t averse to constantly taking the piss out of me for it.

“Enough,” I inform Liam Gallagher, but he keeps on singing valiantly. Keeping my ear cocked for what the stranger is doing in my bathroom, I say, “Alexa, set my alarm song to be—” I rack my brains. What song is so fucking super special that I want to wake up to it every morning?

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand your instruction.”

“Me neither.” I sigh. “Alexa, just set my alarm sound as alarm.”

She doesn’t respond, either attempting to understand me or completely stunned by my boring nature.

After stripping the bed, I bundle the linen together and stuff it into the laundry basket. Then I grab some fresh sheets from the cupboard and make up the bed quickly. The sheets smell of cedar, and Mick used to ask why we were sleeping in a bed that smelt of his grandmother’s wardrobe, but I’ve always loved it.

And, apparently, today is going to be one of those days when my dead husband haunts me, because the sheets immediately remind me of those first weeks after he was gone. The wild, unhinged sadness that made it so I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and wouldn’t dream of fresh sheets on the bed. The scent of him had been one of my only comforts.

I rub at my chest as I stare down at the neatly made bed, reminding myself that I’ve come a long way from those days. Grief is a funny old thing. It’s much more of a gentle melancholy now, but I’m not sure my current existence is much of an improvement over those rollercoaster days of deep mourning, where a sudden switchback could steal my breath—like finding a note he’d tucked in a book for me or hearing his favourite song on the radio.

I have a successful business now, a gorgeous home, more money than I can spend, and a loving if nosy family. Yet, I drift through it all like a stick floating atop moving water. And I have no desire for a relationship beyond an orgasm that doesn’t come from my right hand.

“Bet you never factored in a complete disinterest in life, did you, Mr Know it All?” I say into the air. “So, what do I do next? You tell me, Mick.”

In mocking answer, a face immediately swims into my mind—thin and high-boned, with shiny dark hair tumbling around it. It’s a beautiful face that reflects the sweet nature of its owner. I know the man quite well. He’s my assistant.

The bathroom door opens, thankfully pulling me from those ridiculous thoughts. My former bedmate appears, pulling on his T-shirt.

“You never said if you wanted coffee?” I say.

He rolls his eyes. “I’d better not. You might self-combust if I spend longer than another minute in your flat.”

I repress a smile. “You have at least five minutes until that happens and I’d rather avoid any combusting, because it’s my cleaner’s day off.”

He huffs and leaves the room. I follow him down the stairs to my front door. My flat is conveniently located above my wedding-planning business, Confetti Hitched. But on mornings like this, I regret the shared entrance. I groan when I see there’s someone loitering in reception.

“Good morning, Rafferty,” I say with resignation.

My top wedding planner stares at me, glee written all over his expressive features. Glee, and the potent promise of excessive piss-taking. “Good morning, Jed,” he says, his Irish accent softening the words. “And what a particularly beautiful morning it is. Birds are singing, bees are buzzing, and it looks like love is in the air.” I roll my eyes, but it doesn’t stop the fool. “Please introduce me to your charming companion.”

My disgruntled ex-bed partner grunts and slings his jacket over his shoulder. “Don’t bother. I doubt he even knows my name.”

“Good heavens, that is awful,” Rafferty proclaims, putting his hand to his chest dramatically. “Surely that can’t be true. Jed, you must know his name. Restore my faith in humanity, please.”

“I wasn’t aware your faith in humanity had been tested lately.”

He shrugs. “Yeah well, Stan told me I was an idiot this morning. It might be true, but it hardly wins him any awards in the silver-tongued charmers’ category.”

“Oh, poor you. That is terrible. And truthful. Very, very truthful.”

He cocks his head. “I worry sometimes that your caring nature is too much for this world.”

“I feel the same way about your sarcasm.”

“Yeah, you definitely don’t need to worry about him being too caring,” my bedmate interjects.

“Thank you so much,” I say gravely. I suddenly remember his name. “Craig,” I say in triumph.

He eyes me disapprovingly and then marches out the door, a cross witness to the fact that when men say they don’t want you to spend the night, they actually bloody well mean it.

A silence falls that is positively vibrating with Rafferty’s desire to laugh. “So?” he finally says.

I turn to him. “Do you remember what you and Stan were doing when I caught you in the stationery cupboard on Tuesday night?”

He winks. “I told you he was keeping me company while I was counting the pens.”

“I sincerely hope you weren’t looking for pens in the area where your attention was focused.”

He chuckles merrily. “Such is the story of my life. Always doubted and rarely appreciated in the way my personality truly deserves.”

“Anyway, I will never mention the counting-pen incident again. Just as I trust you will say no more about this.” I gesture towards the door where Craig has thankfully disappeared.

“I have to confess those optimistic thoughts will probably be disappointed. I tell Stan everything.” He pauses. “And Joe and Ingrid. I’m afraid my open nature is a curse.”

“This is why I mentioned your stocktaking activities from Tuesday. Because if I hear one word about this, you’ll be counting pens all day.” I pause before adding with relish, “As well as tidying the wedding brochures and alphabetising the vendors’ business-card drawer.”

He blanches. “My lips are sealed,” he says, making an unnecessary zipper noise as he rubs his mouth to emphasise his point.

“Unfortunately for the world, that just isn’t true.”

I walk through the planners’ office. It’s a big room with a tall ceiling and navy-coloured wallpaper that’s made bright by the large Georgian barred windows and the colourful boards behind each planner’s desk that are full of pinned samples. Chairs are pushed under the desks neatly, and the only sound is the low hum of the air conditioning, but soon it will be a hive of activity with phones going and happy couples coming in and out.

It’s my world, and I love it. It wasn’t always so, though. I was a copper when I met Mick. He was the original owner of Confetti Hitched, and the world of weddings and love were so far from my experiences they might as well have been on Mars. He’d persuaded me to leave the force and join him in the business, saying he wanted to spend more time with me rather than the snatched hours we were managing around my shifts. I’d been feeling jaded working as a copper, and spending more time with Mick had been hugely appealing. So I’d agreed to become business partners with him, not expecting to like it that much. It had come as a surprise to find I did.

I love being involved in weddings and the minutiae of details that don’t seem important to anyone else but that are crucial to the people concerned. I love the satisfaction I get when a couple’s day is as special as they’d hoped when they’d first walked into our offices.

“Morning, Jed.”

I turn to see Ingrid my receptionist at the door taking her jacket off. She’s wearing a plum-coloured shift dress, and her long, dark hair has been coiled into a neat chignon. She looks demure, which is the perfect camouflage for her wicked nature.

“Morning.” I smile at her. “How was the theatre last night?”

She rolls her eyes. “People emoting loudly about their problems. I might as well have stayed at work.”

I chuckle, and she gives me her wide, gamine grin. It’s full of charm and explains how she knows more gossip than any reporter who works at The Sun. “Coffee?” she asks.

“Please.” I turn to walk into my office and stop dead. “Where’s Artie?”

He’s usually here, a quiet presence at his desk managing the emotions of the office like a puppeteer pulling strings.

“Oh, he’ll be in later.” Ingrid looks at her phone. “He said he tried to get hold of you, but your phone was off.”

“Shit. I forgot to charge it.”

She raises her eyebrow. Knowing Ingrid, she’s guessing exactly what I got up to last night. “Well, he said he has something urgent to do and he’ll be in later.”

She goes to walk away but stops when I say urgently, “What’s the matter with him?”

Both of her eyebrows rise. “I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

“How did he sound?”

Her head tilts as she scans my features slowly, perhaps looking for signs I’ve lost my mind. She wouldn’t be far wrong.

“Erm, fine. A bit rushed, but he sounded okay.”

I bite my lip and attempt to shrug back into my normal persona. It’s harder than usual. “Okay then, that’s great. Isn’t that great?”

“What is?” She continues to stare at me.

I hesitate. “That everything is okay?”

“Hmm.” She finally gives up. “I’ll get you a coffee.”

“Thank you,” I say with feeling and scurry into my office.

The large space has big windows that look out over the back, narrow garden. It had been the original house’s kitchen. After Mick inherited the property, he’d converted the ground floor into the Confetti Hitched offices, and put his flat on the upper two storeys.

This room is one of my favourite places in the building. It has two walls of floor-to-ceiling bookcases painted a blue green that echoes the oriental wallpaper. A cavernous fireplace is on another wall. It’s currently filled with a flower arrangement that lends a delicate scent to the room.

The huge oak desk belonged to Mick’s great-great-grandad who’d accrued a fortune in shipping and cashiered that into a title from a grateful monarch to whom he’d loaned money. The wood is scratched in places, and sometimes when I’m thinking, I find myself tracing the marks and marvelling at the family history. The old guy was by all accounts a huge snob, so he’s probably rolling in his grave at the idea of a commoner like me sitting at his desk.

I sit down, swinging the chair slightly so I can see the edge of Artie’s desk. My assistant came to work for me when he was eighteen, but even at that age, he had the calm wisdom of an owl. I’d quickly grown to trust his inner compass, as he’d demonstrated time and again that he’d known the right thing to do. He’s the sweet centre of the business and anticipates my moods and makes everything calm in my head.

He’s never steered me wrong. And in all the years I’ve known him, there’s never been anything urgent that’s stopped him from being here. Even when he broke his arm outside the office one morning, he still came into work that afternoon.

Ingrid sails into the office, carrying my coffee. “You alright?”

“Of course. Why?”

She sets my cup down. “No reason.” She follows the direction of my gaze towards Artie’s desk.

“Oh, I’m just thinking of redecorating,” I say quickly, feeling my face flush. “Time for a new broom, you know.”

“Not really. I don’t use the old broom at home.” Her lip twitches. “And you’re starting your plans with Artie’s desk. How interesting.”

“Go away, Ingrid,” I say firmly, hearing her snort with laughter.

“As you wish.”

“And please don’t Princess Bride me on the way out.”

After she’s gone, I look at Artie’s empty desk again thoughtfully. For someone so quiet, he leaves a big hole when he isn’t here. It’s a dangerous thought. But not nearly as dangerous as the moment six months ago when I realised that my assistant made my heart pound and my palms damp like a teenager.

Pulling my diary towards me, I bury my head in work.

I shift in my seat at the bar. The wedding is done and the reception almost finished. All that remains is a decimated buffet table, a bored-looking DJ, and a few guests slow dancing to ‘Careless Whisper’ by George Michael. I can never work out why it’s played at weddings when it’s about cheating.

I take a sip of my drink. I’ve grown used to Artie being at these functions with me, and it seems almost lonely without him today.

“Jed, you’re needed.”

I look up to find the barman hovering. “Sorry. Did you want me?” I say quickly.

“Not me. Him.” He gestures behind me, and I turn to see one of the waiters waving at me urgently. “Either that or he’s pretending to be a windmill.”

I set my glass down and stride over to the beckoning waiter. “Is something the matter, Ricco?” I ask.

The man nods frantically. “You’d better go to the ladies’ bathroom, Jed.”

I blink. “Not usually one of my duties. Why? What’s the matter?”

“Your bride is talking to her mother-in-law.”

“Is that not a good thing?”

He grimaces. “Not when she’s apparently holding her head over a toilet and threatening to pull the chain.”

“Oh shit!”

It’s a little too loud and several heads turn my way, including the groom’s. “Everything okay, Jed?” he calls.

“Absolutely fine, Lee,” I call back. “Couldn’t be better. Are you okay?”

He nods enthusiastically. “I don’t think this day could have been any more perfect, and that’s entirely down to you.”

I’m almost positive that his new bride being carted away in a police car for attempting to murder his mother might put a crimp in his bright cheerfulness, so I offer him a wan smile and, straightening my tie, I hustle to the ladies’ bathroom.

I find two of the bridesmaids huddled in listening poses by the door. As I get close, I can hear a muted scream and then words being shouted. I groan. Perfect.

“Ladies,” I say briskly, and they jump and turn to me. Thank god, most of the guests have gone by now or we’d have an audience size more suited to the Royal Variety Show. “Everything okay?”

They look at each other and then back at me. “We might have a teeny problem,” Heather the chief bridesmaid says.

At that moment there’s a thump and more shouting.

“Just the one?” I ask.

“Esme is a bit peeved with Lee’s mother.”

We listen to more indistinguishable shouting. “Peeved or certifiably homicidal?” I ask.

Heather shrugs. “Maybe a bit of both. It’s the⁠—”

“Dress?” I say grimly and she nods.

“What’s going on?” a familiar voice enquires.

I spin around and my heart lifts at the sight of the pretty face in front of me. “Artie,” I gasp.

He’s wearing a dark grey suit that clings to his narrow shoulders. There’s a quizzical look on his gorgeous face, which is heart-shaped with high cheekbones and a full, bee-stung mouth. His hair is wavy and dark and his eyes a very pale blue like the sky on a summer morning.

He gives his usual gentle smile. “Sorry I wasn’t here to help you with the wedding.”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “You know you can take time off whenever you like.”

He frowns. “Not when it’s leaving you in the lurch.”

He looks his usual calm self, but on closer inspection there appears to be signs of strain around his lips. “You okay?” I ask, all my protective impulses rising to the fore. Something about him makes me want to look after him.

A flush rises on his cheeks, making his pale blue eyes even more distinctive. “I’m fine, thank you,” he says quietly.

As I become aware that the two bridesmaids are observing us as if we’re on centre court at Wimbledon, a muted scream sounds from the bathroom.

“What on earth?” Artie gasps. “What is going on in there?”

“It’s the dress,” Heather says wearily.

“Does Esme not like her dress?” Artie pauses. “Is that the designer in there with her?” he asks in a high, alarmed voice.

I bite my lip to hide my smile. “No.” I wink at him. “That’s her new mother-in-law.”

“What?”

Heather huffs. “I’m going in,” she says in a tone I last heard in a black-and-white war film. Having met Esme’s mother-in-law on numerous occasions, I don’t think it’s too wide of the mark.

She hands Artie her small bouquet. “Hold this, please.”

He takes it obligingly and almost immediately sneezes.

I remove it from his hands and set it on a nearby table. “He’s allergic to flower pollen,” I tell Heather.

She takes a deep breath and opens the door an inch. “Esme, are you okay?” she calls.

“I’ve always thought you were a bitch,” comes a shout. “You’re not worthy of my son.”

Heather slams the door quickly. “I’m pretty sure that wasn’t aimed at me.” We all nod. “But I’m not going in there to find out.” She points at me. “When Esme asked me to be chief bridesmaid, she said my duties were organising the hen do and making a toast. Not Jake Gyllenhaaling the door of a bathroom in Road House while she threatens her mother-in-law.”

“Of course,” I say solemnly. “Jake could never withstand the rigours of bridesmaiding. Not even with all the muscles revealed by his open shirts.”

Artie snorts.

“Absolutely,” Heather says with a nod. “So you’re going to sort this out, and Polly and I are going to drink our own and several other people’s body weight in wedding cocktails before they close the bar. And then I’m probably going to shag the best man.”

I nod and hand her my card. “Please do call on me in case the shag turns marital.”

She grins and takes the card. “Polly,” she says, gesturing in the direction of the bar like an army commander in lilac lace. Her friend nods quickly and falls in behind her obediently, leaving me and Artie standing in sudden silence.

He leans close as he puts his ear to the door, and I suck in a breath at the feel of his arm against mine and the warm scent of his amber and patchouli cologne. His hand rests against the door, and I look at the long, slender fingers with their neat nails.

“It’s gone quiet.”

“Pardon?”

He looks at me curiously. “Are you okay? You seem a bit distracted.”

A bit? He thankfully has no idea of the fact that he’s causing my distraction, and if I have my way, he never will.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve wished I’d never had that revelation six months ago. He’d leaned over me to correct something in a document, pressing his warm body against mine. Then I’d looked up at him, and my head had spun at the sight of not a boy, but a gorgeous young man. It was as if someone had ripped a blindfold off my eyes, and I’d finally noticed his full, soft lips and those pretty, pale eyes.

“Jed?”

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I’m just a bit tired.”

His face clouds in concern. “You need to get a good night’s sleep.”

I think of the hours I’d spent lying on the edge of my bed last night while my bedmate snored peacefully. It had felt rather rude to wake him at four in the morning. I’m reconsidering that decision now.

“You’re not wrong,” I say grimly.

He presses his ear against the door again. “It’s gone quiet. Is that good or bad?”

“Depends whether matricide is your thing or not.”

He snorts and then looks at me and back at the door. “On the count of three⁠—”

“This is not a BBC police drama. It’s just a bride and her mother-in-law. How bad could things get?”

“Quite bad,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “Have you forgotten the Rogers-White wedding?”

I roll my eyes. “If anything was going to send me to therapy, it would have been them. The dry cleaners never managed to get my suit clean again.” I reach past him and open the door. Voices rise suddenly in shrill argument. “Ladies, we’re coming in,” I call.

There’s an ominous silence before they start shrieking again, and I exchange a look with Artie. Before my gaze can linger on those soft blue eyes, I walk into the bathroom. There’s a small waiting area in front of a closed door. Whatever is behind that door has got to be better than standing around lusting over my assistant.

I reconsider that statement when my feet crunch on the flowers strewn across the floor. A closer look identifies it as Esme’s bouquet.

“Hasn’t she even tossed the bouquet yet?” Artie whispers, standing close.

I shiver slightly at his breath on my ear. “No, she did that earlier. Her mother-in-law caught it.”

He frowns. “Why do you say it in such a tone of doom?”

I grimace. “It wasn’t so much her carrying her daughter-in-law’s bouquet around the reception like a chimpanzee on her hip, it was probably the outfit she was wearing that tipped the balance.”

“Why?” He brightens. “Was it tartan? I know Esme specified no tartan.”

“Not a whiff of a check anywhere, unfortunately.” I knock on the door. “I’ll let you see for yourself.”

“You’re such a fucking cow,” comes Esme’s shout. “And your Yorkshire puddings are terrible.”

There’s an outraged gasp. “Take that back, you…you Jezebel.”

I clear my throat. “Hello? It’s Jed. If it’s okay with you both, I’d like to come in. I’m with Artie, and we wanted to check on you.”

And find out whether I should warn Lee that his family Sunday dinners just got a whole lot more awkward, and his damage deposit has probably sailed away on a sea of in-law strife.

There’s a short silence and then Esme exclaims, “Artie’s here?” in a manner I’d use to announce Taylor Swift on stage.

If I could bottle Artie’s gentle charm to give away, the world would be a better place. “Yes, he is,” I say. “And we need to make sure that everything is okay.”

Footsteps sound, the door swings open, and Esme the bride stands there. She’s a beautiful woman, but her face is cherry-red with rage, and her hair has fallen out of its previous neat chignon. Her tiara is crooked, giving her the look of a drunken princess.

“Hey,” she says in an excessively cheerful voice. “Did you enjoy the wedding?”

I stare at her. “Yes, it was exceptionally well organised.”

She slaps my arm. “Cheeky boy.”

I shift position. “Is everything okay, Esme?”

“Of course. Of course, of course, of course.”

“Hmm. Only the staff reported rather a lot of screaming coming from here. Is there something I can help you with?”

She swings the door in a cheery fashion. “Not really, Jed. I’m just having a chat with Cynthia.”

Footsteps sound and the woman in question appears behind Esme with her hair hanging out of her neat updo. I hear Artie say, “Oh,” in a tone of revelation, and I shoot him a wry look. Now he’s getting it.

“Evening, gentlemen,” Cynthia says, trying to pat her hair back into place. I wish her luck. She looks like she’s been in a wind tunnel.

“Evening,” we chorus like we’re at Sunday school.

I take a breath and gird my loins. “What’s the problem here?”

There’s a moment of beautiful silence, and then they both begin to talk over each other. The shouting is loud in the enclosed space and I wince.

“Can I just—?” I try.

“She said my cooking was terrible.”

“Well, she’s always hated me. She said I looked like a strumpet when Lee took me home and⁠—”

“Ladies.” My voice is very loud, and they fall silent. “Thank you. Now apart from food and Esme’s individual dress sense—” I hear a soft snort from Artie. “—what is the problem?”

“She wore a wedding dress to my fucking wedding,” Esme shrieks.

And there we have it.

She’s not wrong. Cynthia is wearing a long, white, lace dress which is undoubtedly a wedding dress.

“Hmm,” I say. “Well, it does appear so, yes.”

“Appear so? If she got any closer to a bride, she’d be shagging the groom tonight.”

“How dare you? That’s disgusting,” Cynthia says shrilly.

“It’s actually a compliment to wear a white dress,” I interject quickly. Both women turn to me, and I resist the urge to cower.

“Why?” Esme asks in a warning manner.

“Oh, maybe you hadn’t heard. It’s very much a ‘this season’ trend.”

Esme’s eyes narrow. She would happily follow a fashion trend off a cliff like a style-conscious lemming. “The mother-in-law wearing a wedding dress is a trend?” she asks.

“Oh, you didn’t know,” I say sadly. “It’s not a wedding dress per se. Just a white dress. I’m seeing it a lot at celebrity weddings,” I finish hopefully. Esme refers to Hello magazine more frequently than the Archbishop of Canterbury does the Bible. “Close relatives wear white to echo and enhance the beauty of the bride. Isn’t that right, Cynthia?” I say in a slightly steely voice as she opens her mouth to no doubt contradict me.

She hesitates and Artie steps forward.

“What a lovely gesture,” he says in his warm voice. The two women turn to him like sunflowers sensing the sun. “After all, the two of you are together now because you both love Lee.” They shift awkwardly, and he bestows another smile on them. I watch, hypnotised. “It would be so awful if the two most important people in his life can’t get along. I’ve seen cases where it’s happened.”

“Have you?” Esme asks.

He nods like a little wise owl in a grey suit. “The son usually chooses his bride’s side.”

Esme brightens but sags as he makes a sad face.

“But unfortunately,” Artie continues, “it then ruins his relationship with his mother. So, no one is happy.”

“Oh no,” Esme says, her eyes glistening. I don’t know whether she’s really sad or finally feeling the alcohol. “I don’t want that. Lee loves his mum.”

Cynthia sniffs. “I don’t want that either. I love both of you.”

I’d say that was highly debatable, but I wisely keep my mouth shut.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” Esme says. “And I lied. Your Yorkshire puddings are lovely.”

“And I’m sorry I wore a wedding—” Cynthia hesitates and shoots me a look. “—a white dress to echo and enhance your beauty.”

I nod approvingly as they hug, crying into each other’s necks.

“I’ll send Heather in with her makeup bag,” I announce, and Artie and I make a swift exit.

We both take a deep breath in the corridor. “Fucking hell. That was the closest I ever want to get to in-law drama,” I mutter and Artie snorts. “You may laugh, but I’ve seen things over the years.” I shudder as memories cross my mind. “I’ve seen things,” I say again in a tone more suited to someone on the set of House of Dragons.

He gives me his lovely smile that makes his eyes twinkle. “Well, they’re okay now. Isn’t that nice?”

“I’d say it’s a temporary affair, but what happens after the wedding is thankfully none of my business.” I give the closed door an assessing look. “Well, at least until their next weddings.” I look up and find him watching me affectionately.

“You’re very cynical,” he observes.

“More a realist. Well done, by the way.”

He raises an eyebrow in query.

“For that interjection,” I explain. “I’d covered Esme with my celebrity-wedding trend, but Cynthia was an unknown quantity.”

“I think they both wanted to make up. They just couldn’t work out how to do it.” He sighs. “Families can be very complicated.”

There’s something in his voice that makes me examine his face closely. His lips are tight, and his eyes look strained. Worry stirs. Artie is usually very content and calm.

“What’s the matter?” I say immediately.

He looks at me, startled, and I take his arm and lead him to a small table in the corner of the bar. I pull out a chair for him, and after he sits, I take the chair across from him, meeting his gaze.

“I know there’s something wrong,” I tell him.

“How?”

I shrug awkwardly. “We work very closely together. I sense things, as can you.”

And I watch you, I add silently. All the bloody time.

He shifts on the chair, and my stomach clenches at the sight of his shadowed eyes.

I lean forward. “Tell me,” I say, filled with the desire to make it right for him. To make everything right for him.

He licks his lips nervously. “I have to get married.”

My heart sinks like a lift plummeting thirty floors.

two

. . .

artie

The bistro in Chelsea is charming. Wisteria grows up the building’s exterior walls, and small iron tables and chairs painted bright colours are set on the pavement. Jed opens the door and ushers me inside. Even at this late hour, it’s busy and the air is full of the scent of good things cooking. My stomach rumbles.

Jed smiles at me. “Let’s sit down. I’m starving. I never got a chance to eat tonight, and I know you didn’t.”

I follow him to a table and he pulls out a chair for me. It’s one of those innately courteous things he seems to do unconsciously. He’s a gentleman down to the soles of his Santoni shoes.

He sits down opposite me, his knee bumping mine. His body heat seeps through the expensive tailoring of his suit trousers, and I control a shiver of awareness as he hands me a menu. “The chicken printanier is very good,” he offers. “But you can’t go wrong with anything here.”

Someone calls his name, and his face breaks into the big, wide smile he doesn’t wear often. It lights up his face, making his eyes look very green. He stands up just as a young woman barrels into him. He hugs her, chuckling. “How are you, Moira?”

She’s blonde with a heart-shaped face and her head barely reaches Jed’s shoulders. “I’m fine, Uncle Jed. How are you?”

“Moira owns the bistro,” Jed explains to me and turns to her. “Moira, this is Artie.”

The name rings a bell for some reason, but I can’t work out why. “Nice to meet you,” I say, aware of her eyes busily taking an inventory of me.

“Artie? Oh, I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Have you?” I ask, startled to see a slight flush on Jed’s cheekbones.

“I’m sorry for interrupting your date,” she says, her smile charming. “It’s just that I haven’t seen Uncle Jed for ages.”

“Oh, it isn’t a date,” Jed says immediately.

Try as I might, I can’t help the pang of disappointment that hits me. I wonder when I’ll ever stop feeling it.

“Really?” She looks between us and then chuckles. “Oops. It just looked like one. Sorry.”

I force my feelings down and smile at her. “No need to apologise.”

“I’ll take your order while I’m here, though.”

“How are you doing?” Jed asks. “Business looks good.”

“It’s brilliant, thank you. Are you coming for Sunday lunch this week? I know Dad’s been texting you.”

“I think so. I’ll phone him later. We’ve just been at a wedding.” He turns to me and says, “Moira, here, is my goddaughter.”

The name finally clicks in my memory bank. “Ah, I remember now. Her dad is your best friend, isn’t he?

He nods. “He was my partner when I was on the force. We came up through police college together.”

“He still misses you,” Moira tells him. “He says no one talked as much sense as you.”

“He should come and do a talk at my agency on the subject.”

I chuckle as she takes out her notepad.

“I’ll have the honey-glazed pork medallions with dauphinoise potatoes, and a glass of chardonnay,” Jed says.

I nod. “That sounds good. I’ll have the same, thank you.”

She pats his shoulder. “I’ll send someone over with your drinks.”

She bustles away and a silence falls. Jed shifts the salt and pepper shakers, pushing them together neatly, and then stacks the napkins. It’s only when he straightens the tablecloth that I realise he’s nervous.

“Are you okay?” I blurt out.

He looks up, startled, and his green eyes look almost gold in the low light. “I’m fine,” he says. He hesitates and then says abruptly, “I’d like to know about your wedding. Have you been seeing your fiancé a long while? You never said you were seeing anyone.” The pause is a beat too long. “Would you like me to organise it for you? It would be free as an employee of Confetti Hitched.” He licks his lip. “A very valued employee,” he adds softly. “And⁠—”

Without thinking, I place my hand over his, cutting off his tumble of words. A beat of silence drops, and then he removes his hand and scratches his eyebrow awkwardly. For a second, his gaze seems to focus on my mouth, but he glances away when a waiter approaches our table.

It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve imagined him liking me and been disabused. It’s total wish fulfilment on my part, and I know it.

The waiter deposits our drinks and scurries away, and I sigh when Jed looks at me and raises his eyebrow. He’s not giving up on this.

“It’s a long story,” I say rather inanely.

“We have all the time you need.”

“What time does this place close?” I glance around the busy café, seeking distraction.

“Two in the morning. Plenty of time to talk about your wedding. Who’s the lucky man?” He seems to fumble that last question.

“Well, there’s the thing…”

He regards me patiently. That steady calmness is one of his best qualities. You feel safe with him. I run my hand through my hair.

His gaze sharpens. “Artie, what’s the matter?” He hesitates and then adds fiercely, “Are you in some kind of trouble? If you are, I want you to tell me and I will sort it out for you.”

I gape at him. “How did you get from a wedding to trouble?”

He rolls his eyes, but his cheeks are flushed. “It’s not such a big reach in our profession. Especially if you employ Raff and Joe.” He offers his hand, and I put my own in his without thinking. It should be startling to hold hands with my gorgeous boss, but somehow, it’s as natural as taking my next breath—smooth and right. “Tell me,” he stresses. “I know you’re troubled.” He gestures at my face with his free hand. “Your face gives you away every time.”

I groan. “And that’s my curse in life.” I feel his hand slip away from mine with sadness and then square my shoulders. “I need to get married.”

“Need to?” His gaze is laser focused, and I shift uneasily under it. I bet he was a good policeman, because he’s patient and steady until he gets his own way.

Before I can answer him, movement from behind him catches my eye. “Moira is gesturing to you.”

He looks back and Moira holds up a landline phone. “For you,” she calls.

Jed groans. “It’ll be her dad. I haven’t been in touch for ages, and I haven’t replied to his texts. Do you mind?”

“Of course not.”

I watch him stride over to the counter and say something to Moira that makes her laugh. He takes the phone and begins talking, a smile pulling at that full mouth of his. I indulge myself in my favourite hobby—watching Jed Walker while he’s not aware.

He’s a stunning man. Six foot two with broad shoulders, narrow hips, and a long, muscled body. He grew a short beard a few months ago and his brown-blond hair is a little longer than usual, hitting his neck in shaggy waves. It suits him, softening his craggy face with its stubborn, square chin and the determined jut of his jaw. It’s not a pretty face. There’s a scar through one eyebrow courtesy of someone wielding a broken bottle when he’d been a beat bobby. His nose is crooked, as it’s been broken a few times, but it’s a handsome one that compels a second glance.

The trouble is I didn’t stop at a second glance. I sigh and take a sip of my drink. I came to work for him when I was eighteen. At first, I’d been wary of the big bloke with the deep voice and sarcastic wit, but I steadily became aware that the wit was never cruel and although his voice was deep, he never shouted, no matter the provocation.

He’s the kindest man you could hope to meet and impossibly loyal. If you have him at your back, then you’re safe. Safety was something I hadn’t felt for years, so it was no wonder I harboured a crush on him that steadily burned brighter and brighter. And now it’s a conflagration of emotions that I don’t care to acknowledge, because they’re utterly hopeless.

He taps the counter idly while listening to his friend on the phone. The glint of gold on his ring finger steadies me like it usually does. There is no chance for me with Jed. I know it as surely as I know my own name and my disinclination towards karaoke and ice skating. Jed might be a widower, but in his heart he will always be married to Mick.

He’d been a widower for three years when I’d met him. He’d been hollow-eyed and desperately unhappy, but no longer mad with grief. I would see sparks of life, of happiness, but he’d douse them again and again. Relationships were never allowed to form. Oh, he’ll sleep with men—they’re a constant progression through his bedroom. But no one sticks, because he stays loyal to Mick.

I often wonder what Mick was like. I’ve heard lots of funny stories about him from Margot, who’s been at the agency longer than Jed. Mick was obviously a character who was larger than life, and I’m sure that’s why Jed finds it so difficult to let go.

I grimace. It also explains why Jed’s never cast an eye at me. There is no way on this earth and a few other planets that Jed would look at quiet, mousy me when he was in love with a man like Mick.

Jed hangs up the phone. As he walks back to me, I plaster on a smile.

“I wouldn’t bother trying to fool me,” he says cheerfully as he comes near.

I sigh. Jed can be annoyingly perceptive and annoyingly oblivious. Earlier, he’d said he could see all my emotions. I’d almost fallen off my seat laughing, because he’s never once seen that I’m in love with him.

“Oh dear, is it that bad?” he asks, sliding into his seat. I inhale the scent of his Durand cologne. It’s musky and fresh and makes my head spin, and I’d once spent an embarrassing hour sniffing it in Harvey Nicks.

His mouth quirks, and I try to remember what he just said.

“It’s not bad at all,” I lie, quickly smiling at Moira as she sets plates of food in front of us.

I glance at Jed and see he’s directing a narrow-eyed gaze at me. I groan silently, but he doesn’t question me again. Instead, he eats and tells me a funny story about the wedding today.

We laugh through that and another story involving Rafferty, Joe, and an ice cream van. It’s only when he sets his knife and fork down that I notice my plate is empty. I glance at Jed, and a funny expression crosses his face before he smiles and summons the waitress to take our plates.

“Now you’ve eaten, we can talk,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

He raises one eyebrow. “Your appetite is always affected by nerves, and you needed to eat. You’re too pale lately. I’ll order us both another drink, and then you can tell me what’s happening to worry you.” He winks as he gestures to the waitress again. “I can wait a long while, and I have nowhere to be.”

He orders an amaretto for me, and I hold back another sigh. How can I get over him when he does such sweet things? Nobody else in my life would worry that I was pale, order me my favourite drink, or keep me occupied enough to enjoy a meal when my stomach is twisting itself in knots.

I take a sip of my liqueur, the sweet, nutty flavour warming my throat as I swallow.

“Okay,” he says. “Get on with it. You’re getting married.” He pauses, his brow wrinkling. “No, you have to get married. What is going on?”

I shrug. “Well, I have to find a candidate for the marriage first.”

“What?”

I lick my lips nervously. “I should probably start with the fact that my stepmother died three months ago.”

“You didn’t say. I’m so sorry.”

“Well, that’s nice, but she probably wouldn’t thank you for the sentiment. She mistrusted emotion and didn’t like people. Especially me.” I smooth a crease from the tablecloth and then make myself look at him. His face is set in its usual inscrutable mask, but his eyes are busy.

“So, you didn’t get along?”

“No, not at all. She married my father when I was five, but I’m not sure why she chose a widower with a child. She disliked children very much.”

My stepsister Daisy would say Laura married my father for the money, but I don’t want to think that. In spite of everything that’s happened, I want my father to have been happy and loved.

“So, you had no relationship?”

“No. I left home when I was sixteen.”

His gaze sharpens. “Left or were pushed?”

“Maybe a little bit of both? But I’m sure they wanted their privacy. Doesn’t every parent want their teenagers to leave home?”

“No, they don’t,” he says simply. He pauses, his eyes soft. “I’m sorry.”

The sentiment is short but sweet, and it catches at the back of my throat and makes my eyes hot. “No need to be sorry,” I say. I grimace. “I’m telling this very badly.”

“You’re doing perfectly. I only wish I had my notebook and a light to shine in your eyes to get you to confess all.”

“Don’t forget your truncheon,” I say without thinking.

There’s a stunned silence. My face turns red, but Jed breaks into laughter that’s so loud and merry that several people turn towards us, a few faces smiling at the contagious sound. Moira gives him an astonished look before narrowing her eyes at me.

I turn my focus to Jed.

“Sorry,” he says, wiping his eyes. A soft snort escapes him. “One must never underestimate the power of a good truncheon,” he says soberly.

I groan. “Oh, stop it.”

He chuckles again. After a moment, he prompts, “So, your stepmother died?”

“Yes.” I pause. “I’m telling this very badly because I’ve started at the end rather than the beginning.”

“Isn’t that sometimes the best way?”

“I’m not sure where the beginning is anymore. Maybe when my father died about five years ago.”

“What about your mother?”

“Oh.” I smile at the thought of her. “She died when I was two. Actually, you’re right. I should start with her because that explains the situation. Her father owned a very successful engineering company, and she was his only child, so all his money came to her when he passed away. She was fairly wealthy.”

He pushes my drink towards me. I obediently take a sip.

“We lived in a big house,” I continue. “It backed onto Wimbledon Common. It was the most lovely place and had the best atmosphere.” I swallow. “She left the house to my dad with the understanding that he would pass it on to me when he died.”

“And that was clear in her will?” he asks quietly.

I shake my head. “No. My dad largely abided by her wishes.”

“But?” he prompts.

“He took a detour. He left the money and house to my stepmother.” His face is thunderous and I smile at him. “It’s fine. He told her she could live in it until her death but then had to leave it to me.”

“But what about you? What about what you wanted? That was your home.”

My eyes widen. His passion is slightly disconcerting.

“Sorry,” he says, sighing. “Go on. Has she left the house to you?”

“In a way,” I say slowly. “You have to understand that she didn’t like me at all. She didn’t want me around, because I interfered with my father’s attention. And that’s probably why I left home so early.”

“Where did you go?” he says thickly. “Please tell me where you went at sixteen on your own, Artie.”

“I stayed with my boyfriend’s family. Well, my boyfriend at the time.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, his family were lovely. I still spend Christmas with them. They’re like my own family.”

“And what happened to that boyfriend?”

“That’s another story.” And not one I want to tell you, I add silently.

“I’m sorry. I keep interrupting. I just hate the idea of you being cast out of your house and⁠—”

“I was okay,” I say, smiling at him again. “She didn’t chuck me on the streets with all my belongings in a handkerchief and one shoe that a prince would look for.”

“I think you’re mixing up a few fairy tales, here and there,” he says wryly, and I chuckle. “So, what has she done?”

I stare at him, shocked by how perceptive he is.

He shrugs. “It doesn’t take Einstein to recognise a spiteful person. She’s obviously done something to you.”

I take a deep breath. “Apparently, she’s put in her will that I can only inherit the house if I’m married. So, I need to get married right now.”

There’s not an ounce of pity in his green eyes for what I just revealed. After a moment, he says very loudly, “What utter bollocks.”

A woman at a nearby table gasps.

“I’ve never heard such cruel claptrap,” he rants, half rising out of his seat.

For a moment I imagine him seeking out my stepmother to give her a piece of his mind. He might just be determined enough to dig her up.

“It’s alright,” I soothe, repressing a smile.

He settles back in his chair. I offer the woman beside us an apologetic smile but she’s staring at Jed and fluffing her hair, so the apology is obviously not needed.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I just hate shit like that. It’s unjust and outrageous to put stipulations on something that’s already yours.”

“It’s okay,” I say softly. “It really didn’t surprise me, Jed. I was expecting something like this from her.”

“And that makes me even more cross.” He taps the table. “It’s completely unenforceable, of course. You must know that, Artie. People being forced to marry belongs in the romance novels that Joe reads and not in a court of law. What did your solicitor say? He must have told you that you can contest the will.”

“Hmm. I’ve not seen him yet,” I say evasively.

His eyes sharpen. “So, how do you know what’s in the will? Did your stepmother tell you?”

“No, her daughter did.”

“Who?”

“My stepsister, Daisy. I share a flat with her.”

“You do?” He looks like he’s failed an exam on Artie Campbell—a subject he thought he knew everything about. Then his face clears. “Is Daisy the girl who came with you to the Christmas party last year? The one with the nice laugh and the purple hair?”

“It’s pink at the moment but she does have a very good laugh.”

“She also came to pick you up from work a few months ago.” His lip twitches. “She grilled me rather extensively about your working conditions while you went to get your coat. It made me feel like you’d been forced up a chimney rather than being seated at a rather nice desk.” I groan and his eyes sharpen. “So, she told you about the will. How does she know?”

“She’s the executor.”

“And you trust her? I don’t mean to be rude but maybe she wants the money for herself?”

I pat his hand, touched by his concern. “No, she hated her mum. Absolutely loathed her. She wants nothing from her. In fact, the only thing she bought for the funeral was a pair of dancing shoes so she could boogie on her grave. It took me a long time to talk her out of that idea.”

He suppresses something that sounds like a laugh and says, “But how can you trust her and⁠—”

He pauses when I put my hand up. “Trust me on this. She has her own money from her father. Besides, she’s my only family and has always wanted me to be happy.”

He looks unconvinced, but if he knew Daisy, he’d believe me.

“So, she’s telling the truth. Are you going to contest the ridiculous will?” he asks.

I shake my head slowly.

His eyes sharpen. “You’re actually going along with it. That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard, Artie. Is it the money? I can give you the money if you haven’t got enough to hire a lawyer. I don’t even want it back.”

“Thank you,” I say, touched. “But I don’t want to contest it.”

“Why?”

I grip the table’s edge. “Because that’s my mum’s house. I don’t remember much about her, except that she was soft and warm and smelt like vanilla.” I’m sure I sound like a child, but I can’t help the fervour in my voice. “And Laura my stepmother ruined everything. She cost me my father, because he did as she wanted and cut me out without a second glance. But my mother—” I pause and take in a breath. “She loved me, and she wanted me to have that house as my home and I want to do that for her.” I sit back. “And say stuff it to Laura as well,” I add primly. “She knew I hadn’t had a relationship since my first boyfriend. This is her way of taunting me that I wouldn’t be able to find anyone to marry me. Well, I’m going to show her.”

“And what happens to the house if you don’t abide by this ridiculous condition?”

“That’s even worse. It’ll go to my mother’s aunt. She lives in Spain and has already told Daisy that she’ll sell the house to a friend who’s a developer. He wants to knock the place down and build a couple of houses on the land. My mother would have hated to see that, so I have to stop it.” I pause and gather my thoughts. “I just need to find someone who’d be prepared to marry me until after the will is read. Then we can go our separate ways.”

His eyes sharpen. “Why? If Daisy is the executor of your stepmother’s will, then surely you have someone already in your corner who’d be prepared to overlook the nitty gritty? You could just say you’re engaged and leave it at that.”

I shake my head. “That’s not possible. My mother’s aunt has hired her own lawyer to make sure that the terms of the will are adhered to. I can’t risk being found out, so I’d better find a good actor to be my fake husband.”

I take a deep breath as Jed studies me intently—like I’m a stranger who’s suddenly joined him at his table.

Finally, he stirs. “I’m just going out for a cigarette.”

I huff slightly but then nod. I hate him smoking, but it’s not my business and he doesn’t do it very often. It’s something he does when he’s pondering a problem or thinking through a plan. I’d never admit it, but he’s rather sexy when he presses his generous lips around a cigarette, his eyes narrowing as he exhales a stream of smoke.

“I’ll be here,” I tell him. He leaves quickly, digging through his pockets for the pack and his lighter as he goes.

“So, you’re Artie?”

I cast a swift glance over my shoulder and find Moira approaching the table. “Yes, that’s me,” I say, smiling. “Can I help you?”

She hesitates by Jed’s chair, glancing towards where he’s standing outside the café window, smoke weaving around him like a dragon in disguise. “No,” Moira says. “I just wanted to say hello properly. Jed talks about you a lot and…”

I wait a beat. “And?”

“I haven’t seen him laugh like that in ten years,” she says in a rush. She gives me a smile before darting off.

I stare after her, warmth kindling in my stomach. Jed smiles often but doesn’t laugh much. I can’t remember many full-bodied laughs like the one he gave tonight.

The bell on the door tinkles, and I watch him stride towards me with his usual purpose and speed. His jaw is set, his eyes narrowed, and my heart begins a fast thud.

“Are you alright?” I ask, straightening in my chair as he retakes his seat. “Is there an emergency?”

“No, no. Everything’s fine.”

He stares at me, and I shift awkwardly.

“Are you alright?” I ask again. I take a sip of my drink to settle my nerves.

A muscle in his jaw tics, and I watch him warily.

“Will you marry me?” he blurts.

I spit my drink all over him.

three

. . .

artie

After watching Jed’s car disappear down the street, I let myself into my flat and shut the door firmly behind me. I lean against it for a second before slowly sliding to sit on the floor. I stare ahead, looking at the peeling wallpaper. The pattern is made up of cats wearing different hats. The previous occupant was obviously a fan of felines because they’re on the wallpaper in all the rooms.

It’s dark, so Daisy isn’t here, and it’s cold because we’re trying to cut costs. Our last electricity bill gave the impression that we’d been heating the flat for a century rather than just a month. The flat is small and poky, and the smells from the pizza place downstairs can sometimes be rather overpowering, but it’s home.

I pick at the worn carpet and carefully replay Jed’s proposal in my head. After I’d spat my drink over him, he calmly wiped it off and said quietly that I’d obviously need time to think about his suggestion.

Now that I’m away from him, I can analyse his idea. Perhaps understand why it had even occurred to him. And try to tell my foolish, dreaming heart that his motivation had nothing to do with that—my foolish, dreaming heart—and everything to do with Jed’s usual, practical, steady willingness to help one of his mishap-prone employees get out of a jam.

I still remember when Rafferty and Stan got locked out of their flat. Jed had arrived with a ladder and proceeded to break in to get their keys. It was the neatest, most efficient burglary I’d ever seen. Maybe it was a little too good because when the police turned up in response to a neighbour’s alarmed phone call, they’d tried to arrest him. It was only when one of them recognised Jed that they cancelled the plans to take him down to the station. This had caused a great deal of amusement in the office and even Jed had laughed when Raff and Joe had turned up to the staff meeting handcuffed to each other. He'd been even more amused when they lost the key.

My phone rings, and Daisy’s face flashes up on the screen. She’s laughing in the picture, which she does a lot in life.

“Hey,” I say. “Are you having a good night?”

“Oh, the best night, babe.” There’s a lot of noise in the background, so I guess she’s at a club. “I have something amazing to tell you.”

“What?” I ask cautiously. Daisy’s ideas can sometimes be rather catastrophic because she doesn’t think things through.

“Do you remember my friend Simon?”

“Can you narrow it down? You have hundreds of friends.”

“I met him at college. He was the one who was sick on the sofa at my old place, and I lost my deposit.”

“You lost your deposit because of the broken window.”

“You must remember him.”

“Is he the one who spoke about Proust for three hours before the unfortunate incident with the sofa?”

“That’s the one. He was better than a bouncer for clearing parties. Anyway, I met Simon tonight, and I was telling him about your little problem.”

I groan. “Aren’t we supposed to be keeping it a secret?”

“Oh, don’t worry. I didn’t mention your name. I just said it was a friend. Anyway, I told him all about it, and he’ll do it.”

“Do what?”

“He’ll fake marry you. It’s serendipity, sweetie. He’s an actor.”

“Have I seen him in anything?”

There’s a pause. “No, probably not. He’s not actually working as an actor at the moment.”

“What does he do, then?”

“He’s behind the counter at Greggs in Camden.”

“So, you want me to trust my future to an actor who’s not actually acting?”

“It’ll be fine.”

“It probably won’t.”

“And a bonus is that he always gets the leftovers from Greggs, so we’ll never run short of sausage rolls.”

I picture Simon. Then I picture spending several important hours of my life with Simon. “I hate to deprive you of a good sausage roll, but I’ve already solved the problem myself.”

“Artie, have you decided not to do it?” she says gently. “Because it’s fine if you have, sweetie.”

“No. Absolutely not. I still want to do this.”

“So what did you have in mind?”

I lick my lips. “Jed said he’d do it.”

There’s a pause. “Who?”

“My boss.”

“Sexy Jed said he’ll pretend to be your fake fiancé?”

“That’s the one. Surprise.”

“That’s an understatement.” She hesitates. “And you’re actually thinking of accepting his offer?”

“Well, it’s Jed.”

“But can he act?”

“He can do anything he puts his mind to,” I say with certainty. “And he’s never mentioned Proust, so that’s got to be a bonus.”

She snorts. “True.”

“What do you think?”

The noise of music fills the line for a few seconds. “You should do it,” she finally says firmly.

“Why?”

“Because you know Jed. You like Jed. And you sound confident about the idea, and I like that for you.”

I do? I ask silently. I clear my throat and say, “Yes.” Because I do know and like Jed—those are two things I can be entirely confident about.

She says goodbye, and I settle back against the door, shivering slightly at the cool air of the flat.

Daisy had seemed surprised I’d come up with a solution on my own. But had I actually done that? No. That had been Jed.

Nobody ever expects me to take charge. Part of that is my personality, and part of that is due to circumstances—my father’s weakness and my stepmother’s hatred. I’m sure Jed thinks I’ve fallen into the trap set by my stepmother, but he never knew Laura. She’d be horrified to think I’d played her game and won. The thought gives me a small thrill.

I pull out my phone and regard it thoughtfully. Spending more time with Jed—having him play this game with me—also gives me a thrill. One I should be wary of, but damn it, why shouldn’t I get some benefit from this absurd situation and spend time with someone who makes me feel good? It won’t hurt Jed. Once the reading of the will is done and the solicitors are happy, he’ll get on with his life, and I’ll have my house.

I find his contact picture. It’s one I’d rather creepily taken without him knowing at the office Christmas party. He’d been laughing at something Joe had said, and I’d snapped the picture. I’d cut Joe out of it without a shadow of guilt, and now Jed’s face stares back at me, his eyes alight and his handsome face soft with laughter, lacking for once its usual concentration and focus.

I press to connect the call.

“Artie?” he says in his deep voice that always makes me shiver. “Are you okay?”

It’s the concern in his tone that makes my decision final.

“I’m fine. Are you sure you want to do this?”

The line is silent for a second as he registers what I’m saying. However, his voice is as decisive as ever when he says, “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it. I want to help you.”

“Why?”

The answer is quick. “Because you’re a very good person who’s been dealt a shitty hand in life, but is still far too kind for his own good. And we’re only going to be married until the reading of the will. We’re getting an annulment once you get the house. I’m not plighting my troth for eternity,” he finishes wryly.

I wish you were, I think wistfully before shoving the thought far away.

“Then, if you don’t mind, I’d be very grateful for your help."

Three Weeks Later

The car pulls to a stop outside my flat, and Jed switches the engine off.

I wait but he doesn’t get out to open my door for me as usual—a habit that’s always secretly thrilled me. He stares ahead at the street as if fascinated by the view. There’s nothing there unless you count an old crisp packet dancing in the cool breeze. This summer has been a complete washout.

“Thanks for the lift,” I finally say.

He startles. “Oh, you’re welcome.”

His mind seems miles away from this car, and perhaps his thoughts of me are even further. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say huskily.

He puts a hand over mine. “Stay for a moment,” he says.

I swallow. He’s suddenly very close, his big body hard and warm. His fingers are long, and the calluses on his fingertips are thrillingly rough.

“Oh. Of-of course,” I stutter.

He pulls back but doesn’t make any effort to talk. Instead, he fidgets with the car heater so that it blows pleasantly against me.

“Your hands were cold,” he says.

“Thank you. It’s not been a nice summer, but I’m always cold anyway.”

I wait for him to say something else but get nothing. The silence is cosy, though, and the scent of his cologne and the underlying aroma that’s just Jed is warm and arousing.

I cough and then twist to face him, pulling my jacket over my lap. “What’s the matter?” I ask. “Is it about tomorrow?”

Tomorrow. We’re getting married tomorrow.

The thought is strange and thrilling.

He grimaces as if he’s inhaled a bad smell. “What could possibly be bothering me about getting married tomorrow?” he asks snappishly.

I draw back, astonished. We’ve had many meals together over the last three weeks, ironing out the details of how we met and our lives together in case we’re asked by the solicitor. The situation is far from ideal, but I can’t remember a time when Jed has ever snapped at me.

He groans and rubs his eyes tiredly. “I’m so sorry. That was rude.”

I make myself shrug. “It’s fine. You’re doing this for me, after all. You’re entitled to be cross at the upheaval in your life.”

“I’m not cross with you,” he says instantly. He reaches out and cups my chin in his hand, his gaze scanning my features. “I could never be cross with you,” he says with emphasis. “This is no more your fault than mine. We’re doing this together, and we’re a team, Artie. No more taking the blame for it and trying to make amends to me.”

“I haven’t…” I sag against the seat when he shoots me a knowing look.

“You’ve been extra sweet. An impossible task, because you were already ninety-nine percent sugar.”

I smile at him. “What about the other one percent?”

“Ah, that’s what worries me.”

We laugh and then fall silent.

“It’s not too late to back out, Jed,” I say. “No one knows, and I would never blame you.”

“Sweetheart, you’ve offered me more exits than the M1.”

Sweetheart? I widen my eyes.

He grimaces. “Sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”

I’ll never be able to tell him how much I liked it. He’d vanish into a puff of smoke and angst. I don’t want to make this awkward. Well, any more awkward than it already is.

He’s been getting progressively antsier this week as the appointment at the registry office comes closer. Before I can second-guess myself, I take his hand and gaze into his eyes. “This is a serious thing, Jed. You’re lying to a solicitor to help me get a house under false pretences. That’s got to be either borderline or full-on illegal.” I take a breath. “I’ve been thinking⁠—”

“Nothing good usually comes from that statement.”

“It’s hardly surprising you think so, having met some of the men you’ve had passing through your flat.”

“What?”

I grimace. I hadn’t meant to say that. “I do meet them, you know.”

A flush appears on his cheeks, and he shifts awkwardly in his seat. “How?”

“Well, I’ve made quite a few of them coffee, because according to them, you’re not exactly Starbucks.”

And I’ve hated every single one of them, but I’ll never tell him that. I’d only need half a Post-it to list the things I’d feel comfortable telling him at the moment.

“I haven’t been with anyone since we said we’d do this,” he says.

The words tumble out of him so quickly, I don’t understand him at first. “Pardon?”

He runs his finger along the collar of his blue shirt. “There hasn’t been anyone in my bed since we started discussing this marriage. And there won’t be any until we’ve done what we set out to do.”

A weight falls from my shoulders. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Me seeing someone else would be rather counterproductive if the solicitor ever found out. We’re newlyweds, for god’s sake.” He frowns before adding, “And you shouldn’t see anyone while this is going on either.”

I consider telling him that my dry spell has lasted so long that I feel like a garden with a hosepipe ban in place. Instead, I say, “Of course not.”

He turns to face me. He’s very potent this close, all tousled hair and big muscles and celery-green eyes that see everything.

“I want to do this,” he says firmly. “I haven’t done anything I didn’t want to for a long time. I said I was going to help you, and I meant it, but we have to work as a team. If there’s a problem, I want you to come to me.”

“How is that any different from usual?”

He chuckles, but when he speaks, he sounds quite serious. “Well, this time you’re betting your house on it.”

“And I’m thankful for everything you’re doing. l don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you.”

“You don’t ever need to do that,” he says abruptly.

“I’ll find a way.”

He looks down at my hand as though it holds the secrets of the universe. Then he fixes his gaze on mine again, and I suppress a sigh. I know what’s coming. He’s said it in various iterations since he’d proposed this arrangement a few weeks ago. The moment he thinks we’re getting on too well together, he battens down the hatches and runs for cover.

“But we’re still in agreement that this is all it can ever be,” he says earnestly.

Yes, here it is.

“I want you to think about this before tomorrow,” he continues. “I’ve been married before, and it wasn’t like this.” I hide my wince, and he carries on, doggedly eviscerating my feelings in the kindest way possible. “You’ve never been married before, Artie. You probably hoped for more than this, and that’s completely natural, but this thing between us is an arrangement, and like all of those, it has a start and an expiry date.”

Just what every young boy dreams about on his wedding eve.

I squeeze his hand. “Of course,” I say. “We’ll do this and then go back to normal when I know I’ve got the house. It’s only until the will is read and it’s all sorted.”

His face relaxes immediately—both my reward and my punishment. “Good. I just don’t want any crossed wires.” He brightens. “And you can move on immediately afterwards with no pesky feelings. Then you’ll be able to find the one you’re meant for.”

He races around to open my door, and I climb out.

“See you tomorrow,” he says. He hesitates and then pulls me into a tight hug. I inhale the musk of his cologne and the sweet scent of his shampoo. His big body is hard and warm against mine, and I wish we could stand like this forever, but he steps away after a too-short moment, of course.

“Bye,” he says. Before I can respond, he’s back in the car, starting the engine and pulling away without a second glance.

I stand in the street watching his taillights vanish into the gloom.

“Get over you?” I say with a huff of frustration. “Sometimes, Jed Walker, you’re an absolute fool.” I turn and walk into my flat. I wish it was as easy to leave my feelings behind.

I wake up the next morning to sunshine filling my room. I roll onto my back and stare up at the water stain on the ceiling. My stomach is full of nerves, but it takes me a few seconds to remember why. Then I sit bolt upright. I’m getting married today. To Jed.

I should be more concerned about the fact that I’m about to commit fraud against my family’s estate. I wonder if I’ve embarked down a slippery slope, and in a few months’ time I’ll be planning a bank robbery.

A knock on the door sounds and Daisy pops her head into the room. I smile at her.

She’s small, with a sweet face and very blue eyes. Her hair is currently red and purple. Last month it was pink, and the month before it was green. She’s a human colour wheel. She’s vivid and bright, and I loved her from the moment she and Laura arrived at my house.

Nothing that happened between her mum and me has ever affected our relationship, because it was firmly established at the beginning that Daisy would lead me into trouble. I always followed her happily, because she brought vibrancy into my dull life. She loves me, and the people who I can say that about are a small number. In fact, it’s just her.

“You’re awake,” she says delightedly and edges her way into the room carrying a tray. She sets it neatly on my lap. “Breakfast in bed.”

Croissants steam gently beside a pot of jam. “You didn’t have to do this.”

She winks at me. “It’s your wedding day, Artie. Otherwise known as phase one of sticking it to my mother. Of course I remembered.”

I look at the food and my stomach tumbles. “I’m not very hungry,” I say apologetically. “I’m so sorry.”

She shoots me a worried look. “You’re nervous.”

“Of course I am,” I burst out. “I’m about to marry a man to commit fraud and get a house.”

She rolls her eyes and perches cross-legged on the corner of my mattress. The sun plays over her sleeve of tattoos, and she looks like a tropical bird in the grey of my room.

“I knew this would happen. You’ve been too cool the last few weeks since I told you about the will and we devised this plan.”

You devised it, I think. I’m so boring it would never have occurred to me.

“You need to listen to me,” she continues. “You are not committing fraud.”

“I really sort of am.”

“Potato and potarto.”

“I do hope his majesty’s judicial system has heard of that defence, because otherwise, I’m stuffed.”

I chuckle as she pinches my leg under the duvet.

“You own that house,” she says. “It’s yours. Your mother left it to you. The bad person in this scenario is your dad who should have obeyed her wishes, but we’ll cut him some slack, because my mother’s vagina seems to have contained a very dark and powerful magic.”

I grimace. “I didn’t really want that image in my head today.”

She continues, undeterred. “As I was saying, the house is yours. You know if you contested the will they’d find in your favour because Laura obviously had more than a few bats flying around in her belfry. Therefore, you’re just circumventing the trouble of contesting the fucking stupid thing and saving Mr Davies the solicitor a lot of time and effort.”

“So, I’m the angel in this scenario?”

“You’re an angel in any scenario.”

“And that’s it? That’s your defence?”

“You know it’s true. It’s your property. My mother was just a caretaker for a while. Your mum left the house to you. You were always going to get it. You’ve just got to jump through a few hoops first.”

“Lying hoops.”

“Best not to think about that, babe. Just keep moving. It’ll be fine.”

I nod and then do it again when the first one lacks conviction. “She did leave it to me.”

“That’s the spirit. So, it’s all sorted. Let’s get you married.”

“You’re very blithe about the whole thing.”

She shrugs. “I’d be more concerned if it was a complete rando marrying you, but it’s Jed for god’s sake. Jed of the handsome face and nice forearms.”

“He does have very lovely arms.”

“He also seems to be an honourable man, and I think he’ll look after you. So, are you ready?”

I take a deep breath and set aside the breakfast tray. “Yes, let’s do it.”

I go to get out of bed and she grabs my hand. “Just be careful,” she whispers.

I frown at her. “You just did a whole Braveheart speech about it being above the law and a foregone conclusion, which by the way, I’ve recorded to play back for my solicitor when I’m arrested on charges of fraud.”

She grimaces. “Not about that.” She hesitates and I brace because it’s rare to see her so cautious. “I like Jed, but be very careful with him.”

“He’d never hurt me,” I say in astonishment. “He’s the gentlest man I’ve ever known.”

“Be careful with your heart, lovely.” She offers me a crooked smile. “It’s going to be very hard to be married to someone who you’re in love with but who doesn’t love you back.” I flinch and she makes a distressed sound and reaches out to hug me. I inhale the scent of roses that clings to her. It’s a curiously innocent smell. “I’m sorry,” she mutters. “I had to say it because I love you so much, and I don’t want you to be sad.”

“How did you know?”

She kisses my cheek and pulls back, holding tight to my hand. “Sweetie, it’s very obvious.”

“To him?” I croak.

She shakes her head immediately, and I relax although I still feel hot with embarrassment. “No, of course not. Jed’s one of those blokes who can’t see what he doesn’t want to see.”

“And he doesn’t want to see my feelings?” I say, more for my own sake than hers.

“I don’t think he does,” she whispers. “He cares for you, sweetie. That was very obvious when I spoke to him before, but from what you’ve said he’s still in love with his husband.” I sigh and she pulls me into another hug. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’ve never said anything before, because I didn’t think you’d get hurt by a one-sided affection, but the situation is different now.”

“Tell me again,” I request. “I need it.”

“Oh, Artie.” Her eyes glisten and her voice takes on the tiniest hint of a quiver. “He will never love you, sweetie, because he doesn’t see you like that. So, let him help you and get your home back. And then you can get on with your life and meet someone who will love you for who you are. You’re the best man I’ve ever known—kind, clever and just lovely. There is someone for you, but it’s not Jed Walker.”

Her words sting, and that’s how I know I needed that dose of reality. It’s been impossible to be with Jed over the last few weeks and not fall more in love with him. But my ultimate nightmare is for him to realise my feelings. I couldn’t abide pity and sympathetic kindness from him.

I nod and offer her a tiny smile. “This is the best marital pep talk I’ve ever heard. Next time maybe you should try auditioning for the Spanish Inquisition and cut out the middleman.”

She chuckles and pinches one of my croissants. “Let’s get you fake married and start you on the path to becoming someone’s bitch.”

“Daisy!”

“Too soon?”

“Probably.”

By the time the taxi pulls up at Chelsea Old Town Hall my nerves are out of control again. I rub my belly, peering at the steps leading up to the beautiful late Victorian building. “Oh god,” I groan.

Daisy pats my shoulder. “Let’s just get it done and out of the way.”

“Blimey, and they say romance is dead,” the cabbie says cheerfully.

Daisy snorts and I offer the cabbie a weak smile before scanning the steps again. Groups of people are waiting there dressed in bright clothes, wearing hats and smiley expressions. Through the open window of the cab, I hear excited chatter and laughter. Even the weather is cooperating with my fake wedding, as the sun is out, and the sky is blue.

“I can’t see him anywhere,” I say, searching the crowd. “Maybe he’s had a change of heart.”

“Don’t be silly.” Daisy grabs my chin and turns my face.

And there’s Jed. He’s leaning against a pillar, his hands in the pockets of his expensive grey three-piece suit. It’s the one I love that clings to his wide shoulders and long legs with a subtle check in the costly fabric. It makes his eyes look very green.

I swallow hard and look down at myself. I can’t afford hand tailoring like him, but my own navy suit isn’t too shabby. Daisy insisted on a new pink tie to celebrate the occasion.

“Oh, you look bloody gorgeous as usual,” Daisy says. She adjusts her hot-pink fascinator. “Never mind you, anyway. More importantly, how do I look?”

I snort. “Beautiful,” I say, offering her an affectionate look. She’s bright and bold, as usual, wearing a scarlet-coloured long silk dress and pink platform heels. I grab her hand. “I just want to say thank you.”

“Why?”

“For everything. My life would have been so dull without you.”

Her eyes shine wetly, and she kisses my cheek. “I love you so much. You’ll always be my brother.” Then she winks and leans close. “And as your sister I promise to bake you a cake with a file in it when you end up in prison. You can share it with your cellmate, and when I come to visit you, he can say things like, ‘He belongs to me now.’”

“That was alarmingly detailed.”

“It’s my curse to have a vivid imagination.”

“And unfettered morals.”

I grin as she pinches me. My smile fades as I turn my gaze towards Jed again. “Let’s do this,” I say with determination.

“That’s the Great British spirit.”

We pay the driver and step out of the car and as we climb the steps, I feel like I’m standing to one side observing this scene. I’m about to marry my boss. Jed—Jed—will soon be my husband.

Jed glimpses us, and for a second, he seems to freeze, a host of expressions crossing his face. Then he smiles. It looks a little forced, but I don’t think Daisy notices.

She grins at him. “Good morning.”

He leans down to hug her. “You look absolutely stunning.”

She glows, and I shoot him a grateful look. He offers me a wry expression, letting Daisy go and stepping close to me. “And you look very nice too,” he says. His eyes are dark, and I smile nervously at him.

“Are we ready?” he asks, looking at his watch. “Our appointment is in five minutes.”

Appointment? I conceal my wince because that’s exactly what this is.

Someone calls my name. I turn and my mouth drops open in amazement. Raff, Joe, and Ingrid are climbing the steps towards us.

“Oh shit,” Jed mutters.

I look at him and then back at our friends. “Who told them?”

“Not me,” he says grimly. Then he forces a smile to his face as they come up next to us. “To what do we owe this honour?”

“You sly old dog,” Raff proclaims, clapping Jed on the shoulder.

“Why are you here?” Jed asks calmly.

Joe gestures to Ingrid. “She knows everything.”

Ingrid grins. “I saw your banns announcement.” She looks between us, her face full of excitement. “Is it true? Are you really getting married?”

Jed shrugs, his face enigmatic.

“Yes,” I tell Ingrid.

She squeals loud enough to deafen everyone on the steps. “I knew it. I knew there was something going on.”

Jed and I exchange a look. “What do you mean?” Jed asks cautiously.

“Well, all those secret glances and the way you’re so protective of him.” She squeals again and claps her hands. “I knew you were desperately in love with him.”

Jed looks slightly revolted, and I have a wild impulse to laugh. Worry that it might turn into hysterics has me swallowing it down.

“Well, you kept that quiet, you old dog,” Raff says.

Jed grimaces. “If you call me that again I will sack you.”

Raff snorts. “Ah, I see you have attained that ecstatic state of pure happiness. How I envy you and hope for the same of my own marriage.”

“Good god,” Jed mutters.

Raff winks. “Anyway, Ingrid told us, and we thought you’d need witnesses, it being all hush-hush and everything.”

“Yes, it was so hush-hush that I’ve ended up with half my office here,” Jed says. “And please don’t wink at me in that fashion, Rafferty. You look deranged.”

Raff gives a dramatic sigh. “How misunderstood I am. And me bringing gifts and everything.”

“What do you mean?” I ask warily.

Raff clicks his fingers at Joe, and Joe stares at him. “What?”

“The thingies,” Raff hisses. “Where are they?”

“What are you talking about, and please don’t click your fingers at me like I’m a horse.”

“If you were a horse, you’d be a very forgetful one. The boutonnières.” He gestures at me and Jed. “I told you they wouldn’t have them.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Jed asks.

“Well, the hole-in-the-wall manner of your marital shenanigans.” He shoots Jed a surprisingly reproving glance. “Poor Artie.”

“Oh no,” I say. Without thinking, I take the flower he hands me. I sneeze. Then I sneeze three more times in quick succession. “Sorry,” I manage before sneezing again.

Rolling his eyes, Jed takes the flower from me and hands it back to Raff. “Thank you so much for your help. I’m sure that Artie is grateful for your wedding gift of snot.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box and hands it to me. “For you.”

I gape at him. “Really?”

His expression softens. “Yes, really.” He becomes aware that everyone is staring at us, and his face reddens. “Open it.”

I smile at him and open the box and then gasp in astonishment. “Oh my god.”

“What is it?” Raff asks, jostling closer.

Jed pushes Raff’s face back gently. “I had a Labrador like you once.”

“Was he very intelligent and the best Labrador in the whole wide world?”

“No, he was nosy and incontinent when excited.”

Ingrid laughs. “The similarities are uncanny.”

“What is it?” Joe asks, his voice quieter than the others’.

I reach into the box and pull out a paper flower. It’s a white calla lily, the lines graceful and elegant.

Jed smiles at me, his eyes softening again. “A paper flower for your boutonnière.”

“It’s so beautiful,” I say. He takes it from my palm and fastens it to my lapel with the pin that’s attached. He fiddles with it, his long eyelashes brushing his cheeks as he concentrates. This close, I can smell his fabric softener and feel the warmth of his body.

He freezes as he catches my gaze. “Thank you,” I say softly.

His eyes flare warm and bright. Then he steps back and blanches when he sees everyone staring at him.

“That’s a wonderful gesture,” Raff says approvingly.

Ingrid clasps her hands. “It’s going to be so funny at the office now you’re married.”

I turn a panicked gaze to Jed. His eyes are wide. This marriage was supposed to be just between us and last only for a couple of weeks. Now all our coworkers know. What should we do?

I startle as Jed pulls me into a hug. “We’ll worry about it later,” he whispers into my ear. “Just play along and act madly in love.”

I shiver at the feel of his warm breath on my neck and nod. “Absolutely.” No playacting needed.

He steps back. “Okay?” he asks, his eyes lingering on my face. I think about what Ingrid had said about secret glances and protective looks, and then quickly dismiss those thoughts as wishful thinking I do not need right now.

“I am ready,” I say firmly.

Jed reaches for a box by his feet. “There’s one for everyone,” he says.

“How did you know we were coming?” Raff asks, retrieving a paper boutonnière from the bag.

“Rafferty, you and Joe have a knack of turning up uninvited more times than syphilis. You are both incurably nosy, and Ingrid enables you. Of course, you’d be here.”

Raff shrugs. “Fair point.”

“Where did you get these?” Daisy asks as she fastens the flower to her dress. Her face is soft and her eyes shining as she looks at Jed.

He coughs, suddenly awkward. “I made them,” he says gruffly as everyone stares at him. “Stop looking at me like that,” he grumbles.

“You made them?” Ingrid echoes.

“Yes, of course. Artie’s allergic to real flowers.” He shrugs. “It wasn’t difficult once you got the hang of it. Gave me something to do with my hands in the evening.”

“Have you tried masturbation?” Rafferty enquires in a serious voice. He squarks as Ingrid shoves him.

I ignore them with the ease of long practice. I’m almost unbearably touched that this gruff man has spent time painstakingly making these flowers, and I know it took him a while, as his perfectionist nature would demand they be absolutely right.

“They’re perfect,” I say softly, reaching out for his flower and beckoning him closer. I fasten it quickly to his lapel, very aware of the power of his big body under my hands.

“Alright?” he says softly. “You sure?”

“Of course.” I smile at him. “Thank you,” I say and step back.

“Let’s get these crazy kids married,” Raff exclaims.

Jed grimaces. “Please, just no.”

Ingrid fiddles with her dress. “What do you think of my tan?” she asks me.

Joe snorts, and I’m able to look at Ingrid closely now my panic is over. My eyes widen. She’s very orange. Almost the colour of a satsuma. Even her eyebrows are a strange browny-orange that makes her look like she’s been embalmed.

“Tell me the truth. Does this spray tan make me look too orange?” she says to Raff.

Raff tilts his head. “Put it this way. If Tim Burton asks you to put on a pair of little white overalls and a green wig, it’s your destiny calling.”

“Fucker,” she says morosely. “Erin was supposed to put East End Brick on me, but she used the wrong shade.”

“It looks more like Camden Creosote to me,” Raff says thoughtfully.

Ingrid sighs. “Oh well. She says she’ll give me a spa voucher to say sorry.”

Joe shakes his head. “What will she do for that? Break your back instead of giving you a spine massage?”

Raff laughs and we make our way up the steps and into the registry office.

I work for a wedding-planning company, so it stands to reason that I’ve had vague thoughts about my own wedding. I’d imagined me and my bridegroom exchanging misty smiles and staring into each other’s eyes. Instead, the whole ceremony is alarmingly businesslike and passes in a dream. I’m aware of my voice saying the words and Jed’s deep tones doing the same, but everything else is just impression—the registrar’s soft voice, Jed’s hand warm in mine, the green pools of his eyes, and the seriousness of his gaze.

The only time I come out of this haze is when he produces the rings. They’re simple gold bands and it’s only then that I realise Jed isn’t wearing his ring from Mick. I shoot a shocked glance at him, but he studiously avoids looking at me.

Before I know it, the registrar pronounces us husband and husband, and it’s done. “You may kiss the groom,” she intones.

For a few seconds, Jed and I stare at each other. His eyes are very dark, and he raises one eyebrow queryingly.

I incline my head slightly and, as he leans in, I feel his mouth on mine for the first time. His beard prickles slightly, but his lips are full and soft, and I part my own lips instinctively. He stiffens and then his breath quickens, and I feel his tongue touch mine. Lust rolls over me like a tsunami, and I make a sound in my throat as our tongues tangle. It’s only when I feel the fabric of his suit crumpling under my fingers that I realise I’ve grabbed his shoulders to pull him closer.

He seems to jerk awake, his hands coming up to clutch my arms, probably to stop me from throwing myself at him anymore. He steps back, distress darkening his face.

My breath catches as an explosion of confetti cascades around us. When it clears, his face is calmer, no sign of turmoil. But I’d seen it, and my heart sinks.

The next few minutes are spent accepting hugs and loud congratulations and then we’re outside in the warm sunshine. Jed has his arm around me, but I know it’s for appearances’ sake. His body is rigid and his arm trembles slightly.

“So that’s done,” I say to him quietly.

His smile is too quick, and I realise that’s the way I felt about the entire event. Of course, I’d imagined my wedding would be more, but none of this is real, is it?

“We’re going to Rosa,” Jed says, naming one of my favourite Italian restaurants.

“Really?”

This time his smile is real and very kind. “Did you really think I wouldn’t mark this day, Artie?”

I grab his hand. “Thank you.”

“No need for that,” he says softly. “I like doing things for you.”

My heart rises up towards him. There’s nobody who can say that with as much truth as Jed. “And I like saying thank you.”

“I hope you’ll always be glad we did this,” he says solemnly.

A chill runs over my skin, as if he’s invited a spectre to our feast.

The meal is loud and full of laughter. The champagne flows, and Jed refills my glass repeatedly as everyone tries to outdo each other with wild speeches. I feel the fizz bubbling along my veins, and later I’ll blame the champagne for the happiness that seizes me.

I’m married to the man I love, and the increasingly raunchy and funny toasts make it seem as though we all are, in fact, celebrating that love and a real marriage. All my senses are tuned to Jed and how he sits so close, with his arm slung over my chair, his tie loosened, and his hair ruffled.

Occasionally, he’ll stroke the shiny new band on his finger. And as the meal progresses, I begin to notice signs that he’s not processing the scene the same happy way that I am. His face becomes more guarded, and a muscle in his jaw tics. He’s flushed from champagne, but instead of making him loud like the rest of us, he’s become increasingly quieter.

My stomach flips when he removes his arm from my chair. I note that his eyes are dark, and his face shadowed. He drains his glass, and I exchange a look with Daisy.

She presses her lips together, gives me a quick nod, and stands. “Well, I’m sure the happy couple have things to do.”

Everyone catcalls. Well, Raff does, but they all stand up, taking their cue.

The next few minutes are spent exchanging hugs.

“You go so well together,” Ingrid proclaims. “I knew it.”

Daisy is the last to hug me. “Take care,” she says, and I know she’s referring to her earlier warning. I nod and whisper goodbye before she leaves.

Then Jed and I are alone.

He collapses into his chair, which is so unlike his usual controlled grace that it rattles me. He looks ahead, seemingly determined not to meet my eyes.

I settle cautiously at his side. “Jed?”

His gaze whips to mine. His earlier control has gone, and in his eyes is pure pain.

I swallow hard. “Oh, Jed,” I whisper. “I⁠—”

“I can’t do this.”

“You can’t do what?”

“This.” He gestures at the table and the empty glasses. “I need to go.”

“Go where?” We’re supposed to go to a hotel. I’d booked us a suite at his insistence in case anyone ever checks up on us. He’d joked that it was like being the James Bond of the fake marriage market, but he is not in a joking mood anymore.

“Tell me,” I urge.

He blurts, “I can’t be here with you like this. You’re not Mick and this feels so wrong.”

I abruptly wish he hadn’t told me anything. And that I hadn’t insisted on an explanation. I desperately try to keep the dismay from my face, but I don’t need to worry. He’s looking anywhere but at me, running shaking hands through his hair.

“I need to be somewhere else,” he says.

I tamp down my hurt. I have no right to feel it, after all. “I know,” I whisper. “It’s fine, Jed.” He finally looks at me, his eyes fever bright with pain. “Go,” I say more forcefully.

“I’ll pay for the meal.”

“Never mind that,” I say steadily. “It’s on me.”

He stands quickly, and I watch as he leaves the restaurant in long strides as if he’s running away. Running away from me. And then he’s gone, and I’m left alone with the detritus of our wedding breakfast around me.

My eyes are hot, but I swallow any rising tears and take a deep breath. I finger the paper flower on my lapel. Jed always looks after me, and I need to do the same for him.

I take a sip of my champagne and grimace. It’s flat and warm now, the bubbles long gone. Rather appropriate.

four

. . .

jed

I come down the stairs and then hesitate by the door leading into the agency. I run my hand through my hair and eye the door as if it were a portal to another world. In some ways I wish it were.

I think of yesterday and wince. I was an absolute fucking arsehole to Artie. He’d been so sweet and kind about it, but the fact remains that I left him alone on our wedding day.

Wedding day.

My first wedding was a sun-filled day full of laughter and love fizzing in my veins. I never imagined I’d have another wedding, let alone one so different. I look reluctantly down at the shiny new ring on my finger. I want to take it off and throw it away and pretend none of this is happening.

But I can’t. I’m here because of my own decisions. I conceived the ridiculous plan to marry Artie, and I still don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I’m a level-headed man who spent a large portion of his working life upholding the law. And now look at me. Racing around getting fake married so my assistant can cheat his dead stepmother and get his house back.

An image of Artie’s face crosses my mind—the stunned expression he wore when I’d outlined my plot. It had made me smile then, and it makes me smile now. Because I’d felt shocked to hear the words leave my mouth, too. The idea to marry him had erupted forcefully, similar to my desire to make things right in his world.

He’d been so sad and yet valiant when he’d explained the situation to me. I’d wanted to scream at his stepmother, because how could she have had such a wonderful young man in her care and then treated him so badly? How can she not have loved Artie? He’s sweet and so kind and always the first to help anyone.

Yesterday had been his wedding day. It might have been fake, but he deserved better than my behaviour.

Resolved to apologise profusely and make it up to him, I put my hand out to open the door and then freeze as another thought occurs.

The whole agency knows we’re married, and they think we’re in love. I’d expected them to find out, even if I hoped they wouldn’t. They’re a gossipy, clever bunch whose business is weddings, and banns are public information. So, I’d made plans to accommodate them if they turned up, knowing how much they love Artie. But the fact that I’d then have to pretend to be in love had somehow escaped me.

My brain seems to have oozed out of my skull. I don’t recognise myself, with my wild decisions and lack of forward thinking.

I take a deep breath. I can do this.

Of course, in a few weeks we’ll have to tell everyone we know that we’re separated. Another thing I completely overlooked.

I wonder idly whether this is some sort of midlife crisis. Then I fling open the door. A little too forcefully because it rebounds off the wall and swings back on me, and I just avoid breaking my nose.

“Gordon fucking Bennett,” Ingrid screeches, half rising from her chair at the reception desk.

I stare at her. “Where on earth did that old saying come from?”

“My grandad says it to stop himself swearing.”

“So, you added fuck to the middle of it?”

She shrugs. “Sometimes you just need to add that word to a sentence.”

“Or a lot of the time if you’re you.”

She grins at me. “Congratulations again. Did you get everything sorted?”

I freeze. “Sorry?” I say in what I hope is a non-incriminating tone.

She flaps her hand at the door I just emerged through in such a spectacular fashion. “Artie said you had some stuff to do in the flat this morning.”

“Oh. Oh yes.” Bless him. He thinks of everything, because I’m damn sure they expected to see us coming in together this morning. Another thing to chalk up on my misdemeanours chart. I left him to come in alone. I’m a stupid, selfish wanker.

Her eyes narrow and I hasten to add, “Yes, just a few things. I need coffee,” I say quickly to forestall her usual questions.

“I bet you do,” she says, dropping me a wink that screams fnarr fnarr.

I stare at her in horror and then give up. “No,” I say.

Ignoring her snort of laughter, I stride through the office. It’s thankfully quiet, as the planners must be out at their morning meetings.

My steps falter as Artie’s desk comes into view. It’s empty, and I’m aware of my breath catching. The thing I’ve tried hardest not to think about comes roaring into my head. The kiss. It had been meant as a simple touch of lips to appease everyone around us, but I’d got more than I bargained for.

Heat had soared through me at the feel of those full, bee-stung lips under mine. I mark it as something else to apologise for. He’s stepped out of the box I put him in and now I can’t seem to make him go back.

I pause as he comes out of my office. He’s holding a sheaf of papers and wearing grey suit trousers, a white shirt, and a navy-blue tie. They’re simple clothes, but the trousers cling to the swell of his arse, and his shirt is pushed up his forearms, displaying the gold of his skin. I wonder if he’s that colour all over and blanch. Fuck me.

“Hey,” he says, the flush on his sharp cheekbones making his eyes appear paler than usual. He licks those full lips nervously.

When my cock jerks, I race into speech. “Hey,” I reply. “What a nice morning. The sun is shining.” My eyes widen in horror at that inanity.

I can think of something to say in even the direst of social situations, a skill drilled into me as a police officer and that’s been reinforced a thousand times as a wedding planner. But it’s deserted me when I most need it.

His lip twitches as he meets my gaze. I watch breathlessly as he comes towards me, and then gasp as he leans up and kisses my cheek. “Ingrid is watching,” he whispers into my ear, and I shudder at the feel of his breath on my ear.

“Oh.” I pull him into my arms and hug him.

The papers scatter to the floor and they appear to have taken my brain with them. I drop a kiss on his lips. He exhales a startled breath, and his mouth opens. I slide my tongue over that full curve, and he makes a small sound that’s almost a moan. My head swims, everything going black as he kisses me back.

Clapping sounds from behind me. I let go of Artie so quickly he stumbles, and I grab his arm to stabilise him.

“I feel like I should be shouting encore,” Ingrid calls.

“I feel I should be shouting go back to work,” I snap.

She breaks into raucous laughter and vanishes back into reception.

I force myself to look at Artie, expecting recriminations. But he drags me into my office and shuts the door behind us.

“Artie—”

“Oh, well done,” he exclaims. “That was perfect.”

“What was?”

“Your act?” His eyes narrow.

“Oh. Oh yes, of course. You didn’t mind?”

He looks surprised. “No, of course not. We knew we’d have to do some acting.”

“Yes. Yes, we did,” I say a little too vehemently.

He stares at me for a moment and then his whole face softens, his sweet expression falling into place. “Are you okay, Jed?”

I swallow hard. “I’m fine. I’m so sorry about yesterday.”

“Oh, you don’t need to apologise.”

“I really do, so let me. It was unconscionable of me to come up with this plot and then abandon you on our bloody wedding day.”

His gaze darts down to his clasped hands before returning to me. He quickly smiles. “You didn’t abandon me. Yesterday was a pretence, and a pretence that was done entirely for my benefit.”

“I want you to have everything,” I say. “Everything you want and need.”

His mouth turns down for a moment, but then his smile returns as he pats my arm. “That’s impossible, but thank you anyway. You’re hopefully giving me my home back. I won’t ask for anything else.”

What else would he ask for? He leans on the edge of the desk, but he’s close enough I can smell his sweet, warm scent, partly his cologne and partly just him. It makes my head swim.

“Can I?” he asks hesitantly.

I realise he’s been talking while I’ve been wool gathering. “Can you what?”

“Can I ask what in particular upset you?”

Before I can respond, he rushes to explain. “I only want to know so I don’t do it again. I can’t bear for you to be so upset because you’re doing me this huge favour.”

“You didn’t do anything,” I say. “Artie, look at me.”

He obeys me, his eyes big and pale. Before I get lost in them, I say, “It was nothing to do with you. It’s just…”

I rarely share my emotions. Even with Mick, I kept them back. At first, it was because I was in awe of the worldly older man who somehow wanted me, and I didn’t want him to see my weaknesses. Later, those positions became entrenched in our marriage.

Artie watches me and I find myself saying, “It was the ring.”

We both look down at his hand. The gold band is unfamiliar on his finger, yet somehow it looks as though it’s always been there.

“The ring?”

“It just occurred to me that I’ve been a widower longer than I was married. It doesn’t make sense, but…”

“But it upset you,” he says quietly, and the absence of any judgement in his voice is something I don’t deserve. I’d insulted him by leaving him alone at that restaurant yesterday.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Okay,” he says simply.

The tightness in my chest eases, and the understanding in his blue eyes warms me. He’s always made me feel this way.

“But we do have a problem.” He glances at the closed door.

“Only the one? It is a good day.”

“Yes, well my dad used to quote Shakespeare. The ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive’ line. It’s completely appropriate for our situation, as we’re now stuck with everyone thinking we’re in love. We were going to separate in a few weeks and annul the marriage. What do we do now?”

I shake my head. “Shit.”

For some reason he finds that funny and breaks into peals of laughter that are so contagious that my own mouth twitches.

When he’s calmed down, he asks again, “So, what do we do?”

It’s hard to concentrate on the problem with him sitting so close to me. “We’ll have to wing it,” I finally say. “And maybe pretend. Do you mind?”

“Do I? What about you?”

I shrug. “It shouldn’t be too hard. Neither of us are demonstrative in public. We’ll just say that we’re trying to keep it professional.” I hesitate. “And I hate to say this, but I think you’re going to have to move in with me.”

“You’re joking!”

I offer him a wry smile. “I don’t know whether to be relieved or mortified that we’re such crap fakers. You should stay with me for a few weeks, because the lawyers might check up on things.”

His brow furrows. He’s probably thinking of my flat. I control a wince and hope he doesn’t notice. I can’t have him living in what was once the place I shared with Mick. “In a hotel,” I blurt out.

“Pardon?”

“I’m going to have work done to the flat, so we’ll get a suite at a hotel. The suite will have two bedrooms, but we’ll just say we’re using one as an office.”

“I didn’t know you were doing work upstairs.”

Neither did I, but apparently, I am now.

“Oh yes,” I say vaguely. “A complete refit.” I want to groan because now I’m committed to doing up the flat in the near future.

He studies me, and I resist the urge to squirm. Finally, he nods. “Well, you must allow me to reimburse you for the hotel.” I open my mouth to argue but he talks over me. “This is my fault and there is no way that you’re paying for that.”

I’m momentarily nonplussed by his air of command. Then I smile. “I’d have to move out of my flat, anyway.” I hold up my hand. “How about halves?”

“Okay,” he says slowly.

“Shake on it.”

He studies my hand and then slides his own into it. It’s strangely smooth and easy, like a key sliding into a well-worn lock. I tighten my grip involuntarily and then pull away. “Perfect. I’ll let you find the hotel and book it.”

Instantly back in his groove, he grabs his notepad from my desk. “Any requests?”

“Near the office, and it must have a gym and a pool.”

“Okay.” He bites the tip of his pen, and I have to conceal a shudder as my body reacts to the sight of those full lips pursing. His mouth is so pink⁠—

“And when we split up?”

I blink. “Sorry?”

“When we split up, what do we say?”

My stomach pangs, but I say calmly, “We’ll just say it was a mistake and we’re going to stay friends and work colleagues. It’ll be a storm in a teacup, but over with before we know it. Nobody is that interested in us, surely?”

He looks doubtful, but before he can reply, there’s a huge bang on the door that makes us jump. It slams open and Raff walks into the room with his hand over his eyes.

“I’m sure I’m not interrupting any workplace frolicking,” he shouts, seemingly unable to grasp that my office isn’t the size of the Albert Hall.

“And yet you still came in. What joy,” I say.

Artie nudges me, his eyes dancing.

Raff fumbles with something in his other hand. There’s a bang and multicoloured confetti shoots out behind him back into the planners’ office where it cascades over Artie’s desk and a large portion of the floor.

“Shit. Wrong way,” Raff mutters. “Wait, wait, I have another one. Now where did I put it? Joe? Joe? Where’s my backup confetti bomb?”

“And so, the circus begins,” I say sourly.

Artie starts to laugh. “What were you saying?”

Three Days Later

I’m fastening my cufflinks as I stride into the suite’s living area. “Artie?” I call. “Are you ready?”

The door to his bedroom opens and he appears, tugging on the jacket of his navy suit. I eye him appreciatively. I like him in that one. It complements his beautiful eyes.

“Okay?” I ask. “Are you nervous?”

He bites his lip and looks down at where he’s fiddling with his tie. “It’ll be fine,” he says. This has pretty much become his mantra lately.

I step closer and tap his hands away. “Let me do it. You’re mangling it.” He gives an aggrieved sigh that makes me want to smile. Instead, I work on untangling the mess he’s made of the knot and then retying it. I try to ignore how close he is, a state of being I’ve avoided since we got the hotel suite.

We’ve spent three days here. I thought it would be jarring to be in such close quarters with another man after all these years, but what boggles my mind is how easy it’s been. We’ve eaten breakfast together on the balcony every morning and then dinner in the hotel at night, and it’s almost like we’ve been together for years. We discuss work and politics and a variety of other topics. He’s clever, with a quick mind and a kind nature, and his company is addictive.

I’ve tried to steer our conversations towards the impersonal. I don’t want to know things about him that no one else does. That way lies disaster. And each night I’ve said goodnight firmly and retired to my bedroom.

He doesn’t need to know that I’ve then lain awake listening for his movements, unable to stop imagining what he looks like tangled in sheets warm from his body and scented like him.

I finish his tie, aware of his sweet breath on my face, and then step back. “There. Perfect.”

His eyes twinkle. “Thank you.”

“It’s going to be fine. You do know that, don’t you?” He shrugs and I take his arm gently. “We’ve covered everything. The will reading will be fairly quick and quite impersonal.”

“You’ve done it before, then?”

I hesitate before responding.

He blanches. “I’m so sorry. Of course, you’ve done it before.”

I shake my head. “Don’t be silly. Yes, I was obviously at Mick’s will reading, but that was simple, despite the sums of money involved. And I was also at my dad’s.”

“When did he die?”

“I was ten. A very long time ago. Right, are we ready?” I say briskly, unwilling to walk down memory lane. We’ll go back to being boss and employee very soon.

He grabs his jacket and I take it from him and hold it up so he can slide into it, the intimacy of the gesture catching me unaware with a pang. I ignore it and smile at him. “You’ll be free of me very soon. We only need to do this until the house clears and then it’s back to normal.”

He gives me his usual smile and nods, and we leave the suite together.

The solicitor’s office is in an attractive Georgian building opposite a small park. The waiting room smells of old paper, and the sound of the cars on the road outside is loud.

We’re the only occupants apart from a lady who, according to Artie’s whisper, was his stepmother’s cleaner. He’d greeted her kindly, only to be glared at. He’s too peaceful to reciprocate in kind, so I’d done it for him. She’d blanched and then I’d guided him to the other side of the room as far from her as possible. Now we’re sitting in silence.

A hand lands on mine and I startle. Artie smiles at me. “You’re tapping,” he says, and I realise I’ve been tapping my foot—an old habit. He doesn’t let go of my hand, and when my gaze drops, I see our wedding rings nestling close together. I swallow hard and he pulls his hand away.

“It’ll be fine,” he says, and I offer him a smile.

An old man in a tweed suit enters the room.

“Mr Davies,” Artie exclaims.

The old man gives him a warm smile. He has a kind face. “Artie, my boy, how are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“Are you ready?”

Artie nods.

Mr Davies edges a little closer. “Did you take my advice about consulting another solicitor?” His expression is worried.

“No need,” Artie says calmly. “Let me introduce you to⁠—”

There’s a noise at the door and Laura’s cleaner gives a horrified gasp as Daisy sails into the room. Artie’s mouth drops open, and I try hard to cover my laugh as a cough. She’s in a long red dress, her hair is dyed purple, and she’s wearing a red veil.

“Oh, my goodness,” Mr Davies breathes.

I snort again, and Daisy beams at me.

“I am here for the reading of the will,” she says grandly. “I do hope I’m suitably attired.”

The cleaner mutters something about Sodom, and Daisy waves at her.

“This dress seems appropriate for my monster… I’m sorry, I meant my mother.” Mr Davies’s mouth twitches, and Daisy turns to Artie. “What do you think? Is it too subtle?”

“Terribly so,” he says dryly, accepting her hug. I bend to let her hug me next. Her perfume is sweet. “How is he?” she whispers. “Not overcome by guilt and willing to blow this gig out of the water?”

“You’ve been watching too many films. He’s fine.”

“Well, come in.” Mr Davies guides us into a room lined by bookshelves and lit by pale stripes of weak sunshine. We seat ourselves and then turn as one to look at him.

He coughs and takes some papers from his desk. “Well, are we ready?”

“Where’s my great-aunt’s solicitor?” Artie asks. “I thought he’d be here.”

“He isn’t attending the reading, but I will be seeing him afterwards when he will go over the details.” His mouth tightens. “Extensively,” he adds sourly and then pastes a small smile on his face. “We are here for the last will and testament of Laura Campbell.”

“I am ready,” Daisy says very seriously. “I am sure she had many poisonous barbs to impart before she carked it.”

His eyes twinkle, but he proceeds to go through the dry details. The cleaner has been left a nice sum, and her pleased hum reinforces this fact. Daisy receives the money from her father’s estate, which she already knew would happen. Then Mr Davies turns to Artie.

“The next clause pertains to the house in Wimbledon which was left to Laura during her lifetime and was to come to you on her death, Artie. There was also a sum of money that your father imagined would come to you, but as with so many of these bequests, I am afraid to say that a lot of this money has been eaten up with the costs to keep Laura.”

“At least they don’t need heating in hell,” Daisy mutters. “The devil will be very relieved because she’d bankrupt him in twenty-four hours.”

I try not to laugh.

Artie nudges her and the solicitor continues to speak. “As such, it will only provide a small stipend.” He gives a dry cough. “I also regret to say that Mrs Campbell had let her stewardship of the house lapse, no doubt due to her ill health.”

“More to do with her spite eating her alive,” Daisy mutters.

Artie leans forward. “What do you mean by that, Mr Davies?”

He grimaces. “The house has fallen into disrepair. It was being used as a squat by a group of people for a few years. They were only moved out a few weeks ago.”

There’s a stunned silence that I break by turning to Artie. “Did you know that?”

He shakes his head, looking stunned. “No. I haven’t been near the house for years. It hurt too much,” he whispers, and I squeeze his hand.

The solicitor hums. “I regret to say that the damage is extensive, Arthur.”

“It’s fine,” Artie says, swallowing hard. “I just want what’s mine.”

Mr Davies coughs. “Yes. Well, now we’re coming to the rather strange condition that your stepmother put on you inheriting the house.”

“What’s that?” Artie asks, his eyes widening. He’s a terrible actor, and I bite my lip to hold in a smile.

“There’s no easy way to put this. Mrs Campbell has stipulated that you must be married to inherit the property.”

“Quelle horror,” Daisy says rather loudly.

The old man looks at Artie, his affection is clear. “Arthur, I would highly recommend that you seek counsel over this clause. I can say no more than that, but it is my strongest recommendation.”

“No need,” Artie says serenely.

Mr Davies looks flabbergasted. “I beg your pardon?”

“We’ll go along with my stepmother’s clause. I wouldn’t dream of going against her last will and testament when she spent so many years and effort getting her own way in everything else.”

This time, I don’t conceal my laugh.

The cleaner gives a disgusted sniff, but the solicitor looks troubled. “Are you sure, my boy?”

Artie nods. “Quite sure.” He takes my hand and the solicitor’s eyes sharpen. “Mr Davies, this is my husband, Jed.”

“Really?” The old man gives a wide smile as Artie nods. “Well, my boy, that is fantastic news. Let me shake your hand.” Artie stands up and the two men exchange handshakes. I stand up and take the hand the solicitor offers me. “You have a very nice young man, Jed. May I call you Jed?”

“You may, and I know. He’s wonderful.”

The answer sounds honest, because it is. Artie is the best man I know.

The solicitor is all smiles now. “Well, that’s excellent news. So, you should have no worry in complying with the rest of Mrs Campbell’s request, then.”

I go still, and Artie immediately looks wary. “The rest? Haven’t we already heard it all?”

The solicitor waves a hand. “Oh no. That was only part of the clause, Arthur. Mrs Campbell stipulated that you not only have to be married but also that you are to live in the house as a married couple for six months.”

The words drop into the room like a bomb. My heart thunders, and Artie gasps.

Daisy puts a hand to her mouth. “I must have missed that part,” she mutters. “Shit,” she says in a louder voice.

“I couldn’t have put it better myself.” I slump in my chair. What the fuck have we done?

five

. . .

Two Days Later

artie

I unlock the front door with the key Mr Davies gave me, but when I push on it, nothing happens. I grunt and then push again. Some peeling paint comes free and falls. I shove a bit harder. “Bloody hell.”

“Let me,” Jed says, and I scoot out of his way as he puts his broad shoulder to the wood. He shoves a couple of times and then the door swings open with a groan worthy of a horror movie.

We immediately put our hands to our mouths. “What is that smell?” I whisper.

Jed grimaces. “Most squats smell like this. It’s a combination of things you probably don’t want to think about right now.”

“Good point. I’d far rather think about puppies and kittens, and the fact that the café down the road does really nice avocado on toast.”

His mouth quirks, and I appreciate the fact that he doesn’t wave for me to go first. Instead, he steps cautiously into the house, and I follow in his wake, peeping around.

“Shit,” I say in dismay.

He grunts an agreement.

The windows are boarded up, and the electricity has been switched off, so the only light comes from gaps between the boards. The previously beautiful old wooden staircase is broken in places, and someone has kicked the banister in. There are holes in the walls. The carpet is ripped and stained and there’s graffiti all over the old wallpaper I remember my stepmother choosing. It had cost a fortune, but nothing was too much for my father. He lived to please her.

“Stay here,” Jed orders. “I’m going to have a look around.” I nod placidly but when he sets off, I’m behind him. He shoots me a wry look. “Have you always been this disobedient at work, and I missed it?”

I smile at him. “I’m not under contract as your husband, and I’m pretty sure you won’t be doing a yearly job review.”

I’m expecting his face to shadow at the word husband the way it has for the last few days, but his lips quirk. “That idea is sounding increasingly attractive.”

I grin. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to take me as you find me.”

His eyes twinkle. “Fascinating,” he mutters. “Okay stick close to me and tread where I tread.”

I nod, staring around with horror. Each room is worse than the others. Radiators have been ripped off the walls, leaving gaping holes in the wainscoting, light fittings dangle or in some cases have been removed completely. Tangles of wires hang from the ceiling like snakes. It’s cold and dark and feels damp. I’m glad we took the opportunity after work to go back to the hotel and get changed before we came here, because our suits would have been ruined.

I sneak a look at Jed as he moves through the kitchen, stirring something on the floor with his boot with a grunt of distaste. He’s wearing an old pair of jeans that cling to his long legs and an olive-coloured jumper with a white T-shirt underneath.

“Don’t step in that,” he warns.

I nod obediently, because I have zero intention of ever doing that in this life.

We go through to the hallway again, and Jed takes the first step on the main staircase. When the wood groans like it’s in pain, he shakes his head. “I’m not risking that until we see what the damage is. You might fall through it.”

“What about you?” I ask, but he’s already walking down the corridor. I shake my head and follow him. I catch up to him in what used to be my father’s study. The floor-to-ceiling, carved bookcases have been torn down and the scorch marks on the bare wooden floorboards give a clue as to the wood’s final destination. I take in a shaky breath feeling my eyes suddenly get hot as the emotion finally hits me. I remember those shelves being full of books including my mother’s collection of historical romances. I used to sit playing under my father’s desk when he was out. This might have been a place to stay for the squatters, but it was my home.

Hands come down on my shoulders and Jed turns me to him. “Hey,” he says gently, pulling me into a hug. “It’s bad but there’s nothing here that can’t be fixed, sweetheart.”

I sniff. “Do you promise?”

I’m not sure he knows that he just used that endearment again for me, and I try hard not to show my pleasure at hearing it. He’d back off so quickly he’d probably give me whiplash.

He nods solemnly. “I swear. This house will be everything you’ve always wanted, Artie.”

The words chase away my sadness. I nestle into his arms feeling the heat and strength of his body, and then make myself move away. He always makes me feel better.

“You seem familiar with squats,” I say, wanting to change the subject.

He shoots me a wry look and goes along with me. “I’ve broken them up a few times as a copper.”

“Why did you leave the force?” I’m flabbergasted that the question escaped my mouth.

A few weeks ago, I would never have crossed the divide between boss and employee. But perhaps the ring I’m wearing is giving me magical powers, because instead of rebuffing me, he leans against the wall. His face is awash with memory.

“I met Mick when I arrested him. He was naked in a fountain at the time.” I break into laughter, and he huffs in amusement. “He waited for me when I got off duty and asked me to go for a drink. He was larger than life, funny, and very worldly. I was only twenty-five.” The image is so vivid, and I find myself imagining what it would have been like to know Jed at twenty-five. It’s my current age. Somehow that doesn’t seem like a good omen.

“But he made it clear that he was very attracted to me,” Jed continues. “It was amazing that he seemed interested in me.” He shrugs. “I went home with him that night, thinking it would just be once. Only he didn’t want me to leave.” He smiles and the memory is soft on his lips. “So, I didn’t. We dated for a few weeks, and then he asked me to marry him. I said yes like a shot, and after we were married, he asked me to give up the force and work with him. He said he was sick of never seeing me and worried over my constant bad moods.” He shoots me a glance. “I was finding the police work more and more difficult to deal with, so the offer came at a good time. Also, I would have done anything for him. So I came to work at Confetti Hitched.”

I shift position. “And did you ever regret it?”

His eyes narrow for a moment. “Occasionally. I missed being on the force almost as soon as I left, but I’ve learned not to look back in life too much. What do they say? Look back but don’t stare. Well, I’m not staring, and I can’t regret giving myself extra time with Mick when he was taken from me so quickly. I do love the job now.” He shivers and glances at me. “It’s getting cold, and you’re only in that thin jacket, Artie. Let’s hurry this up and get lunch in the pub we passed earlier.”

Giving me a determinedly cheerful smile, he walks off. As I follow, I remind myself that I can’t put myself in Mick’s position. It would be wrong to judge a dead man, and I feel very guilty about doing it, but I can’t help wondering if he should have helped Jed with his work problems rather than thinking of himself. That’s how that little story came across, anyway. Not that Jed realises that. He idolises Mick.

“Artie?” he roars.

“Coming.” I gasp as I walk into the lounge and survey the damage. “This is worse than I imagined.” There are holes in the walls and graffiti everywhere. The huge mirror over the fireplace that my dad bought in Paris is smashed to pieces. “How could she let it get like this?”

“Spite,” Jed offers.

“You might be right.”

“I usually am, although the people at the office don’t seem to realise it.” He looks around in disgust. “There was absolutely no need for it to have got this way. A squat situation isn’t the easiest to deal with, but she had recourse to the police and the council to help with the squatters the same as anyone else. I’d lay odds she chose to do this to get back at you.”

I nod slowly. “You’d be right.”

“But why?”

“Because she hated me,” I say simply.

“I don’t understand that at all.” The incomprehension in his voice makes me feel warm inside.

“I don’t understand either, but I learnt a long time ago for the sake of my mental health that I don’t need to try. I never did anything to her. I tried to love her when she came into our lives, but she didn’t want that. She didn’t want anything to do with me and only wanted my father. The nicer I was, the worse she became. It was as if she wanted me to act up and be hateful.” I shake my head in disbelief.

“Probably because that would have made it easier for her.”

I look at him in question.

He says, “If you were horrible, she’d have had a good reason to kick you out and be spiteful. The fact you weren’t, probably wound her up to unbelievable levels. Sometimes you can’t help people.”

The sun chooses that moment to shine through a big gap in the boards and a flash of colour from an open cupboard in the corner of the room takes my attention. “That looks like my mother’s Tiffany lamp,” I exclaim. “How on earth is that still here?”

I move round him to look at it, but I step on something, and my foot shoots out from me. I gasp as the marble fireplace looms and I think I’m doomed to hit it, but Jed grabs me, staying my fall with a pained grunt.

We end up in an embrace, his hands clutching me close to his big frame and my arms around his narrow waist. His body heat is irresistible, and I edge closer. His arm tightens and my fingers slide over the soft wool of his cashmere jumper. It’s so soft, and as I flex my fingers, the wool rucks up, allowing me to feel the hot silk of his skin.

“Are you alright?” he immediately says. “Did you twist anything? Artie?”

His sharp voice pulls me from my heat haze. Oh god. I’ve been fondling the skin over his ribs. I blush painfully.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I finally say, pleased that my voice is steady, if a bit hoarse.

He lets me go, and I step back reluctantly. He’s breathing hard. “Are you hurt?” I ask. His eyes are very dark. “Did you hit your hand? Jed?”

He startles. “It’s fine.”

“Let me see,” I order.

He reluctantly extends his hand, and I grimace when I see the cut on it. It’s deep and seeping blood, and the knuckle is already swelling. “How did you do this?” I ask, sliding my finger gently over the back of his hand in comfort. He shivers and I quickly pull back.

“I banged it on the fireplace when you slipped and caught it on something. Maybe a nail.”

“Have you had a tetanus?” I ask, immediately worried.

He rolls his eyes. “Yes. Because of the Fredericks’ wedding in that barn.”

I can’t help my snort of amusement and tap his hand gently. “Well, at least you won’t get lockjaw.”

“What a relief. That sounds like something that might benefit Rafferty, though.”

I chuckle. “You like him, really.”

His revolted expression makes me smile wider. I can’t believe he’s made me smile even though we’re standing in the ruins of my home.

“Well,” I say, “we need to get that cleaned up.”

“Oh no. It’s fine⁠—”

“Jed,” I interrupt the predictable statement. “You’re getting that cleaned up.”

He nods obediently, which is a very novel concept. Before we leave, he grabs the lamp. I give him a doubtful look.

“It’s a miracle they didn’t smash or sell it,” he says. “Do you want to push your luck any further and leave it here?”

“Good point.”

Once outside on the steps, we gulp in the fresh air. It’s so sweet after the stench of inside.

I walk to the car with him at my heels. After we get in, I grab the first aid kit from the glovebox. I cover my hands in sanitiser and sort through the box, laying out what I need on my knees. “Hand, please,” I say.

He rolls his eyes but proffers the injured hand. In the daylight it looks even worse, and the edges of the cut are already puffy. “Maybe you need to go to the hospital,” I say worriedly. “You might need stitches in this.”

“I don’t.” I look up at him and his mouth quirks. “Trust me, I don’t.”

I bite my lip, considering whether I should believe him. His gaze drops to my lips and my chest flutters with heat as his eyes darken.

“Well,” I say. “I’m no Florence Nightingale, but I’ll do my best if you trust me.”

“I do.” His tone is surprisingly heavy, and when I gaze at him his eyes are a clear, serious green. “I do trust you, Artie.” There’s a short silence and then his mouth quirks. “That was probably a little too intense.”

“Not at all,” I say lightly. “My first aid brings all the boys to my yard.”

He snorts, and I open a packet of sterilised wipes and start to clean the wound. His wedding ring shines golden in the light, and I can’t help thinking, I put that on his finger. I take a breath and carry on with my task.

I’m nearly done when he says, “What did you think?”

I look up, surprised to find his face so close to mine. I drop my eyes to where his lips are ensconced by his beard. The whiskers had felt soft on my face when he’d kissed me at the registry office. He raises one eyebrow, and I realise I’ve been quiet for too long.

“Of the house?” I ask.

He nods.

“It looks pretty bad in there.”

“It’s going to take a lot of money to fix.”

“I have some savings.”

“I can help.”

“You already are.” My gratitude is strong, but I need to close this avenue of conversation.

Ever perceptive, he changes the topic. “Well, luckily Mr Davies said we have two weeks before we have to move in. It’s not much time, but… Are you sure you don’t want to contest the stipulations?”

“Yes,” I say. “And I told you why I wouldn’t.” I look at my watch. “I’ve arranged to meet two builders here to get a couple of quotes.”

“I told you I could help with that.”

“I have to do this myself,” I say softly. “You’re not going to be around forever, are you? You’ll only have to be here for a few months.”

“But we’ll still be working with each other afterwards?” His voice is strangely anxious, and my heart skips a beat.

“Of course,” I say with emphasis.

His shoulders ease under his jumper. No one has ever valued my company the way he does. Most of that’s due to how good I am at my job, but it’s still nice.

“We’ll just go back to normal once this situation is done,” I say, smoothing a plaster over the cut. I gently stroke the swollen knuckles. “These are going to hurt later.” He goes very still, and I look up at his face. “Are you okay?” His gaze drops to my lips again, and I lean close without thought. “Jed?” I say breathily, my eyes drifting closed.

There’s a bang on my window and my eyes fly open.

“Bloody hell,” I breathe, looking out, aware of Jed moving back in his seat. He’d probably like to put the distance of the channel between us.

The middle-aged man standing outside the car bends and waves through the window. “Hello,” he calls. “Are you waiting for me? Sorry I’m a bit late.”

“This must be the first builder I have an appointment with.” I put my hand on the door handle and Jed places a hand on my shoulder. I look back at him, startled.

He’s staring at the man, his brow furrowed. “I might need to tell you something.”

I hesitate. “He’s waiting and I’m being rude,” I whisper. “I don’t want to have him march off in a huff.”

Jed’s lips quirk. “Okay,” he says.

“Tell me in a bit,” I say quickly and climb out of the car.

“Mr Sampson?” I ask and hold out my hand. He’s a small red-haired man with a purple nose.

He takes my hand. “Yes. Nice to meet you,” he says. I let go and he staggers slightly and then corrects his balance.

“I’m sorry. Did you slip?” I ask in concern.

He goes into a fit of raucous laughter. “Did I slip?” he roars. He slaps me on the back, nearly sending me into the hedge.

It’s rare that I reduce someone to tears of laughter. He walks towards the house, staggering a little as he looks up.

“Well now, this is a nice bungalow,” he confides.

I blink. “Hmm. Well, it’s not exactly a bungalow,” I say apologetically.

He squints at the house. “Really? Are you sure?”

“Yes, pretty positive.” I hesitate. “The extra two floors give the game away.”

That sends him into another burst of laughter, and I give him a bemused look. Recognition hits as another gust of laughter reaches me, and the alcohol fumes make me cough.

“Oh, my goodness,” I say, coughing again.

“Hope that’s not the bug going round,” he says cheerfully, slapping me on the back again. I cover my mouth in fear that he’ll bring up one of my lungs.

“Oh really? Is it a bad one?”

“Not really.” He pauses, staring into space. “But maybe a few people have died from it.” He rummages in his pocket and produces a small notebook. He licks the pencil that he produces from behind his ear and looks up at me. “Well, I hope you’re satisfied with the standard of my work, Mr Anstons?” He falters slightly over the S’s but then rallies. “The remaining sum is now due.”

“Erm.”

I hear footsteps and relax as Jed comes up next to me. His eyes are twinkling. “How’s the quote going?”

“We’re proceeding at lightning speed because he just gave me the final bill. Oh, and he thinks I’m called Mr Anstons.”

“Artie Anstons sounds like a circus performer.” Jed’s lip twitches and he turns to the builder. “Bob Sampson. Can I just say how nice it is to meet you again,” he says silkily.

The builder stares at him myopically and then blanches. “Shit. Sergeant Walker,” he breathes.

Jed salutes him lazily. “The very same.”

I stare between them, and Jed shoots me a wink that is extraordinarily attractive. “Bob and I know each other.”

“I can see that. Personally or professionally?”

“Mainly the latter,” he says gravely.

“This is your house, Sergeant Walker?”

“It is indeed,” Jed drawls.

I watch open-mouthed as the builder turns and walks smartly down the road towards the bus stop. “Thanks for your custom, Mr Anstons,” he calls to me. “Hope you’re satisfied.”

“I’m more confused than satisfied,” I mutter.

Jed slings his arm over my shoulder, and we watch the builder disappear down the road. “Don’t look so sad, Artie Anstons,” he murmurs.

I snort. “So, what’s the story there?”

“I arrested him a few times,” he says conversationally.

“You did?” I brighten instantly. I love true-crime programmes and here is the real thing. “What was he in for?”

He bites his lip. “Not for any of the exotic things you are no doubt imagining.” He chuckles. “Drunk and disorderly on Tottenham Court Road usually. Sometimes he liked to switch the game up a bit.”

“To armed robbery?” I ask hopefully.

“No, drunk and disorderly on the Kings Road.”

I shake my head as he laughs softly. It’s as attractive as the rest of him and I savour the feel of his warm arm over my shoulders. I feel snug and protected and want it to last forever.

He stirs. “He must have a surprisingly good memory to remember me. It’s been years.”

I look at his strong, handsome face. Or you’re just very memorable, I think.

We turn as a van pulls up and parks by the house. A tall man with silver hair climbs out and retrieves a clipboard and a diary. This must be my second appointment. He walks towards us and I move away from Jed to greet him.

“Mr Campbell?” the man says, his voice deep and pleasant.

“That’s me,” I say, offering him my hand. “You must be Mr Barnes?”

“Yes, but please call me Eric.” He looks behind me and his eyes widen. “Jed,” he exclaims, his face breaking into a wide smile. “How are you?”

“How is it that everyone knows you?” I enquire lightly.

“I’m fine, Eric.” Jed takes the hand the builder offers him, smiling. They’re both the same height, both good-looking, and obviously on good terms. I wonder with a sinking feeling if they ever dated.

Jed smiles at me. “Eric did the work on my flat a while ago.”

“Oh,” I say, relief sweeping through me. “Oh, that’s good. At least he didn’t arrest you too,” I add quickly to the builder.

“Not yet, but the day is still young,” Eric murmurs.

I smile at him. “So, he’ll give you a good reference, then?”

“I would hope so. Either him or Mick.”

There’s a sudden horrid silence. My throat clicks when I swallow.

Jed gives a fixed smile, all his animation draining away. “Mick died a few years ago, Eric,” he says quietly.

The builder blanches. “Oh shit. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s absolutely fine,” Jed says, his smile kind. “Shall we go and look at the house?” He quickly walks inside.

Before following him, the builder groans quietly at me. “Me and my big mouth. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “You weren’t to know. It’s been a few years since it happened.”

He shakes his head. “Man, that’s so sad. I never saw a nicer couple.”

“So, I’ve heard.”

“They were absolutely devoted to each other. Made me smile whenever I saw them together. Jed must have been devastated.”

“He still is,” I say, wishing desperately to change the subject.

“Mick would definitely be a hard act to follow.”

His words hurt, but I stand there accepting them quietly. Footsteps sound, and I look up to find Jed returning. To my surprise, he slides his arm over my shoulder, drawing me to him. “So, you’ve met my husband?” he asks Eric.

Eric looks at me in shock and then grimaces. “I might have to have my foot surgically removed from my mouth today. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly.

Jed frowns and looks between us.

“No harm done,” I say. “Shall we look inside?”

When I reach the door, I look back. Jed is watching me intently. I offer him a smile and gesture. “Shall we get on with it?”

The sun goes behind a cloud and the wind blows a cool gust down my back, making me shiver. It seems like the weather is echoing my mood.

Jed is quiet for the rest of the day, but you wouldn’t notice unless you knew him well.

During our evening meal in the hotel restaurant, he makes conversation, smiles at my stilted small talk, and generally behaves like the gentleman he is. But I catalogue his sad eyes and the way his glass is being emptied far more than usual.

When we stand up to go back to the suite, he staggers and I edge next to him unobtrusively, helping him onto the lift and shoring up his balance in the car. When I look up, he’s watching me in the mirrored wall, his eyes mysterious and curiously intent.

“Little Artie,” he says, a slur in his voice. “My husband.” His grip slips on the rail, and he lists to one side.

I hurry to put my arm around him. He turns and we’re suddenly so close you couldn’t get a piece of paper between our bodies. “You’re always there to help me.”

I laugh nervously. “I do t-try.”

“And you succeed,” he says far too loudly. “Every time. Why is that?” he says fractiously. “Why are you able to be what I need?”

“Luck,” I say softly.

He takes my chin gently in his fingers. “You are so beautiful.” I gasp as he slides his thumb over my lips. “And these,” he mutters, his voice dark. “The curve of these lips drives me mad when I’m alone in the dark.”

My heart thunders as he caresses my lip, his thumb dipping in to trace the wet interior. Without thinking, I draw it into my mouth, licking and sucking.

“Yes,” he says hoarsely, staring at me with glittering eyes. “I like that.”

We both stagger as the lift comes to a stop. He presses me to the wall with all his weight, and I groan as he lowers his head and traces my throat with his lips. My cock throbs, and I push against him, pulling a deep, thrilling moan from his chest.

It’s my turn to groan as he pulls away. “Bedroom,” he says throatily.

I follow him out of the lift like he’s the Pied Piper of my underpants. He’s quicker than me, or maybe my steps are slower, because as we enter the room, I’m definitely lagging as my conscience argues with my cock. Jed is drunk and upset by the builder’s innocent remarks. They’d brought up old memories, and he’s drunk to forget them again. It would be very wrong to take advantage of that.

After shutting the door behind us, I groan as I see his shirt on the floor. Splashing sounds come from the bathroom. Is he showering? I’m not sure I’m strong enough to resist a naked and flirtatious Jed. I pause at the bathroom door, my eyes widening at what I see.

He’s half naked, muscles and hair-roughened torso on display. But what arrests my attention is how he’s washing his hands at the sink, his jaw rigid and his motions frantic as his fingers scrape at his skin.

“What are you doing?” I ask, stepping closer.

His gaze meets mine in the mirror and for a moment he doesn’t seem to recognize me. Then his taut features seem to collapse, and I can’t resist the urge to comfort him.

“What is it, Jed?” I say, placing a gentle hand on his forearm.

“It won’t come off,” he mutters.

“What won’t?” I look down at his hand and my stomach sinks. “Your wedding ring?”

He nods miserably. “I always take it off before I go to bed.”

“You do?” My heart thumps. “I keep mine on at all times,” I whisper.

“I don’t want it on me all the time. It weighs me down.”

I swallow hard. He’s drunk. This means nothing.

“Let me help,” I say soothingly. I take his hand, admiring his long fingers and neat nails and the veins along the back of his hand.

His size, his scent, his warmth—they’re all lovely. But he’s in pain, and I have to ignore what his nearness does to me. I grab the soap, lather it up, and rub his finger gently. “There you go.” I twist off the ring and offer it to him. “All good now, sweetheart.”

He looks down at it with red-rimmed eyes. “Put it somewhere, will you?” He quickly stumbles out of the room.

I focus on the gold band in my hand. I didn’t really need another reminder of how much Mick meant to him and how little I do, but it seems like the universe disagreed.

six

. . .

Two Weeks Later

jed

I sit back in my chair and try to resist the impulse to slide under the desk and hide from my new clients.

“But I don’t understand,” Clarissa says in a whiny voice that makes me want to syringe my ears. “Why can’t I get married at Christmas?”

“We,” James says. “It’s both of us getting married, Clarissa.”

She glares at him, and he huddles in his chair. I’m not surprised. I’ve only known her for an hour, and it’s my opinion that she could give Medusa a run for her money.

“You can get married at Christmas,” I say patiently for the fifth time. “Just not this Christmas.”

Artie shifts in his chair, his head bent studiously over his pad as he takes notes, but I can see the full curve of his lower lip. Of course I can. I’m obsessed with it. That plump curve makes me crazy with the desire to lick and suck on it. He looks up at me with wide eyes, and I realise I’ve fallen silent and they’re all staring at me. I cough and shift uncomfortably. I’m getting hard just sitting here, and I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. My control has always been the thing I’ve most prided myself on.

“Well,” says Clarissa’s father, his weight making his chair creak ominously. He’s a portly man with a big moustache and an even bigger opinion of himself. The moustache is rather like a weathervane tracking his moods, and it’s bristling at the moment. “Tell me how much it would cost to get those other weddings cancelled, and my Clarissa can have what she wants.”

I’d say the problem is that Clarissa has been getting what she wants for far too long, but I don’t think he’s looking for parental advice.

“It will cost nothing,” I say. “Because it’s not going to happen.”

He blinks at me in astonishment.

I continue in a firm tone. “I’m not in the business of destroying other people’s dreams just to get Clarissa hers. Sorry,” I say, not at all apologetically. “If that’s what you want, you’ve come to the wrong firm.”

Apparently, my old police voice is still effective.

“Oh, of course,” he says quickly, blanching as he sits back in his chair. “It was just a light-hearted bit of banter.”

“As I thought,” I say. “Praise laughter for bringing us so much joy.”

Artie glances at me, the laughter and approval in his eyes warming me.

Other men’s opinions don’t usually concern me, but somehow Artie’s do, and so I’ve been aware of a slight distance between us in the past two weeks.

Oh, he’s as lovely as ever, but there’s something new—a separation I can feel but can’t quite grasp. It’s driven me mad, and I’ve tried everything to bridge the gap and failed.

It’s something to do with the night after we’d met Eric at Artie’s horror of a house. I’d had way too much to drink at dinner and woke in my bed shirtless, plagued by a hangover that made death look appealing. My memory of the previous night had been embarrassingly vague, but Artie didn’t say much when I’d questioned him about it.

Now I brighten because he’s once more looking at me in approval.

I smile at the customers sitting in front of my desk. “So, we’re agreed to try for next year in December, yes?” Everyone nods and murmurs agreement, except Clarissa. She makes a moue of distaste, which I’m pretty sure makes an appearance at least seventy times a day when life isn’t conforming to her plans.

“But I still want Fiona to cater the event,” she says.

I consider banging my head on the desk but offer her a patient smile instead. “As I said, Clarissa, it’s impossible to do that with your choice of venue. The Florentine is a top hotel, and they always go with their own selections of caterers and florists. It’s very difficult to get on their list of suppliers, as they already have a trusted team of people.”

“But she’s my best friend,” Clarissa protests. “And she’s been in the business for a few months.”

Unless she’s capable of bribing the venue with a bung the size of Brazil’s national debt it’s not happening. There are so many kickbacks going on between venues and suppliers they put the World Cup to shame.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “But that’s a no-go. Maybe she could cater your engagement party.” Which I’m thankfully having nothing to do with. If I were, I’d enter a monastery beforehand and enthusiastically take a vow of silence. Even better, they could wall me up in a room and leave me there in peace.

“That’s a very good idea,” she says, brightening. She snaps her fingers. “Mummy, take a note.”

I bite my lip. I thought the woman in the corner of the room was Clarissa’s PA. Family occasions must be interesting in their household. For a second, I worry I’ve said this out loud, and from the quirk of Artie’s mouth he knows what I was thinking. We share a glance full of humour before I return my gaze to my clients.

“So, we’ve agreed on the budget and the venue. I feel this has been a very productive meeting.” The size of the zeros on the budget that Mr Barrington gave me should make my eyes bleed, but he’ll need all of them and probably more. Christmas society weddings aren’t for the faint of heart, because venue and staff costs triple, or in some cases, even more. “Leave it with me.”

Everyone smiles and gets to their feet except for Clarissa who remains seated. “And what about my wings?” she asks querulously.

I offer her a wan smile even though I want to throw myself out of the window and run away screaming. “Are you really set on that?”

Her lower lip juts like a five-year-old’s on the verge of a tantrum. “I want it.”

“Well, that’s doable, of course. We just need to be careful. The last time—” I trail off, wondering how to say this.

Her eyes narrow. “Carry on.”

“Well, we had a bride with wings last year, and there was a rather unfortunate incident with the wings and an outdoor clock’s hands.”

The whole room is now locked in an expectant silence. “What happened?” Mr Barrington asks.

“The minute hand caught her wing,” Artie says. “It’s a shame it wasn’t the hour hand. She wouldn’t have taken flight quite so rapidly. It was a lovely flight, though,” he concludes, brightening.

“Yes. And then she fell,” I say in a spirit of honesty. “She spent her wedding night in traction.”

James looks at his bride, expression almost cheerful as he seems to consider this idea.

I judge it to be my cue to end the meeting. “So, there we have it,” I say cheerfully. “If you want wings, we can certainly make that happen. We just won’t do it in a garden obsessed with the passing of time. And no tails either,” I add. They all look at me. “It was a cats wedding.”

“Cats getting married?” Mrs Barrington asks cautiously and a little hopefully.

I hate to burst her bubble. I wave my hand. “No, they dressed like the stage show but there was an incident with a door and the whole back of the bride’s costume.” I shudder, remembering the hysterics of that occasion. Artie managed to calm things down only when he told the bride that she had the nicest back of any bride he’d ever seen.

I offer them my best smile. “Welcome to the Confetti Hitched family. We’re going to make this the wedding of your dreams.”

Or die trying, I add silently.

Artie shows them out, and I slump back in my chair. When he comes back into the room, I smile up at him. “Is it too early to start drinking the alcohol samples? I’m asking for a friend.”

He chuckles and perches on the edge of the desk. “It probably would have been better to do that before the meeting.”

I eye him curiously. I spent years working with him and rarely saw the impish humour that now appears a lot. I love it and I’m equally fascinated by the new flashes of stubbornness that peek out, destroying his image of the perfect PA.

“Are we ready to move into the house?” he asks, demonstrating some of the boldness I like to see.

“You mean the building site?” I raise my eyebrows.

His mouth quirks. “Eric said it’s habitable. He wants to meet us today to discuss the progress.”

“What does that actually mean?”

“I’m not sure. I presume we’ll have running water, and the new windows are in.”

“Goodness, it sounds like The Ritz.”

He laughs. “And we have two bedrooms that are…”

“Habitable, yes?”

“That’s the word of the week.”

“I’ll alert Wordle.”

His eyes crinkle in amusement. “So, we have somewhere to sleep.”

“We could keep staying at the hotel. I’ve grown to like having my bed made and the mini bar filled up.”

“Goodness, it’s like meeting Jeff Bezos.”

I laugh loudly, and he regards me with a smile in his pretty eyes.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “You’ll only have to be there for six months.”

That sobers me. At first, I’d been dismayed by how insurmountable spending time in close proximity with him had seemed. But over the past few weeks, I’ve grown to love having him by my side always, being able to talk to him whenever I want, and simply sitting near him as I pretend to read the paper while watching him as if he’s the most fascinating man in the world. And now our time together suddenly seems too short.

“Jed?” His expression has become serious. “This arrangement has already cost you a fortune with the cost of the wedding and the hotel bills. I’m not comfortable with you spending any more money. The quicker we move into the house, the faster this will be done with.”

“Yes,” I say hoarsely, forcing a smile. “Great.” The whole point of this endeavour is to get his house back. I bet he can’t wait to start his life again without me there pretending to be his husband.

I become aware that I’m rubbing my chest when he says, “Are you okay?”

“Oh yes. Probably just hungry,” I say quickly.

He brightens and stands up.

“I’ll go and grab you a sandwich from the deli.”

“And one for you,” I add, stopping him as he reaches the door.

He turns, looking back at me in question. “We can eat lunch together,” I add.

He tilts his head as he scans my face.

We didn’t use to do this. In the old days, I’d swan off for lunch with friends and he’d do his own thing of which I knew nothing. I liked it that way. But I’ve grown to love spending quiet time with Artie talking over work and laughing about office gossip. He knows so much because he actually listens to people.

“We can discuss the moving,” I say quickly.

His face relaxes. “Yes, of course. Good idea.”

“I do have the odd one or two.”

He offers me an impish grin and disappears into the outer office, where he’s hailed by many voices at once. I tense as possessiveness seizes me. They can get their own Artie. I don’t share.

Sighing, I make myself relax. I’ll soon be as twisted as a pretzel if I keep battling these feelings. I’m starting to think cheerful oblivion is the key to being fake married.

We pull up outside the house. Scaffolding cocoons the building, but its attractive, wisteria-covered contours are still visible. The big, semi-detached Edwardian house has an Arts and Crafts design, with mock timber framing and windows that feature stained glass. Its proportions are graceful and the house is wide and deep with an extension on the back and a long garden.

The tree-lined street is full of similar houses, all of them well kept. It’s a very nice neighbourhood.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you. How did your neighbours cope with the squatters?” I ask. The older couple next door had greeted our renovations with barely concealed relief.

Artie shrugs. “They made a lot of complaints to the police, but they were overseas a lot with the husband’s job, so the complaints never really went anywhere.”

As soon as we get out of the car, a familiar voice calls, “Mr Walker!”

“Oh Christ,” I say.

Artie nudges me. “Be kind. He’s lovely.”

“He’s like a red setter with all the accompanying destructive energy,” I say grimly.

The builder’s apprentice approaches as I get our suitcases out of the boot. Tyler is a cheerful, dark-haired lad with a sunny temper and the destructive tendencies of a wrecking ball. “Hi,” he says breathlessly. “Oh my god, I’ve got something so exciting to tell you.”

“Where is Eric?” I ask cautiously.

Tyler’s wide grin is slightly manic around the edges. “He went to the builders’ merchants. We’ve run out of cement.” He waves his hands. “Come and look,” he calls and darts into the house.

I turn grimly to Artie. “Didn’t you tell me that Eric promised Tyler wouldn’t be left on his own?”

“Yes.”

“Remind me again why that was.”

He snorts. “It was because Tyler thought the new Belfast sink was a relic and took it to the tip to be helpful.”

“I’m sure they were suitably grateful. He’s single-handedly extended this project by a month. Why does Eric put up with him?”

“Tyler’s his nephew.”

“Is he really? Another attack on the war against rampant nepotism.” I stare at him as if he’s harbouring more secrets. “How do you know these details?”

“Because I actually ask questions.”

“Ah well, there’s your first mistake. Because questions come with answers that are usually wordier than a Shakespeare sonnet. I should know. Last week I asked Rafferty about Stan’s guide dog. I think I could actually breed them now; such is the breadth of my knowledge.”

“Come on, Mr Walker,” comes a call from inside. It’s followed by a loud crash. “Oh, don’t worry. It’ll mend.”

“He should have that inscribed on his forehead,” I say.

Artie starts to laugh, and I follow him into the house, looking around curiously. The new staircase is made of light oak, and it gleams in the sunlight like liquid honey. Artie has lovely taste. I’d thought initially that he’d make the place a period piece, but it’s very far from that. He’s opened the downstairs, the rabbit warren of little rooms replaced by an open-plan design that allows light to stream through the house.

It really is a beautiful place with a very serene atmosphere even in the middle of all the building work. It feels like a home should do.

I follow Artie up the stairs. Halfway up, he stops me with a hand to my chest. I look down at the hand, feeling the heat through my shirt. He’s half an inch away from my nipple and a dart of heat strums through me. I inhale sharply and he jerks and goes to pull his hand away, but I catch it and hold it in place.

“Be nice,” he says.

Another crash sounds, and I groan. “Is there a reason why this is happening to me? If I do past-life regression, will I find out that I was a violent serial killer?”

“It’s highly likely you’d have been a grumpy one and I’d definitely have watched programmes about you.” I huff just to see his smile. “Tyler really looks up to you,” he adds.

“Why? If I were his boss, he would currently be joining the dole queue.”

“Really? Do you remember when Joe and Raff dropped that wedding cake on the new carpet at the office?”

“That is truly an evergreen memory and has probably misplaced something very important. I equally remember Raff’s size tens tracking cake all the way through the office, and the bride’s hysterics that were so loud I could hear her through my noise-cancelling headphones. Bose should have employed her as a tester.”

“And yet you still kept them on?”

I roll my eyes. “Let’s not dwell on that foolish impulse.”

He offers me a wide smile, and I’m fascinated by the little dimple that appears by his mouth. It’s absurdly charming. “I’ll leave you to think about it.”

“Please don’t.”

As we get to the top of the stairs, Tyler appears. Red-faced, he grabs Artie’s hand. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Has he found a piece of his common sense?” I mutter very low.

Artie snorts and lets himself be towed along.

We pass two bedrooms that resemble cratered shells, and a bathroom where three men are installing a bath with a lot of cursing. We end up by the closed door of the smallest bedroom.

“Okay,” Tyler says, taking a deep breath. “I couldn’t believe it when I found it. It was properly like a film I saw when I was a kid.”

We wait a few seconds and then I say patiently, “What was?”

“The secret room,” he breathes.

Artie and I gape at him.

“A secret room,” I say slowly. “And you’ve found it? Ouch!” Artie elbows me.

“Yes,” Tyler says, oblivious as ever to the byplay. “I thought I’d just have a quick go with the lump hammer while Mr Barnes is at the builders’ merchant and there it was.” He puts a finger to his lips. “We’d better be quiet though, Jed, because he might still be here.”

There’s a short silence that I break by saying cautiously, “Who?”

“The man who’s living in the room of course. Or the woman I suppose,” he adds in a spirit of diversity. “You should see it. There’s bloody furniture in there and everything. There’s even a book left out and a fresh cup of tea. Cheeky sod’s been squatting.”

I surreptitiously look around for the hidden cameras because surely someone is pranking me. Artie looks at me dubiously as I edge past Tyler. Keeping Artie behind me, I throw the door open.

“Hey,” Artie says crossly at my protectiveness. I’m not sure what’s going on here, so he can stay safe and lump it until I figure it out. “I am a grown man,” he hisses at my back. “I can deal with anything that comes along.”

I step inside the room and gawp at what I see. The wall in the bedroom is now a mess of rubble, which does say something for Tyler’s prowess with the lump hammer. There’s indeed a room beyond the destroyed wall. Lit by the glow of a lamp is a desk, a cosy armchair, and a wall of bookcases.

“What the fuck?” I breathe.

“See?” Tyler says excitedly, shoving past Artie to get into the room.

“Watch my husband, please,” I say sharply.

“It’s like a magic room,” Tyler continues in an awed voice.

I inhale sharply as it dawns on me what’s actually happened here.

“Is it another of them bloody squatters, Jed?” Tyler asks.

“Not exactly,” I say, rubbing my nose and wincing.

“What is it?” Artie asks, stepping in front of us. “Oh, it is a secret room.”

He gasps in realisation at the same moment a querulous voice asks, “What the hell is going on in my bloody house?”

I clap Tyler on the shoulders. “Not exactly a secret room, mate. You’ve knocked through to the house next door.” I wink at Artie. “I’ll leave you to introduce yourself to the neighbours, seeing as you like doing these things yourself.”

Whistling, I head off downstairs.

Half an hour later, Artie finds me sitting in the front garden on an overturned wheelbarrow smoking a cigarette and surveying the potholed drive. I flick my ash away and grin at him. “Everything okay?”

I already know the answer, because I secretly hovered at the bottom of the stairs, ready to come to his rescue. He didn’t need me, as he was being his usual charming self.

He lowers himself cautiously and then relaxes when the wheelbarrow bears our weight. “It’s fine,” he says, slumping into me. “Gosh, what a way to introduce yourself to the neighbours.”

“Only way that would have been worse is if you were Haigh, the acid-bath murderer and buying a new tub from them.”

He brightens. “I watched a documentary on him the other night. Fascinating. Did you know that a victim’s dentures survived the acid bath and played a crucial role in his trial?”

It never fails to stun me that such a sweet man has such a grisly fascination with murders. I’ve learnt more about serial killers over the last couple of weeks than an intensive course with the FBI would have ever taught me.

“I did not know that, but thank you very much for telling me.”

He nudges me and I nearly fall off the wheelbarrow. “That’s for leaving me with that absolutely super situation.”

“You’re welcome,” I say in a sunny voice, stubbing out my cigarette. “You told me to stop interfering and let you be a grown man.”

“I did not say it in that voice, and I didn’t mean for you to obey me at exactly that moment.”

That startles a laugh out of me, and I pull him close. He nestles into my side, and I try to ignore the sense of well-being that flows over me. It’s always a struggle coming to terms with the equally soothing and exciting effect he has on me.

He rests his head on my shoulder, and I absently drop a kiss into his sweet-smelling hair. It’s only when he stiffens that I realise what I’ve done.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

He pulls back and stares at me. This close I can see navy striations in his pale blue eyes. “I liked it,” he says softly.

“Pardon?”

“You heard me. I liked it. Jed, I want⁠—”

“Ah, there you are.” Eric’s voice startles both of us.

Artie nearly falls off the wheelbarrow, and I growl at the interruption, hauling him back until he’s nearly sitting in my lap. “You were saying, Artie?”

He shakes his head. “Not now.”

“Later?”

He nods rather reluctantly, and only then do I glance at Eric. He has a smile playing on his lips.

“Can I help you, Eric? Do you need some dynamite to blow next door down so we can get a better garden? Or maybe we can get Tyler to take the roof off and issue us umbrellas.”

He groans. “I do apologise. We shall of course be doing the repairs free of charge and Tyler will never hold a lump hammer again in his life, which is going to be a lot shorter if he doesn’t do as he’s told.”

I snort but Artie looks earnestly at Eric. “He’s a good lad. He was just trying to help.”

“I bet the fall of Troy was predated by someone saying, ‘I know what will help’,” I observe.

Artie laughs, his face lighting up. “You could be right.”

“Well, I’m glad I’ve caught you both in good moods,” Eric says, settling his backside against the low garden wall.

“It’s possibly hyperbole to describe it as a good mood,” I say.

“You’re laughing, aren’t you?”

“That’s just incipient hysteria.”

“Well, I bring news of a slight delay.”

“Oh yes?” I ask resignedly.

Artie makes a disappointed sound, and I squeeze his shoulder. He’s never renovated somewhere before, and he came into this project with the usual rosy-eyed ideals of everything going according to plan and budget. I make a mental note to top up Eric with more money. I’ve been helping him stay on the ever-expanding budget. Artie might very well be furious when he finds out, but for now, what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him, and it keeps his own money safe.

“We’ve found water damage in the walls of one of the bedrooms you’d earmarked to be done first. I need to stop work on it until I can be sure there hasn’t been any structural damage.”

“Oh no,” Artie says. “Which one?”

“The one at the front of the house.”

That was supposed to be my room. I grimace. “How long?”

“About a week. And that’s a conservative estimate, because we’ll have to wait for the building inspector to come out, and he’s always busy.”

“But that will only leave us with one bedroom,” Artie says.

I freeze because that hadn’t occurred to me.

Eric grimaces. “Sorry about that, but it is a guest room. Your and Jed’s room is fine and the en suite bathroom in there will be done by the end of day. The decorator comes in a couple of days so that side of the upstairs will be lovely.”

It wasn’t exactly a guest room, but he isn’t to know that. “It’s fine,” I say. “These things happen.”

He gives me a grateful smile and then vanishes into the house. Within seconds, we can hear him bellowing at someone. Artie and I sit in a silence so deep that I swear I can hear his brain whirring.

Then he jumps to his feet and turns to me. “What are we going to do, Jed? That was going to be your bedroom.”

I stand up. “The main bedroom is okay, so you can have that,” I say instantly. I hesitate. “I can always continue to stay at the hotel,” I suggest reluctantly. I don’t want to leave him.

“You can’t do that. Mr Davies will be visiting.”

I relax. “I don’t want to stay at the hotel,” I admit. “And not because of Mr Davies. I’m a little concerned that the squatters might take it upon themselves to come back. I’m not leaving you alone with that possibility.”

“Would they do that?” He gives me a tragic face. “God, I’m so glad you’re doing this with me. It would have been a disaster left to me. I never think of these things happening. I’m such an idiot.”

He’s edged closer and the distress is real in his voice. He’s always been very hard on himself and now I have an inkling as to why. I wrap my arms around him, automatically pulling him closer to comfort him. His heart is beating as fast as a baby bird’s. “If it had been just you, you would have been fine,” I say firmly. “You’re amazing. You’re capable, calm, and very intelligent.”

“Well, I certainly don’t feel it right now.”

“That’s just because all of this is new. Everyone feels like this during their first renovation. You get confidence the more you deal with things, and you’re doing fine.”

“Really?”

Pulling back, I cup his face in my hands, feeling the sharp bones of his cheeks under my fingers. “Really.” I stroke down his face, burrowing my fingers in his silky hair. “You’re amazing,” I say again softly, aware of him lifting towards me. I’m lowering my head to kiss him the way I’ve dreamt of doing in my empty bed every night when footsteps sound on the street.

I look up and freeze.

“What now?” Artie says.

His disgruntled voice would make me smile if I wasn’t watching the Titanic of disasters about to occur.

“Oh shit,” I breathe.

“What is it?” he asks frantically.

I turn his head gently to face the street where a red-haired lady is walking briskly. “Do you see that woman with the cross face who’s approaching the house?”

“Yes,” he says a little uncertainly. “She’s not another neighbour, is she?”

“I wish,” I say grimly. “That is my mother.”

“Oh shit.”

“You can say that again. By the look on her face, I’d guess she knows we got married.”

seven

. . .

artie

I watch the lady coming up the street towards us. She looks nothing like Jed, in that she’s small and red-haired, but there’s something about her fierce expression that reminds me of him.

As his words sink in, I shift so I’m standing behind him. He shoots me a wry look. “Don’t reproach me,” I whisper. “She’s your mum. If there’s trouble to be had, she can find it with you.” Then I remember that he’s in this mess because of me. “I want you to know I’ll be very supportive,” I add quickly. “Just from a distance.”

This amuses him, because he bursts into laughter that’s merry and full-throated. I stare because Jed in full-on merriment is a rare sight.

His mum pauses, her expression softening as she looks at her laughing son. I let out a relieved breath and smile.

“Well, that’s a sight I don’t see too often,” she calls.

I give a muted squeak as Jed throws his arm over my shoulders and draws me close to him. His body is big and hot against mine. “Can you play along with me?” he whispers into my ear while nuzzling it.

I shudder at the feel of his warm breath on my neck. I want to curl into him and never leave. I realise he’s waiting for an answer and drag my attention back to him. “What?”

“Can you pretend that we’re lovers?”

It’s so not what I thought he was going to say. “I beg your pardon?”

His mum is nearly on us, and he whispers desperately, “Can you pretend we’re in love, and that’s why we got married?”

Before I can reply, his mother stands before us. “Well?” she says, glaring at her son. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?” Jed asks, bending forward to kiss her. He towers over her, and as she hugs him, I can read happiness in every inch of her body. This is what a parent should look like when they see their child. Not the way my father always did—nervous and wondering what I’d done to upset his wife this time.

They pull apart and she slaps his arm gently. “So, I was at Asda this morning and I bumped into Sally Barker. I think her daughter works for you. Ingrid?”

“Yes, that’s her,” Jed says quickly, his face nervous. “She’s a very good receptionist. A little noisy, but she’s excellent at her job.”

“Well, that’s lovely for Ingrid, but as I haven’t suddenly become LinkedIn, it’s a bit too much information for me. Anyway, Sally and I had a chat over the croissants, and you’ll never guess what she told me.”

“That you don’t need to butter them because they’re actually made of butter.”

I bite my lip to hide a smile, and Jed looks at me, his eyes sparkling.

His mum huffs. “There is nothing that can’t be improved with butter, including croissants. I got this lovely jam at the church summer fair and—” She pauses. “Oh, very clever, but you’re not distracting me this time. So, we were talking about the company and how well you’re doing with it, and then she gave me some very interesting information.”

“Oh shit,” Jed mutters.

“That’s a fair summary of the situation. She told me that her daughter was at your wedding a few weeks ago. Is that true?”

“Ma,” Jed starts.

She draws herself up. “Oh my god, it is true. You’re married.”

Jed smiles nervously at me, and I take the hand he offers me. His fingers clutch tight around mine, and I smile reassuringly at him.

“Yes, Ma,” he says. “This is my husband, Arthur.”

“It’s very nice to meet you,” I say softly. She eyes me dubiously, a ghost of hurt still on her face.

Shit. This is all my fault. I think fast. “Jed didn’t tell you because of me,” I say and feel him freeze next to me. “I’m afraid I don’t have any family left.” Her face softens slightly. “And he didn’t want me to feel overwhelmed by lots of people. We actually were going to have a private ceremony, but Ingrid spotted the banns, and she and some other coworkers turned up to support us as a surprise.”

“Nosy,” she says distractedly. “Just like her mother. I’ve known her to eat three desserts at a restaurant just to hear the outcome of a couple’s row at the next table.”

I bite my lip to hold a smile in, and then she clicks her fingers as realisation dawns in her face. “Arthur? Is it Artie?”

“It is.”

“You work for Jed.” She examines my face with green eyes entirely like her son’s—concentrated and intense. Then suddenly she relaxes. “Well, now I understand.”

“You do? Because I certainly don’t,” Jed says, echoing my own thoughts.

She nods. “Of course. Now I know it’s him, it all makes sense.”

“It does?”

She narrows her eyes at her son. “Is there something wrong with you?”

“No,” he says slowly, as if contemplating the possibility.

“Well, you talk about him all the time. Adam and I knew there was something going on. You’ve been together a while, haven’t you?”

Jed hesitates, and I’m no help, because I’m struggling with the concept that he’s actually spoken with his mum about me.

“What is time?” Jed finally says in an enigmatic masterstroke.

She rolls her eyes, and then I gasp as she steps forward and hugs me. She smells of Sunflowers by Elizabeth Arden, and the solidness of her hug makes my throat tight. When she steps back, she cups my face. “Such a beautiful boy, Jed.”

“Ma, he’s not a puppy at the pound. Don’t scare him away.”

She ignores him and kisses my cheek. “Welcome to the family, Artie.”

All my guilt is overwhelmed by the lovely feeling of having a mother approve of me. “Thank you,” I murmur. “That’s very kind of you.”

She smiles and then turns and slaps her son’s arm.

“Ow! What the hell, Ma?”

“You don’t call, you don’t write.”

“You spout more fiction than Enid Blyton. I popped in for dinner three weeks ago. You must remember that special occasion, because you made me put a bookcase together and then mend the stair rail.”

“And the next minute I look around and you’re bloody married.”

“Which brings me to the question of how you knew how to find us?” Jed says silkily.

“Oh, that nice red-haired young man at your office gave me the address.”

“Well, how lovely of Rafferty. Do remind me to give him a raise.”

Her eyes narrow. “So, are there any more secrets about our family that I’ll be enlightened on by a complete stranger in Asda?”

Jed sighs. “Not a stranger. She was your bridesmaid.”

“Well?”

“No, of course not. Jesus Christ, what was that for?” He yelps as she slaps his arm again.

“That was congratulations.”

“Have you completely abandoned all social conventions? Why did Artie get a hug, and I didn’t?”

“Because something about this is undoubtedly your fault. I’m being proactive.”

I laugh and she shoots me a merry look. “Well, I’ll expect you both round this evening.”

Jed’s eyes widen. “Pardon?”

“For the family party.”

“Oh no,” he starts.

She folds her arms. “The way I see it, Jed, you have two choices. Are you going to turn up at our house and introduce your new husband to your brother and his family and incidentally back me up on the fact that I told Sally I knew all about your marriage and have been organising this party for ages?”

“So, I’m supporting you in your web of lies?”

“Or,” she talks over him with the obvious ease of practise, “are you going to make me confess to my friend that my child—the boy I carried inside me for nine months and who I’ve loved and protected all these years—is actually an ungrateful cretin?”

I can’t help my snort of laughter.

Jed sighs. “We’ll be there for the party which you have been organising for the last decade.”

She shakes her head. “A little less sarcasm and more family spirit might improve the quality of your life.” She kisses me again. “See you in a bit, Artie. Lovely to meet you.” She shakes her head. “Such a pretty boy. In a bit then, Jed,” she says, slapping his arm again.

“Bloody hell, I’ll have repetitive strain injury if you keep doing that.”

“If you didn’t develop it in that arm during your teenage years, I’d say you’re safe now.”

“Ma,” Jed squarks and I start to laugh.

“Well, what do you expect?” She winks at me. “Always in his room with the curtains drawn, telling me he liked a dim view of the world, and my hand cream being used up at the rate of knots. Well, I’ll be off. See you later.”

Jed stirs. “Do you want me to give you a lift home?”

She shakes her head. “Of course not. I’ve got a few people to see first.”

“Oh god,” Jed mutters. “Not the Walker grapevine.”

She pulls a phone from her bag and aims the camera at us. “Smile, boys,” she says. We hasten to obey, and she clicks a few times. “Jed, are you constipated? Put your arm around the boy.”

“I bet the royal family have less troublesome paparazzi than her,” Jed mutters under his breath.

“Stop whinging.” His mother checks her phone. “Such a beautiful couple,” she says. “Wait until I tell Mary King. Her son-in-law looks like a constipated turnip. Six o’clock for the Welcome to the Family Artie Party.”

I wave. As we watch her walk back down the street, I start to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Jed asks.

“Just meeting your mother. It’s like finding out that Godzilla had parents.”

“Why did I never realise that you were cheeky? It seems like a dangerous oversight to have made.”

We lapse into a comfortable silence. The sun is warm on my head, and he appears to have forgotten that he still has his arm around me. I fix the comfort surrounding me firmly in my memory. He drops his arm as soon as his mum is out of sight, and I shiver at the loss.

Then he seizes my shoulders and looks into my eyes. “Thank you,” he breathes fervently.

Guilt floods me again. “What the hell have we done, Jed? I feel terrible deceiving her.”

He sighs. “I know. Thank you for getting me off the hook, though.”

“If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have been on a hook.” I grimace. “We’ve now committed ourselves to more lies. The slope into wickedness is a lot more slippery than my old RE teacher told me.”

“I just don’t want to tell her the truth.”

“I’m guessing she wouldn’t approve?”

“No. Marriage is for love only.” I flinch, but he doesn’t notice, as he’s lost in thought. “She thinks everyone is like her and Dad were. I didn’t want to disappoint her.”

“Won’t she be more disappointed when we separate?”

His gaze turns thoughtful. “She’ll be sad for a bit, but she knows these things happen. My brother is divorced.” He looks up, brightening a bit “At least she’ll think we gave it the good old British try.”

I grimace. “Jed, she’s your mum. Not Admiral Nelson.”

“You have no idea. If she’d been directing the Battle of Trafalgar, it would have been won in seconds.”

“Let’s go and unpack our cases and then we can face your family.”

“How do you manage to say that in such a sunny tone of voice?”

“It’s my superpower.”

Jed’s family home is a thirties semi-detached house in Wandsworth. It’s on a long street with similar houses and I can hear children’s laughter coming from somewhere nearby. The house is obviously well loved. The windows gleam in the sunshine, the paintwork is immaculate, and the front garden is neat and tidy.

I climb out of the car, smiling at Jed as he opens the door for me. “It’s lovely. Did you grow up here?”

“I was born here.”

“Really?”

He smiles. “Another area of life where my mother was convinced she knew better. Said she’d have a happier birth if she was in the place she loved.”

“Well, she’s probably not wrong. Hospitals can be rather frightening.”

He pauses on the pavement and I want to hoard his tender, concerned expression like Midas with a bag of gold. “You sound like you have personal experience of that,” he says.

“My dad was in hospital for a while before he died.”

He frowns. “I’m guessing that your stepmother wasn’t much support.”

“Not really. We were expected to rally around Laura which didn’t go down well with Daisy.” I dismiss the memory and smile at him. “Goodness, this isn’t a cheery subject before we go into the Artie Party. And look at how it rhymes. That automatically makes it more fabulous.”

“That’s never been my experience. Especially with a poetry slam.”

“You’ve been to a poetry slam? You?”

He tries a glare but doesn’t quite succeed. “Mick made me go. He said he wanted us to embrace our literary souls, and then signed me up to go on the stage.”

“That’s horrifying,” I say from the bottom of my shy and retiring soul.

“You’re telling me. I had to sit through two hours of people putting their life’s torment into iambic pentameter. What was even more horrifying was that I was tipsy, and the only thing I could think of was to recite a limerick which opened with the words, ‘There once was a man called Friar Tuck’.”

I burst into laughter, and he shakes his head, a wry look on his face.

“We had to leave soon after,” he concludes. “Mick was laughing so hard I thought he’d wet his pants.”

This is the first time he’s ever mentioned Mick without an undercurrent of sadness, and once again, I wonder about his grief. Sometimes I sense guilt there, as if he’s somehow at fault for something.

“So, you were born here?” I say to cover the suddenly awkward silence.

“My dad swore the labour sent him prematurely grey. He wanted her to be at hospital and then she had my brother at home too.”

His smile is nostalgic, and I bite my lip wondering if I can ask about his dad. It’s just that he’s never told me much before and now all these small details are spilling out of him like the chocolates from a box of Quality Street.

His lip twitches, and he pats my cheek. “He died when I was ten.”

My heart twists. “I’m so sorry. Were you close?”

His face clouds and I curse myself for my nosiness. I never want him to feel sad.

“Yes, very,” he says. “He was funny and kind. He did a lot with me and spent hours ferrying me around to football matches and training. I’m so thankful for that time we had together. He was just this big man who you felt safe with.”

“Like you,” I say without thinking and then blush.

“You think that of me?” His tone is flabbergasted.

I blush harder and he trails a finger down my scarlet cheek, the pad of his fingertip like a kiss on my cheekbone.

“Yes,” I confess foolishly. “I always feel safe with you. It’s like you’re between me and the bad things in the world.” I swallow and add quickly. “While at work, of course.”

His expression is dazed, as if I’d hit him in the face with a stick. “Artie, I⁠—”

A window opens and his mum shouts, “Are you bringing my new son-in-law in, or shall we celebrate the party I’ve been planning for at least eight months on the pavement?”

Jed sighs. “She could have been a town crier with the power of her lungs.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing, Ma.” He crooks his elbow towards me. “Ready?”

I slide my hand onto his arm, feeling the power of the muscle and the heat of his skin. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Thank you for doing this. We’ll keep it short and sweet, so we don’t have to lie too much.”

“Optimism, thy name is Jed.”

He snorts and ushers me into the house. We step into a narrow hall with a staircase ahead of us. On a console table there’s a telephone and a photo showing a couple in wedding clothes. I recognise Jed’s mum. She looks impossibly young and very happy. His dad was tall and wide-shouldered, and Jed has his smile.

The air smells sweetly of baking, making my mouth water.

We pass a wall of black-and-white photographs, and I come to a stop, ignoring Jed’s immediate protests.

“No, I want to see,” I insist. I search the wall, immediately finding an old photo of two small boys. One is on a bike, his legs barely reaching the pedals, while the older boy who must be Jed is pulling him along. His face frowns in concentration, and I smile. Yes, it’s definitely him. He was tall even then, with long legs and grazed knees. His hair was long and much blonder than it is now. “Oh my god, you were adorable,” I breathe.

“Oh no,” he whispers. His gaze is frozen on a photo of him in the bath. “Ma, please get rid of this photo. I can’t believe all your visitors are treated to photos of me naked.”

His mum comes down the hall and smiles when she sees what I’m looking at. “That was Jed teaching Adam to ride his bike. Bless him. It took ages.”

“That’s because Adam isn’t terribly bright,” Jed mutters, taking my jacket from me.

His mum cuffs him, and as he laughs, another voice comes from behind them. “Jesus, that was more rigorous than taking my degree. I practically had to memorise the highway code before Jed would take my stabilisers off.”

“Why?” I ask the stranger.

He’s got to be Jed’s brother. I’m immediately fascinated by how he shares Jed’s height, but is thinner, his eyes a deeper shade of green. The mouth is the same, and he has the same strong, good face. His grin is so similar to Jed’s that I relax.

He says, “Because I had to be aware of what other people were doing in cars who wouldn’t have had my superb training. He had a whiteboard and everything.” He holds out his hand. “You must be the famous Artie.”

“Famous?” I gasp as he draws me into a crushing hug.

He pulls away, holding me at arm’s length. “Welcome to the family.” He winks at his brother. “Well, he’s gorgeous. I should have known.”

I’m astounded to see a flush on Jed’s cheeks. “Enough,” he growls and then smiles at me. “This is my brother, Adam. Best to know now to ignore most of what he says.”

“Most of it?” comes a woman’s voice from the kitchen. “I’d say all of it.”

“Women should hush,” Adam says, winking at me and showing no indignation when his mum elbows him. “Ouch. He’s only just got over the threshold and you’re already picking on me.”

“You deserve it,” calls the woman.

Adam grins at me. “Come and meet my soon-to-be ex-wife, Artie.”

I look back panicked at Jed but he’s walking away with our jackets, so I go along with his mother and brother. We crowd down the narrow hallway and come into a warm kitchen. It’s a big room at the back of the house that’s part of an extension, and it’s full of delicious cooking smells.

A woman is sitting at the table. She’s beautiful—small with shiny, dark hair that falls in a sleek bob, and she’s smiling welcomingly at me. “Artie, is it?”

“Yes.” I put out my hand and shake hers. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“I’m Mei. It’s even lovelier to meet you. I’ve heard such a lot about you.”

“So, Adam said.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t take too much notice of him.”

“I take exception to that remark,” her husband says. “I’ll get Jun.”

“My son,” Mei explains to me. “He’s fifteen. And don’t bother, Adam. He’s gone out for a bit to a friend’s house.”

“I think you’ve actually already met my son who’s at university,” Adam says. “Grant did some work experience with Jed and Joe last year. He said it’s put him off marriage forever. He didn’t realise hysteria could be quite so loud.”

“Oh my god,” I say, making the connection. “I remember him very well. He was the one who set fire to the office kitchen with a Finders crispy pancake.” Mei starts to laugh, and I flush. “He’s absolutely lovely, though,” I add quickly and truthfully.

Adam rolls his eyes fondly. “Lovely and the bringer of all chaos. His mum swears that it would be more peaceful living in prison than with Grant.”

“Alice isn’t wrong,” Mei observes. “I’m still scarred from trying to teach him to drive.”

“Is Jun coming back to meet Artie?” Adam asks.

His wife nods. “He’ll be back in an hour. He said he was going to study.”

“I’ve said that a fair few times myself,” Adam says.

“And it was never true,” Jed says, coming into the room. “Unless it was studying your penis.”

Mei immediately grins and holds out her arms for a hug. “Oh, it’s so lovely to see you, Jed. It’s been ages.”

“Surely not?”

She nods. “Last time was the barbecue when Adam decided to drink that beer he’d brewed himself.”

“Oh god,” Adam says faintly. “I still have the hangover. It might actually be brain damage by now.”

“Your beer obviously reaches the places no one knew even existed,” Jed says.

I snort as Adam shoots him the middle finger.

Mei grins. “No one else would touch it.”

I laugh and Jed shoots me a warm look. “Have you met Artie, Mei?”

“I have.”

He takes my hand. “Sit down,” he urges. “I hope you’re hungry. There’s enough food in the dining room to feed several armies.”

Adam immediately sits down too. “Jun will appear soon, then. Like a hungry homing pigeon.”

Mei chuckles and hugs Jed again. “Congratulations. We’re so happy for you.”

I see him control a wince and try not to let guilt overwhelm my expression.

His mum appears and nods at her two sons. “While you’re here, Jed, the fence is down again, and Mr Simpson’s chickens are getting through.”

Adam shakes his head. “He isn’t allowed to keep chickens. He hasn’t got a permit.”

“Well, since your brother left the force, there’s no one to tell him.”

“When I left, they didn’t disband the police,” Jed mutters.

I want to laugh. The brothers are so much like the two small boys in the photos.

“They might as well have done. All we get is Nigel Hunter lately, and he’s next to useless.”

“Nigel from down the road? I didn’t know he was a policeman,” Jed says, obvious interest in his voice.

I wonder how much he misses it. I know he loves the wedding business, but your first career love must be a tough one to replace.

“I don’t know why,” his mum says, removing a tray of vol-o-vents from the oven. The smell makes my mouth water. “Maybe because now he can tell people what to do. With a mother like his, he must need all the power he can get. Sarah never met an instruction she couldn’t issue.”

“Pot and kettle,” Adam mutters, and Jed snorts.

“Anyway,” she continues, undeterred. “The fence needs putting back up and my washing line is down again.”

“Isn’t this my wedding party?” Jed enquires placidly.

“Well, as you gave me no notice, I’ve had to do the best I can and haven’t had time for anything else.”

“But—”

She turns her face to him, and he subsides. He looks over at me. “Will you be okay?”

“He’s with me and Mei, not a team of interrogators, Jed Walker,” his mother says indignantly.

A flutter of nerves fills my belly. Jed’s probably feeling the same. The ways that this could go wrong are numerous. “I’ll be fine,” I say.

He hesitates and his mum says, “That washing line isn’t going to mend itself.”

“I hope the line’s long enough to tie myself to the fence and let the chickens take me.”

“Sassy,” his brother observes, and they head out of the door, letting a gust of cool air flood in. Their voices fade as his mum shuts the door behind them.

“Brr, the summer already feels like it’s over. It’s going to be a cold autumn.” She smiles at me. “Now, what can I get you Artie, love? A cup of tea or a drink? We’ll save the champagne for when the boys come back in.”

“I think tea, if you don’t mind.” I need to stay sober for this.

She pats my shoulder and bustles over to the kettle. The kitchen is a cosy room with oak cupboards and a gleaming quartz worktop which is currently covered with trays of food. An old, scrubbed pine table sits in a nook with windows that show a view of a long garden. Outside, the two brothers appear to be arguing over a fence panel. A chicken flies at Adam, and he gives a loud squawk audible through the glass and flaps his arms. Jed collapses in laughter, and I smile at the sight. He seems younger here. Not so serious and weighed down by life and loss.

Mei makes a soft noise as she looks out the window, too. “Now that’s a sight I haven’t seen in far too long,” she says.

“Oh?” I say.

“He’s been so solemn and sad since Mick died.” She meets my gaze and blanches. “Oh god, I’m so sorry. That was a terrible thing for me to say. Jed was right to be concerned about leaving you with us.”

“No, it’s fine,” I say immediately. “I know all about Mick.”

“You do?” Her eyes widen.

I shift nervously. Even Jed’s mum has abandoned her tea-making to pay attention.

“Well, of course,” I say. “I’ve worked for him for years, so I know about Mick, and I saw how Jed grieved.” I hesitate. “I don’t know what Mick looked like, though. He doesn’t keep pictures in the office.”

Mei tilts her head at this information, and I blanch because I realise Jed probably has photos of Mick in his flat, and surely as his new husband, I’d have seen them.

“We haven’t been living in the flat,” I add quickly. “We’ve been at my house. I don’t go to the flat,” I say again.

Mei looks a little dubious but is polite enough not to question me.

Jed’s mum sets my tea in front of me and then pulls a photo from yet another wall full of family pictures. She hands it to me, and I look down at the photo. It’s a man sitting on a garden chair holding a beer. He’s very good-looking with blond hair and a handsome face full of laughter.

“That was him,” Jed’s mum says. “Mick.”

My heart sinks and I can only be relieved that she didn’t show me a wedding photo of the two of them. “He looks nice,” I say.

His expression is full of life, and even though it’s just an image, I sense his charisma and energy. He seems very unlike me. I suddenly wish I hadn’t asked. I’ve been holding on to a few delusions about being able to live up to Mick, even in a small way.

Nevertheless, I continue to stare at the photo, noticing the reflection of Jed in Mick’s sunglasses. So, that expression was all for Jed. How could Jed ever get over losing a love like this?

I look up and find Jed’s mum watching me. Her face is kind and knowing, and she reaches over and takes the photo from me and sets it neatly to one side.

“Jed’s dad died when he was ten,” she says abruptly.

“Yes, he told me.”

“He did?” Both women stare at me.

I shift under their gaze awkwardly. “Yes. He was called Carl, wasn’t he?”

“Well, I never.” His mum shakes her head, a wondering expression on her face. “Jed doesn’t usually talk about it. I don’t think he ever told Michael all the details.”

Michael?

Mei mouths, Mick, and I give her a small smile of thanks.

Jed’s mum carries on. “His dad’s death hurt Jed very much at a formative age, you see.”

“I know,” I say softly. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs Walker.”

“Paula please,” she says immediately.

“I lost my mum when I was two, and I suppose I lost my dad with her,” I say thoughtfully.

She grabs a handful of patterned napkins and starts to fold them, her fingers busy. She glances up at me. “When Carl died, I was a wreck. I’d never known another man. We were childhood sweethearts, and I thought we’d live to an old age together but…” She sighs. “Anyway, it wasn’t to be. And Jed’s life was affected in a lot of ways. He’d been so close to Carl. They were as thick as thieves together and Carl took him to all his sports events. They used to go fishing together every Sunday morning. And then suddenly all that was gone, and I was scattered in pieces. It took me a while to get myself together for the boys, and Jed stepped up to be the man of the house far too young. By the time I was better, it was a role he couldn’t put away.”

“I can imagine that.” They look at me, and I shrug. “He feels responsible for everyone.” I smile at her. “It’s nice, though. Makes you feel safe.”

She scans my features for a long moment and then gives me a warm smile. “That’s very nice to hear,” she says softly. She glances at the photo of the laughing Mick and then sniffs. “He did the same with Michael, you know. Don’t let him do it with you.”

“Pardon?” I’m not sure what she’s talking about.

“Jed didn’t really let him in, did he, Mei?” she says, turning to the younger woman. “He kept his worries to himself.”

Mei nods. “Yeah. I’ve known the Walker brothers since we were kids. I was a few years younger and always had a crush on Adam, but even then, Jed had an air of mystery. He had a wall around him built so high and solidly that no one could get through. He was the kindest, most loyal man you could hope to meet. But he never let anyone look after him, and I always thought that was sad.”

“Well, Michael certainly didn’t try that hard to look after him,” his mum says tartly. She bites her lip and turns to me. “Don’t tell Jed I said that,” she whispers as if he’s behind the door. “It would upset him, and I don’t want to speak ill of Michael. He was a wonderful man—very funny and so clever. He knew things I could never hope to. All sorts of things.” For a moment she pauses, her face soft with wonder.

I shift uncomfortably on the chair. I will never be as clever and knowledgeable as Mick. I can’t be.

“I liked him,” she says. “But I didn’t ever understand the way their marriage was. It wasn’t like me and Carl, and I know you shouldn’t judge, but there was a funny sort of distance between them, maybe because he was so much older than Jed and had all the money. For all that Jed took control in life, he was almost naïve in some ways.”

“It wasn’t just that,” Mei says. “Mick liked the smooth things in life.”

“That’s it,” Paula exclaims. “That’s the perfect way to describe Michael. He liked things smooth in his personal life, and he didn’t want to know if there was trouble or hurt feelings because then he’d have to get involved. He said he had enough of that at work.” I smile and she continues. “He was a very charismatic man, and I completely understood why Jed picked him, but I don’t think Jed ever knew why Michael chose him, and that’s a shame. You should always know your own worth, shouldn’t you?” I nod, even though I’ve never had that conviction about myself. She carries on. “And that left Jed floundering a bit as to his own importance in the relationship. Oh, I know Michael loved him,” she says quickly. “He adored Jed and treated him well as far as I know but—” She hesitates. “A mother wants more, you know. Jed is a wonderful man, and anyone is lucky to have him on their side, but I want to see him with someone where he can show his weak spots and be valued for them, where he has a partner who will back him up instead of it being a bit one way.”

A silence falls and then she shakes her head. “Silly me. What a thing to talk about when we’re celebrating your wedding. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I say steadily. I reach out daringly and pat her hand. “I will look after him.” The passion in my words might sound awkward, but it’s the most honest I’ve ever been. I truly mean it.

She stares at me for a long beat and then smiles. Joy seems to radiate from her. “Then I will be a very happy woman, Artie.”

I wish with a deep-seated ache that this was real, that his family are going to be mine, and that I could love and hold on to Jed. But it’s not in my stars.

Still, I can do as I promised. I may not be Jed’s husband for long, but I do want to be his friend. I know he doesn’t feel about me the way I want him to, but I’m still going to look after him from now on.

eight

. . .

jed

As we get out of the taxi, I stagger a little. “Jesus, what was in those drinks my mother served?”

Artie snorts and I sneak a look at him. He’s standing on the pavement, the wind blowing his hair around and bringing colour to his sharp cheekbones. His eyes are bleary and he’s swaying like he’s on the deck of a ship in a storm.

My mother had started making cocktails when Adam and I finished mending the fence. After several emotional toasts on her part, Artie and I had looked at each other and silently agreed to drink our guilt away.

The taxi drives off, taking my ballast with it, and I sway for a second. “Has there been an earthquake?” I hiccup and sway again. “It’s awfully naughty that someone didn’t in-inform us.”

I blink as Artie raises my arm and slots himself under it. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“S-supporting you,” he slurs. “Isn’t that what a very good spouse does? Like putting out your slippers and your p-pipe.”

“I’m trying not to smoke anymore.” I try a lecherous wink. “Well, not unless I’m on fire.” Something about that strikes me as funny, and I laugh.

Artie laughs too, and I’m not sure in the end who’s holding the other one up, just that we’re standing very close together.

Finally, after the giggles have eased, we stagger up the steps holding on to the railing. I nearly hit my head on the door as Artie sticks his hand into my jeans pocket.

“What are you doing?” I didn’t know my voice could go that high.

“Looking for the key,” he says very seriously and slowly. “It must be here somewhere.”

“You won’t find it in there. Jesus Christ,” I squeak as his fingers find my cock. “Definitely not there.”

“What’s this?” he mutters. “It’s too big for a key.”

I snort. “You’re so good for my ego.” My cock is pulsing, and I shove closer to his hand, grunting as he strokes it. It feels like lightning in my balls, and something is telling me this is a bad idea, but I can’t for the life of me work out why—not when he’s so close and I can smell his sweet scent, and his hand has the perfect pressure.

I lose my balance as he suddenly squeals and pulls his hand out my pocket. He reels back against the door like he’s been shot. I look around anxiously, but there’s no sign of an intruder.

“Oh my god,” he says loudly. “I just had my hand on your penis.”

“I thought you meant to do it.” That strikes me as tremendously funny, and once again, I’m laughing helplessly.

“Your cock was in my hand,” he says, staring at his palm as if my cock might materialise there.

“Why is that a surprise?” I move towards him, but come up short when something stops me. I twist and turn, struggling to get free, panic seizing me. “Help,” I shout. “Help.” Then I realise it’s my jumper caught on the doorknob. “Oh no. Don’t worry,” I call as I free myself. “Everything is okay. Everything is great.”

“My fingers were wrapped around your penis,” Artie mutters.

“Wasn’t that the point?”

He blinks. “Well no. I was looking for the key. I thought I was searching in my own pocket. I didn’t expect to find a stray cock in there.” We exchange glances, and he breaks into peals of laughter. “Stray cock,” he splutters. “Cluck cluck.”

It takes us ages to get ourselves together, but finally Artie finds the key and opens the door. I lurch through it into the hallway aware of him following me. “God, it’s spooky in here.”

For some reason, I’m elongating my O’s and it makes me sound like Scooby Doo. I start to laugh but then stop because it definitely feels spooky in here. Everywhere is so dark. Then I realise I haven’t turned on the lights and hasten to rectify the fact.

Artie turns to me, blinking in the sudden glare of light. “What’s that song?”

I realise I’ve been humming absentmindedly and then brighten. “It’s Frank Sinatra’s ‘Strangers in the Night’.”

He stares at me, his eyes so big he looks like a cartoon Artie. “I like it.”

“Do you really?” I lift my hand and draw my fingers through his hair. It’s soft on my skin, and I feel a powerful urge to pull him closer.

“Yes.” He gives a loud sigh as I hug him. His body is slender and warm, and I want to live inside him.

“What’s the matter?” I demand, ever ready and happy to make it better. “What’s the matter?” I repeat when he doesn’t answer.

“I’ll never get a bloke. I’m so boring.”

Blood roars in my ears when I think of him with another bloke. “You are not boring,” I say fiercely.

“I can’t help it. I just like that old-style music and old films. I’ve always wanted to dance like on Strictly Come Dancing.”

“You like Strictly?” I breathe.

He flashes a glance at me. “See what I mean? I suppose you think that’s silly and⁠—”

“I love Strictly,” I say far too loudly.

He blinks. “Do you?”

“Yes, of course. It’s amazing.” I’m filled with excitement and seize his hand. “We shall watch it together. It’s so—” I hiccup. “—boring to watch it on my own. What do you love best?”

He edges closer to me, eyes wide. “I love the colours and the costumes. They’re so bright. And I love the way the dancer leads his partner around the floor. It’s so commanding.”

“I like the music,” I confess, very aware that this must be the drink talking. I’ve never confessed this to anyone. Mick used to laugh at me. He preferred techno.

“I’ll teach you to dance,” I say grandly. He stares up at me with stars in his eyes, and I wonder if anyone has ever looked at me like this. The thought is cloudy and drifts away even as I try to concentrate.

I hold out my hand to him. “Will you do me the honour?” I say, bowing. The floor wavers and I lurch forward, but Artie’s hand keeps me from faceplanting. “So sorry. I think the builders have done something to this floor,” I say crossly, glaring at the offending article. “I shall have a very strong word in the morning.” I trail off. “What was I saying?”

“You were going to teach me to dance,” Artie says breathlessly.

“Yes, indeed.” I bounce on the balls of my feet.

I step forward, taking his hand again in a hopefully authoritative way. The attempt is marred, as I’m seeing double at the moment, so I end up swaying into him.

“Come closer,” I order. I swallow hard as he immediately obeys, his trust obvious.

My fingers curl around his, and I’m overwhelmed by the sense that he’s mine and mine alone. I slide my other hand around his narrow waist. His jumper has ridden up and his skin is like hot silk against my fingertips.

I lick my lips, trying to remember what I’m supposed to be doing. It’s hard when his scent is weaving around me like a fever dream.

“We’ll start with a simple box step,” I announce, and he nods.

I look down and get caught by his gaze. His eyes are so light that he looks like a magic creature, and I’m unable to look away.

“What was I saying?” I whisper into the gap between our mouths. When did we get so close?

“I don’t know.” His words are soft.

I abruptly give up. Why am I fighting this attraction between us so hard? My brain is too fuddled to make sense of it, and his mouth looks so full and tempting, his lips pillowy and soft.

“Stop me,” I mutter.

He shakes his head, his hands grasping my jacket and pulling me nearer. My heart begins pounding in a rhythm I can feel in my cock. I close my eyes in anticipation, but then they fly open as Artie abruptly shoves me away.

“What’s that noise?” he hisses, holding tightly to my hand.

I hold still, listening more carefully. I startle, whipping my head towards the stairs as I hear an eerie creaking and rustling.

“Oh my god, it’s a ghost,” Artie says, shrinking behind me.

I puff out my chest. “I will protect you,” I announce rather grandly. I reach out to brace against the wall, and stagger. “Where’s the fucking wall gone? Who moved it?” I say fretfully.

“You did.” Artie snorts and starts to laugh. “You said no one needed a w-wall there.”

“Well, I was wrong. Take a note, Mr Walker.”

“I will, Mr Walker.”

That makes me happy, and it seems to make him feel the same, so we grin at each other.

Then the eerie noise sounds again, and we both freeze.

“What the hell is that?” My racing heartbeat seems to be making my drink haze disappear.

“I’m scared,” Artie whispers. “What if it’s the ghost of my stepmother?”

“Then I shall tell her what a witch she was.” I draw myself up. “And I shall demand to know why she treated such a wonderful person so badly.”

He stares at me as though I’ve just shinned up a ladder and hung the moon. I raise my chin. That look always gets to me.

“Come out!” I shout. “Laura, I would like to—” I hiccup again. “I would like to tell you that I’ve seen your wedding photo, and you had very wonky eyebrows.”

“Oh my god,” Artie breathes.

That sounds good, so I carry on. “You had very thin lips. You looked like…” I pause for inspiration. “Like you would have resembled the head gremlin in Gremlins if you’d had time to pluck your eyebrows properly.”

Artie snorts and I grin at him.

I continue in a louder voice. “I’m going to go and exor-exor—” I try to remember the word. “I’m going to exercise you!”

Artie shakes his head, looking awed. “She didn’t even like aerobics. She said…” He stops for a few seconds, as if forgetting what he was going to say, before triumphantly finishing, “She said women in leotards were an abomination.”

“How dare she. My mother had a leotard in the eighties. And legwarmers.”

He gasps. “Your mother is not an abomination.”

“Thank you.” I pause. “Although she is rather scary.”

He pats my arm. “Sh-she’s lovely.” He runs his hand down my arm almost dreamily. “You have very big muscles.”

“Thank you. I shall show you what I can do with them.” I draw in a breath. “Wait here,” I instruct him. I lurch towards the source of the noise, which seems to be coming from the kitchen.

Something flutters and I punch out at it. “Take that!” I shout. I register that I’m hitting air just as I spin and fall over. “What the fuck?” I mutter.

Everything is spinning, so I lie down and stare at the ceiling. I think I’m supposed to be doing something, but I don’t know what.

Movement makes me raise my head, but I relax as Artie settles next to me. I raise my arm, and he curls up next to me, pillowing his head on my shoulder. He snuggles closer, and I clasp him tightly, loving the feel of him against me. Alarm bells ring in my head, but I ignore them. He feels so nice in my arms. So right.

He stirs. “It’s okay. I don’t think there’s a ghost, after all. You just punched the plastic sheet over the kitchen door.”

“Did I? Are you sure?”

“Yes. You’ve torn it down.”

My sluggish brain ponders this. “Meh, it had it coming.”

He chuckles, and I keep him close. I love being with him. I make a protesting sound when he sits up. “Where are you going?”

“I think we should go to bed.”

“Really? Why can’t we stay here?”

“The builders might have a shock in the morning.”

I stretch out. The floor is very hard, and I am becoming aware that I’m lying on a cement floor after having punched a glorified shower curtain.

“Shit,” I mutter. I sit up and my head begins to thump. “Oh dear.”

Artie nods, clutching his temples. “I don’t feel so hot.”

“Neither do I. This is why I rarely drink.” I hesitate. “Do you think the answer might be to drink more?”

“Probably not.”

“We’re going to feel terrible in the morning.”

He gives a pitiful moan. “I’m not feeling so great now. What was in those drinks?”

“Lost dreams and a vat of grenadine.” I blanch. “Did I really just try to teach you to dance the quickstep?”

“You got a bit derailed, but it was a very nice idea.” He pets my head gently.

“I’m sure it was, but it’s a bit puzzling because I’m not actually very good at dancing.” I pause. “Maybe don’t try and do it that way if you ever make Strictly.”

He snorts. “My hero.”

I struggle to my feet and hold out my hand to him. He puts his in mine obediently and when our fingers twine it feels so right. I pull him up, but he’s lighter than I estimate, and we both fall against the wall.

“Ouf.” I groan as he lands against me, and I bang my head.

He looks up at me with those big eyes and I don’t know whether it’s the alcohol, or whether it’s because I’ve been waiting to do this for what seems like forever, but I lean down and finally take his lips with mine.

We’ve shared a few kisses over the last few weeks, and so now I know the feel of him in my arms, his tight body, the scent of his cologne, and the silkiness of his skin. But this kiss is different, because there’s no one to pretend for.

His lips are full and soft, and he stays still for a stunned second. For a moment, I think I’ve made a mistake. But then he surges up and kisses me back, winding his arms around my neck and urging my mouth to go deeper…harder.

I eat at his mouth, revelling in his soft, pillowy lips, and I realise the growling noise I hear is coming from me. He opens his lips and his hands roaming up my chest feel like fire on my skin. I suck on his tongue, grabbing his narrow hips and hauling him closer so I can grind my aching dick into him.

At first, I think the ringing I hear is my pulse pounding in my ears. But Artie suddenly pulls away, reaches into his coat pocket, and pulls out his phone.

“Daisy?” he says hoarsely, his hair mussed and his cheeks cherry red.

Forty percent of me is reeling at what I just did, but unfortunately, the other sixty percent is urging me to do it again. The sight of him isn’t helping matters.

He offers me an apologetic face as he listens to his stepsister. I wave a hand at him to carry on. My drunken brain needs to come back online and remind me that I am a fucking idiot who just mauled my fake husband who also happens to be my assistant.

I take a deep breath and then another, feeling myself settle.

Artie hums and listens to Daisy, making consoling sounds. I straighten, running my hand through my hair and pulling my jumper back into place.

Artie is responsible for my disarray. This fact has the potential to derail all my calming work so far, so I take some more deep breaths.

Assistant, I say in my head. Assistant.

He finishes his call.

“Everything okay?” I say, my voice thick.

He studies me for a long few seconds, and I ready myself for questions and demands—those are what typically happen when I’m with a man and he’s disappointed with me.

But Artie only taps his lip thoughtfully with his phone. I note that his lips are swollen, and I realise that it’s because of what my mouth did to him. An electric shock zaps down my spine.

“I’m tired,” he says. “Are you?”

I try to pull myself together. His question is so far from what I thought he’d say that it takes me a few seconds to register his words.

“I am,” I say hoarsely, the incipient hangover beginning to pull at my bones. “Artie, I⁠—”

He holds up his hand firmly. “It’s okay,” he says.

I relax immediately at the surety in his voice. “You don’t want me to apologise?”

Something flares in his eyes. “No, I do not.” He comes close and takes my face in his hands. “I know you were thinking of Mick, and it got out of control,” he says earnestly and so sweetly that it makes my heart sore. “Please don’t feel bad for that. I know how much you loved him. Now I need sleep, if it’s even possible in this house.” He starts up the stairs.

I stare after him, flabbergasted. I’d never once thought of Mick during, before, or after that kiss.

The first time I slept with a man after Mick’s death, I threw up and lay shivering and crying on the bathroom floor all night. But after kissing Artie, I feel nothing except a lingering desire to do it again very soon.

I vow to revisit the thought when I’m completely sober. I start up the stairs after him and then nearly bang into him on the landing. He’s standing staring ahead as if struck by lightning.

“What is it?” I say wildly, wondering if he has actually seen a ghost and not a plastic curtain.

“There’s only one bed.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He turns and clutches my jumper, staring up at me. “Don’t you remember? Eric said they’d had to abandon doing up your room because of water damage. We’ve only got one bed.”

I groan. “I’d forgotten all about it.”

“Me too. The fifteen vats of your mum’s amaretto sours helped.”

“They do induce serious memory loss. I should have warned you.”

“I doubt you could have stopped me.”

“True. You’d downed three in the time it took me to cross the kitchen.”

He snorts and slaps my stomach lightly. “Stop it. You lie.”

“I can’t believe I forgot about the bed.” Although, I have to admit that the idea strikes me with a bolt of heat I really shouldn’t be feeling.

“Well, we were more focused on deceiving the entirety of your nearest and dearest.”

I rub my face with an unsteady hand. “I know. It’s just getting worse. Ma was on about throwing a party for the extended family.”

“I’m so⁠—”

I point a finger at him. “Don’t you dare say sorry. Getting married was my plan.”

He presses his lips together like he wants to protest. But then he nods, and I pat his shoulder, dragging my hand away before it lingers.

“It’s not a problem,” I say. “You sleep in the bed. I’ll grab a duvet and sleep on the floor.”

“On the floor,” he says in a horrified voice. “No way are you sleeping on the floor. It’s freezing in this house.”

“I’ll be fine.” Before I can move, he places his hand on my arm. The pressure is gentle, but it holds me in place like an iron bar.

“You can sleep in the bed with me,” he says firmly.

“Pardon?” I say hoarsely.

He opens the bedroom door and I follow him.

It’s a large space created by knocking two rooms together. There’s a dressing room and an en suite, and everything smells pleasantly of paint and new carpet. It looks lovely, with a set of French windows that lead onto a small balcony overlooking a wild garden and Wimbledon Common. At the moment the only furniture is the big oak bed that was delivered yesterday, two bedside tables, and an old armchair upholstered in orange velvet. There’s still enough room for the sofa and coffee table Artie ordered last week.

He switches on the lamps, creating a warm glow, then crosses to the window and draws the temporary curtains. Suddenly, I feel like we’ve been enclosed in a bubble of light and warmth.

“You’ve gone very quiet,” he observes.

“I can’t share a bed with you.”

“Why?” His face suddenly looks stricken. “Oh my god, is it because of Mick? Because in that case, I totally understand. I know you said you didn’t sleep with anyone and⁠—”

I hold my hand up to stop him. I’m astonished that I’d admitted that fact to him. A lifetime of being close-mouthed is being completely derailed by Arthur Campbell.

“It’s nothing to do with Mick. That hadn’t even occurred to me. It’s just that we’re faking marriage, and I don’t want to put you in a position where⁠—”

I stop because he just rolled his eyes. My sweet and shy assistant just rolled his eyes at me, and incredibly, it makes me want to laugh. Laugh and hug him.

“It’s just a mattress and some sheets,” he says. “This will only be for the next few days until your room is ready. We can do this.” An evangelical gleam appears in his eyes. “I will not let my stepmonster win.”

“Who?”

“That’s Daisy’s name for her.”

“Why did they hate each other?”

“Because Daisy was madly in love with her girlfriend, Paige, and Laura couldn’t deal with it. Laura broke them up. She told Paige that Daisy needed her mother, and she’d cut her off if Paige didn’t dump her. Daisy never forgave Laura and moved out the next day.”

“Laura’s sounding worse the more I hear about her.”

“You’ll have a better opinion of black mould than her by the end of the week.”

I snort and watch him disappear into the bathroom. Water comes on and I listen to the sound of him brushing his teeth. “Can we really do this?” I call.

He appears in the doorway, his toothbrush in his mouth as he brushes. Removing it, he gives me a foamy smile. “Of course we can.” He crashes back into the bathroom. “Get into bed,” he calls. “It’s cold. It feels like autumn is already here.” When he returns, he notices that I’m still standing in the same place and asks, “What are you doing?”

I gesture at the bathroom. “Waiting to brush my teeth.”

“Oh. Be my guest,” he says brightly and edges past me. “Sorry to be so awkward. I’ve never shared a room with anyone before.”

I stop dead. “Why not?”

“Well, I’ve only had the one boyfriend. The one who went to America.”

I nod, gritting my teeth at the mention of the man. Something winds me up whenever Artie speaks about him.

“I lived with his family when I got kicked out,” Artie continues. “But they wouldn’t let us share, so I had to sleep in the spare room.”

“I see,” I say quickly. I head into the bathroom as Artie starts to undress.

When I return, all my blood leaves my brain and vanishes in a downward direction as I discover Artie’s still not in bed. He’s completely naked, his clothes scattered on the floor, and he’s bending over the bed to draw back the duvet.

I itemise his long, lean torso, skin I know is silky to the touch, sharp hipbones, and a full, round, little arse. My hands clench, and I stifle a groan.

He slides under the covers and gives a moan of happiness. “God, that’s nice.”

“Don’t you—” I clear my throat. “Don’t you want to put something on?” I say hoarsely.

“Why?” He blinks at me like a drunken owl and then waves a languid hand. “I don’t know where my pyjamas are, and honestly, the room is spinning a little. I’ll just lie here quietly. You don’t mind, do you?” His eyes widen. “Do you?”

“No,” I say faintly. “You go right ahead.”

I retreat to the bathroom again, trying to banish the sight of his loveliness from my brain. My breathing is rough and my cock is rebelling, refusing to go down. After several minutes, I decide it’s safe enough to go back into the bedroom.

I find him lying in the bed, his eyes closed and long, dark eyelashes shadowing his flushed cheeks. I startle when they blink open. “There you are,” he says, in sleepy delight. “Come to bed.”

He scans me as I come close, and his gaze freezes on my boxers. I furtively adjust the legs, but only manage to expose more of my torso, putting my groin on display.

“You have a V,” he whispers, his eyes still stoking a fire on my skin.

“Pardon?” I squeak.

He waves at my crotch. “I can’t get one no matter what I do. I’m too thin. You have a lovely body.”

I count down from ten to calm my cock again. It’s been up and down more times tonight than a navy flagpole.

“Are you okay on that side?” he asks.

“What?” I say, blinking at the change of subject.

Artie looks at me patiently. “Are you okay with that side of the bed? I always sleep on the left.”

My side is closest to the door, and I nod. “Yes, it’s fine.”

The room is chilly, and I dive under the covers gratefully. The sheets are soft and warm and smell of cedar and his skin. My cock stiffens again, and I resign myself to spending a long, wakeful night.

“Okay?” he asks.

I pull the covers to my neck, feeling like a maiden aunt. “Yes,” I say. My voice is higher than usual, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“I really liked seeing your family photos.”

I turn my head on the pillow to find him staring contemplatively at the ceiling. “Pardon?”

His sleepy smile makes my heart clench. He turns on his side, pillowing his head on his arm. His hair flops over his forehead, and his eyes are night-time soft. It feels so intimate to lie like this together.

“Your mum’s photos were lovely. I saw loads of you as a little boy. There was the sweetest one of you in the bath.”

I groan. “Please never mention that at work.”

His laughter is as warm as the sheets around us, and I sink more deeply into them, finally relaxing.

“Maybe I won’t,” he says, playfully patting my hand and skimming his fingers down my arm. It leaves trails of fire, and I swallow hard.

“You’re very close to Adam, aren’t you?”

I lie on my side to face him. The sheets wrap around my waist, and I notice his glance slide over my chest. “I am. He’s incredibly irritating, but he’s always been my best friend.”

“That’s nice. I’m glad you had that. What’s your favourite childhood memory of him?”

I think back. “He used to tag along with me everywhere, and my mum insisted that I had to include him. Whenever I played on the Xbox, I’d switch his controller off. He’d play for ages, and I only had to throw in a few well-dones to keep the peace. Now I’m wondering if I could use that method in some way with Rafferty.” I smile at his laughter. “Why did you want to know that?”

He shrugs. “I was an only child. Even when Daisy came along, she still spent a lot of time with her dad.”

“Were you lonely?”

He wrinkles his nose, which is far cuter than I’d like to admit. “Maybe, but I had my books. You’re never lonely when you have a book world to lose yourself in.”

“I’m a reader, too,” I say, delighted. “What was your favourite book as a child?”

“Definitely ‘Voyage of the Dawn Treader’ by CS Lewis. Prince Caspian was very daring and take-charge in that one, although nobody ever told me how to pronounce new words, so I went around for a long while saying things were very pictureskew.”

I start to laugh, and he grins at me. Our gazes hold for a moment, the ghost of the smile still in his eyes, and I hold my breath. The space between us feels impossibly small and the heat of his body warms the bed. I don’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved when he leans over and clicks the lamp.

The room falls into darkness, and I jump when his hand finds mine. He squeezes it. “Thank you for tonight,” he whispers.

“For what?” I ask hoarsely. Is he thanking me for the kiss earlier?

“For the quickstep.”

“If I’m being honest, I don’t think we even got to that, and it was more of a slow fumble. You’ll certainly never get a ten from Shirley.”

He chuckles and it’s a beautiful sound in the darkness. “And for lending me your family tonight. I know it was fake, but it was awfully nice to be with a family who really love each other. Nice,” he repeats.

“You’re welcome,” I whisper.

What is it about Artie that arouses this odd dichotomy within me? I want to shag him senseless, but also encase him in bubble wrap to keep him safe.

I lie listening to his soft breathing and fall asleep before I can decipher the mystery.

I come awake from a dream, feeling tight and hot, my body strumming with need. The alcohol buzz is gone, and a hangover is on my horizon, but I’m still wrapped in the remains of my dream. All I can recall of it is a body against mine, the sound of groans in my ear, and the tight grip around my cock as I pushed my way into the man’s body.

I palm my cock, unsurprised to find it hard and aching. My boxers are wet from precome, and I arch into my grip, giving a choked grunt as my dick slides through my fingers.

A breathy sigh sounds next to my ear, and I nearly levitate off the bed.

I look around frantically but then relax when I see Artie and remember where I am. As my heart rate subsides, I observe him curiously. He sleeps very tidily on his side, his head pillowed on one arm, while the other arm stretches towards me, palm up. The neatness of the pose is so very him, and I fight a smile at the thought.

The smile dies as I study his beautiful, sharp-boned face. Moonlight streams through the thin curtains and makes his brown hair look pale in places. His usual neat style is a messy tumble over his forehead. His full lips part slightly, and I have a sudden flash from my dream of the man closing his mouth over the head of my cock and sucking. He’d looked up, his blue eyes glinting and⁠—

I stiffen. It had been him. Artie. I just had a sex dream about my fake husband.

Guilt doesn’t come. Perhaps it’s crowded out by the images in my head. Bodies fucking hard, the slap of flesh and his throaty groans in my ear. Without thinking, I reach down and take my cock out of my boxers. It’s rock hard, the head slick with seed. I sneak a glance at Artie, who’s still sleeping the slumber of the innocent.

This is so wrong, but I need it. I need to come so badly, and I can be quiet. I’ve always been quiet during sex much to the dismay of some partners. I bite my lip. He doesn’t have to know.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I lick my palm, getting it nice and wet. When I slide it back over my cock, relief makes me arch, and I start the quick, familiar motions, the wetness of my precome slicking the way.

I bite my lip, but I can’t suppress the slick sound of my cock against my palm. I raise my other hand to tweak my nipple. The pain is sharp, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

They fly open when I hear a throaty moan and Artie rolls into me.

“What the—?” I groan loudly as his hand slides over mine, his long fingers cool against my hot skin. “What are you doing?”

“Let me,” he whispers. “Please.”

“This is not—” I grunt as his fingers squeeze, the sublime pressure making my eyes cross. My hand falls away, and I arch into his touch. “God, that’s so fucking good,” I grit out.

His grip is perfect—tight and hot—and I arch my back, trying to get closer. The noise is obscene in the quiet room with the schlick-schlick slap of flesh. He pushes his fist down to the root, sliding back my foreskin, allowing the head to pulse in the cold air.

I shiver and open my eyes. His gaze is slumberous and silver in the dim light. His cheeks are flushed, his cock hard against my thigh. Our gazes hold as he pushes his hips into me, daubing my skin with wetness.

“Yes,” I gasp. “God, yes. Rub off on me. Use me, Artie.” I cup his arse cheek, applying pressure. He groans, his eyes sliding shut and his hand pausing on my cock as he rubs against me.

“Ungh, that’s so good,” he moans.

I grunt as his hand tightens on my dick. “Easy, sweetheart,” I whisper, not even pausing to marvel at the endearment.

He opens his eyes. “Sorry.”

“You don’t ever have to be sorry,” I say fervently.

Then my eyes slam shut as his left hand gets into the game, cupping my balls with a gentle grip.

“Fuck,” I hiss.

He moans in approval, lowering his mouth to my chest to find my nipple. As he sucks, it’s like someone attached a hotwire from his mouth to my balls. My spine tingles and I open my legs, lifting up so his finger can trace my hole.

“Yes,” I breathe.

He gives an accompanying groan, rutting against my thigh as he pets my entrance. “Can I?”

“You can do anything.” I suck in a sharp breath, the air sizzling in my lungs. I spread my legs wide as he pushes his finger in. He goes gently without lube, but I’ve always liked a bit of pain with my sex, and I grab his hand, forcing his finger deeper inside.

His full lips part as he pants gently, and his eyes are wild as he writhes against me. He’s wrapped his legs around my thigh so he can push harder, and I encourage him with broken groans as I arch into the finger penetrating me.

His other hand moves on my cock in a tight, forceful grip that turns me on more than anything. I feel my balls tighten.

“Going to come,” I gasp.

“Do it,” he says, watching me avidly, licking his lips. “I want to see.”

He firms his grip, and my buttocks tighten as I come all over his hand.

“Jesus.” I fall back onto the mattress. “Jesus Christ.” I’m breathing like I’ve run a marathon. Even though I’ve just come my brains out, my dick gives a hopeful twitch as I watch him bring his come-covered hand to his mouth. He darts a look at me and then licks his fingers delicately.

“Mmm,” he says throatily.

I groan, aware of how hard he is as he rocks against me.

“Come here,” I demand, rising and pushing him onto his back. “You took care of me so well,” I whisper, hovering over him. He swallows hard, and I kiss him to taste the tartness of my come on his tongue. I pull back. “Now I’m going to take care of you.”

I watch, awed, as he spreads his legs and lies back, giving me carte blanche. I lower myself, and he arches up to me, his slim body a beautiful line. His cock is slim and long, red-tipped and angry-looking. Precome slides from his slit. I sweep down and lick it, taking the taste to the back of my tongue.

“You taste delicious,” I growl.

He fists the sheets, his whole body mine to look at. Mine, I repeat silently. He’s so beautiful to me it’s almost overwhelming, and I commit the sight of him to my memory.

“Please,” he groans. “Oh please, Jed.”

I lean down to take his cock into my mouth, sucking it with ease down the back of my throat. He’s so primed, it only takes a few hard sucks and he’s screaming out my name and flooding my mouth with come. I gulp it down greedily before pulling off and licking every drop from his cock as he whines and writhes on the sheets.

Only then do I fall back on the bed, savouring the taste of him. “Jesus,” I say dazedly. “Jesus.”

“Mmm,” Artie says in a hoarse whisper. “That was so lovely.”

He snuggles up to me, and I feel a kiss on my shoulder. Within seconds, his breathing evens out and his body goes lax in sleep. I stare at him in disbelief and a certain amount of amusement. Oh, to be young again and sleep at the drop of a hat.

I ponder my feelings cautiously. I should feel awful. My usual bout of disloyalty to Mick should be battling with worry over taking advantage of Artie. I should be worrying about tomorrow, too. I should probably also be wondering if my mother’s cocktails have some sort of sex agent embedded in them.

But all that worry sounds very tiring, so I roll into Artie, wrapping my arms around him, nestling my face in his neck, and inhaling the sweet scent of his hair. Worry can wait. I drop off the edge of the waking world with his warm body in my arms.

nine

. . .

artie

“So, the plastering is done in the lounge, but we’ll have to leave it to dry before the decorators come in,” the builder says. “I picked up the wallpaper you chose the other day, so we’re all ready.”

“Whatever you say,” I say distractedly. My powers of concentration are occupied by listening for Jed moving around upstairs.

He’d been fast asleep when I woke this morning, one arm shoved under his pillow, his long body stretched out under the covers. I’d spent a few embarrassing minutes watching him. With all his energy and intensity at rest, he looks so much younger.

He’d been cuddling me close when I first woke, and I’d been reluctant to move and let go of the feeling of warmth and safety.

I’d watched until he stirred, his nose wrinkling as though he’d become aware of my creepy scrutiny, and then I’d skedaddled out of the bed as quickly as possible. I’d crept around the bedroom like a thief and had the quickest shower possible, regretting I had to wash away the scent of him on my skin.

It had been thrilling to find small bruises on my hips—tiny, purple, smudged memories of his fingers holding me tight as he gave me the best blowjob of my life. He’d held me so tight, his mouth wet and the suction powerful, and I’d come so hard I’d seen spots.

The idea that it was Jed—my controlled and remote boss—doing all those things to me made it even more erotic. The way he’d made my body feel was so easy to define—pure heat and pleasure. But my emotions are all mixed up, swishing and churning like a washing machine.

I’ve been in love with him for so long, and last night, he looked at me the way I’ve always dreamed—his eyes black with want, the green swallowed by his pupils. And remembering his face when he’d come, face creased, mouth slack, his whole being focused on me… It makes me dizzy to think of it.

But how can I not feel guilty for putting him in this position? He would never have looked at me in a sexual way, if it weren’t for this silly, ever-complicated situation we’re in.

And last night, I took advantage of him. I should have pretended to be asleep while he touched himself, but I’d heard his soft grunts and fast breathing and the slick sound of his hand on his cock, and I could not have stopped myself touching him if my life had depended on it. He’d groaned, pushing into my grasp, and I’d felt so powerful⁠—

“You’re distracted today, Artie.”

I flash a panicked glance at Eric and find that he’s watching me with an amused expression.

“I haven’t had coffee yet,” I say hoarsely. I look helplessly around the shell of the kitchen as if a barista is going to pop up and pour me a latte.

It’s odd having to don a hard hat before entering my home, but this room is going to be lovely. I’ve picked a mixture of natural oak and avocado-green-painted cupboards with an oak work surface and breakfast bar. I’ve said to hell with my budget. My savings will be long gone, and I’ll be in debt until I’m eighty, but it’ll have been worth it.

I’ve spent years dreaming of living in this house again, imagining how I’d arrange the furniture and decorate the rooms. Those dreams kept me going through the rough times when I’d felt totally alone, when I’d had to live in places that felt borrowed, when I’d had to stay with people who didn’t quite want me. This is the house that always felt like it should be home, even if for the past decade, I’d been pushed away. And now I’ve been reunited with it, and with every wall that has come down, it’s become more mine.

I haven’t let Jed help with the money, but I’ve taken some of his recommendations. He has a keen eye and doesn’t force ideas on me. He offers suggestions with a diffident air and it’s been thrilling to have his input on something that means so much to me. Almost as if he’s helping to renovate me and not just my home.

“Jed sleeping in? That’s unusual,” Eric says.

“We were at his mum’s house last night. We may have had a little too much to drink.”

He chuckles. “I like that. He was always up and out with the morning chorus when I worked with him before. Made me feel like a slacker. Mick was the one who was usually around.”

“Of course,” I say, cautiously interested. “You knew them, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did their flat. Nice couple.” He looks suddenly awkward.

I shake my head wryly. “I do know he’s been married before. It’s fine.”

Smiling, he waves a hand at the bones of the kitchen. “You and this house are doing him the world of good, Artie. I don’t think I’ve seen him looking better.”

The words warm me, but before I can ask another question, there’s the sound of footsteps and Jed appears. He’s wearing his Zegna checked navy suit, and he’s knotting an amber-coloured silk tie at his throat. But my mind immediately sends me an image of him naked and arching into my hand.

My cheeks turn crimson, and I struggle to find words. Luckily, Eric greets him and asks him a question about the boiler that he’d never bothered to direct at me, probably because I’d be useless. Interior design is nice. The nitty gritty of a house, not so much.

Jed’s a little pale and his voice is hoarse. He looks up and I bite my lips as he catches me staring at him. He examines my face, and he seems to get a shade whiter. My stomach sinks.

“God, I feel fucking awful,” he says. “What was in those drinks, Artie?”

“I think the problem was quantity not quality. Also, the fact that we mixed them.” My voice sounds squeaky, but Eric and Jed don’t seem to notice.

“Never mix the grape and the grain,” Eric says knowledgeably.

“Never mind grape or grain. I’m pretty sure my mother used battery acid as a main ingredient.”

The two men laugh, and I relax a little. Then Jed looks at his watch and curses. “Shit, we’ve got the monthly meeting. Are you ready, Artie?”

I nod, and then hand him his coat and grab my own. “I’ll be in the car,” I say.

Eric brandishes something that looks like an instruction manual at Jed, and I escape outside. The air is cold with an icy bite that catches at my throat, and I lean against Jed’s dark blue Audi, huddling into my coat.

Carla, my neighbour, comes out of her house armed with a pair of secateurs. They appear rather sharp, and I hope she’s not harbouring ill feelings about the secret-room mishap, but she waves and smiles at me before starting towards the low fence separating our front drives. She’s an older woman with a sleek grey bob, and even when ferociously deadheading plants, she’s imposingly elegant. I don’t know her well, but she’s lived here as long as I can remember. Her husband was in the diplomatic service, so they were away a lot when I was growing up.

“Cold this morning,” she calls. “Summer’s definitely over.”

I nod. “How are you doing?”

“Oh fine. I must say we’re watching your renovation with interest.”

I wince. “Can I just say again how sorry we are about the room?”

To my surprise, she smiles. “It’s given us a good laugh. I think the young man believed he’d discovered a path to Narnia.”

“He’d only have been happy about that if Narnia had a lot of pubs.”

She chuckles but then sobers. “It’s very nice to see the house being loved again. Your mother would be pleased.”

“Did you know her well?” I brighten at the idea of talking to someone who can tell me about my mum.

Her face softens. “I did. I was very sad when she died. And even sadder when your father married that hard-faced boa constrictor.” I laugh, and she shakes her head, looking at my face intently. “You have the look of your mother,” she says. “A kind face and very pretty eyes.”

“Thank you,” I say, touched. “I’m afraid I don’t remember her well.”

“Of course you don’t. I have some photos if you’d like to pop by for coffee one day.”

“Really?”

She nods. “We were good friends. I even have some photos of you as a baby. If I’d been able, we would have had you live with us when you had to leave home, but unfortunately, we were overseas.”

“It’s okay. I was fine.”

“Ah well, maybe your mother wouldn’t have wanted just fine for you.” She looks up as the front door opens. “But she’d have liked him,” she says softly, watching Jed come down the steps. He looks very tall and broad-shouldered in his long blue cashmere coat. “You’ve got yourself a lovely man there.”

“I know.” My chest pangs because, of course, I really haven’t got Jed.

He smiles at us, and my anxiety ratchets. He’s still pale and that smile lacks its usual star power. Carla doesn’t notice. Instead, she giggles almost girlishly as he addresses her. She looks on approvingly as he opens my door for me as usual and then gives a friendly wave as we head off.

The early morning traffic in London is akin to a thirty-mile tailback with lots of cursing and horns sounding. Jed handles it with his usual calm surety. I always feel safe with him behind the wheel. He was trained to drive to a high standard when he was on the force, and he once explained to me that he’d taken some intensive driving courses. So he’s fast, but not flashy, and always safe.

The car is warm and scented with leather and his cologne. The radio plays low, but when the silence between us edges into awkwardness, I clear my throat and say, “How are you feeling?” I grimace. He’s already said he feels terrible.

“Not the best,” he says grimly. “Artie, I⁠—”

“I’m sorry,” I break in loudly over his words.

He gives me a questioning look as he draws to a stop at some traffic lights. “What about?” he asks cautiously.

“Last night.”

“Ah.” A strange expression crosses his face.

“I feel like I took advantage of you.”

His hand fumbles the gear stick and he promptly stalls the engine. “Shit,” he says as the lights change and a volley of horns sound behind us. I stare at him as he manages to start the engine again and the car lurches forward. It’s so odd to see him discomposed.

He fixes his gaze on the road, but his attention on me is like the beam of a lighthouse. “Took advantage? What on earth does that mean?”

I swallow hard. “You were half asleep when I… Oh, you know. When I woke up and you were⁠—”

“Yes, I do know,” he interrupts, a flush appearing on his cheekbones.

“And I heard you doing that.”

He coughs. “Hmm, yes.”

“And I don’t know what possessed me.” I fall silent for a second and then burst out, “I know you don’t see me like that, and I feel like I took advantage when you were sleepy and still a bit drunk. We were very drunk,” I add, hoping he’ll dismiss my misguided attempt to talk about this.

I should have known better, because Jed never runs away from painful conversations. Raff’s frequent appearances in Jed’s office—as though it’s been fitted with a revolving door—is proof of this.

“We were drunk earlier, but not then.” We brake again. A car honks noisily next to us, the driver shouting obscenities at another driver. “It’s actually my fault. I knew better.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

My voice is sharper than usual, and he directs a startled glance at me before staring intently at the car in front of us. He says, “It means that you’re completely wrong and I do actually think of you like that.”

It takes a second before his meaning sinks in. “What?” I say far too loudly.

He winces. “I may not still be drunk, Artie, but have some pity. I’m hungover to fuck.”

“Sorry.” I turn to him. “You’re attracted to me?” The astonishment is clear in my voice, and he shifts a cautious glance at me.

“What did you think last night was about? And the kisses before?”

“I thought they were an act.”

“Then I obviously could have had a very successful career on the stage. Of course, I’m attracted to you.”

“There’s no of course about it,” I mutter. “Plenty aren’t.” I hadn’t meant to allow him to see this uncertainty, and I bite my tongue in immediate regret.

“Then there are more short-sighted idiots around London than evidence suggests,” he says firmly, and I feel a tingle of warmth in my belly. “You’re gorgeous, clever, and kind. It’s a lovely combination, Artie. In fact, the word lovely might have been invented for you.”

“I’m attracted to you too,” I breathe.

A smile hovers at the corner of his mouth. “I did have a small inkling last night.”

Excitement roars through me, obliterating the feelings I woke up with this morning. He likes me, and maybe he wants more. But before I can express my hope, he dashes it.

“But of course,” he says, “nothing can happen between us.”

Of course?

He tugs at his shirt collar like it’s suddenly too tight. “It would be very foolish to get involved.”

“With me, you mean,” I say tightly.

His anxious glance fuels my kindling anger. Maybe it’s because I had hope for a wild moment, and now he’s shitting on it in the kindest way possible. Maybe it’s the kindness that’s making it worse.

“Well, yes,” he says, honest as ever. “It would be a mistake on an epic level for you and me to be together when we’re in the middle of this plan and emotions are naturally high. And it would be a disaster, also, because we work together.”

He continues to talk, but his words fade into white noise. I don’t usually get angry. Nobody paid attention to my moods when I was a child, and by the time I became an adult, I’d understood the value of suppressing emotions that might push people away. But where has that got me?

I inhale slowly, becoming aware Jed is finally finishing his point. He asks, “So would you agree we shouldn’t muddy the waters further? I can’t allow complications with you, of all people.”

I glare at him. “Of course,” I snap. “You should definitely not allow complications with me.”

The car comes to a stop, and I realise we’re at work. Good. I shove the door open and climb out.

He calls after me, his voice hoarse with alarm. I slam the door behind me and begin my march towards the office across Sloane Square.

It’s starting to get busy with shoppers already about. The lights are on in the designer shops, doors opening and letting out gusts of expensively fragranced air.

“Artie!” Jed arrives beside me. He’s struggling with his bag and putting out a hand to stop me. “I can’t help feeling I’ve upset you.”

I whirl around, shrugging his hand away. “Really?” I say through gritted teeth. “I can’t imagine where you got that idea.”

He reels back, astonishment written on his face. Not surprising, since I’ve never spoken to him like this before. “Artie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t⁠—”

“Hello, people.”

Raff’s voice is a welcome interruption. I turn my head to see him approaching us, Joe at his side. They’re both bundled up in coats, and Raff’s strawberry-blond hair is a bright splash of colour on this cold morning.

Raff directs a curious look between us and then smiles. It’s the socially calming smile he employs with nervous brides and grooms. “Lovely morning,” he says congenially, threading his arm through mine and giving it a squeeze. “Just right for the monthly meeting where Jed will inevitably deliver a fulsome eulogy to me.”

“I’d be very happy to oblige you with one of those today,” Jed says, distracted. He fixes a stern gaze on me. “Artie, I need to speak to you.”

“Can it wait?” The words are practically a shout. I no longer seem capable of controlling my tone or volume.

Jed’s eyes widen, and he takes a small step back.

“Raff and I have to get the coffee.” I put on a big smile, but from the way they’re all staring at me, it’s not convincing.

“Come along, Raff,” I command, ignoring Jed’s urgent call.

Raff and I stride across the square and down a side street leading to an Italian deli where I often buy coffee.

I hear rushed footsteps and then Joe appears beside us.

“Sorry to butt in,” he says. “But I’m not staying behind with Jed. He looks like his head is going to explode, and I’m wearing Prada.”

“Can I just enquire if we’re going for coffee or marching to repel an alien force that’s landed on Buckingham Palace?” Raff sounds slightly out of breath.

I slow down a little. “Sorry. I’m just very cross.”

“Please don’t be sorry,” he says earnestly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cross. It’s vastly entertaining to someone who it’s not directed at.” I glare at him, and he falters. “Or not.” He offers with a winning smile.

Joe groans. “Just ignore Raff from now until eternity.”

“Marriage is hard,” I say. We enter the deli, and I inhale the scent of fresh coffee from the huge machine near the door.

“You’re telling me, mate,” Raff says. “It’s especially hard trying to navigate the relationship waters between a couple when one of them wants a seventies theme at their wedding and the other desires restrained elegance.” I stare at him, and he winces. “Sorry. I’ve got a meeting with a client this afternoon, and I have to tell him his bride-to-be has vetoed shag carpeting, patterned wallpaper, and a hookah bar.”

My mouth twitches in amusement. He has this effect on me. “Sorry for earlier. Jed just pissed me off.”

His whole face comes alive with interest. “And you should of course only feel free to confide in me if you really want to,” he intones. “No pressure to spill the details at all.”

Joe groans. “You lie.”

“Of course I do. This is Jed. Mr Perfect. I’ll give you five hundred quid if you tell me what he’s done, Artie.”

I gape at him. “Five hundred pounds?”

“Oh, okay a fiver. Stan’s spent our household budget on vinyl again this month.”

I smile at the thought of Raff’s fiancé. “Stan is so lovely.”

“Far too lovely for Raff,” Joe mutters. “But then that’s Stan’s particular cross to bear in life.” He winces as Raff pokes him in the ribs.

Raff turns back to me. His humour has vanished, and he gives me a kind look. “Relationships aren’t easy, Artie.”

“Watching Raff give advice is like observing a slow-motion train wreck,” Joe says conversationally.

“The main problem with relationships,” Raff continues loudly, glaring at Joe before turning back to me, “is that a lot of people expect that after they’ve found their dream partner, the rest of their lives will be as smooth as good custard.”

“And those expectations are wrong?”

“Of course,” he says. “A good partner will stand next to you while you navigate the shit parts of life. They won’t eradicate it from your life altogether.”

“Wise words.”

“And the miracle is that they came from Raff’s lips,” Joe says.

Raff’s eyes narrow. “Don’t sound too astonished.”

“How could I not? This is the same man who tried to stick a record cupboard together with super glue.”

Raff gasps. “Did Stan tell you that?”

Joe starts to laugh, and I look back at the deli’s entrance, thinking about the confused state I’d left Jed in. He’s trying. We were both at fault for last night, and being cross with him won’t do either of us any good.

“I think I need to speak to Jed,” I say. “Can you get the coffee? Put it on the account.”

Joe pats my shoulder. “Of course. See you in a bit.”

“Just so you know, I’m totally going to put cake on there too,” Raff calls after me. “Giving advice makes me hungry.”

I speed walk across the square and let myself into the agency. It’s quiet and looks like no one’s here yet. Jed’s office door is open, and I can hear his voice, so I make my way into the room. He’s on the phone and when he sees me, relief fills his eyes. I conceal my pleasure by closing the door and taking off my coat.

“No,” he says into the phone. “I’ll talk to you later.” He pauses. “I don’t care how urgent. Artie’s here and I need to speak to him. I’ll ring you after the meeting.” He puts the phone down. “My brother,” he explains. “He’s arranging a surprise birthday party for Mei, and he wants us both to be there. I don’t know how he thinks he can keep a secret from her.”

He’s talking much more quickly than usual. Is he nervous? If so, it’s an interesting development.

“I’m sorry.” He stands and rounds the desk, coming towards me with worried eyes. “I think I hurt you, and I would never want to do that.”

The last bit of anger drains away. How can I hold on to it when this is a good man who’s doing his best to give me my dream? It’s not his fault that I dream of being with him much more than I dream about my house.

“I know,” I say quietly.

He sits on his desk. “Talk to me.”

I draw in a deep breath. Being honest feels like it requires more air. “You said you wouldn’t want to start anything with me…” I let the breath go. “And you made it sound as though you wouldn’t choose me even if I were the last person on the earth.”

Dismay erupts on his face. “No,” he says loudly. “No, I didn’t mean it that way at all.”

“Then how did you mean it?”

His green eyes are so light they almost look silver. “I meant that you’re a very important person to me. Your happiness means something, and I don’t want to start anything that might eventually disappoint you. Or hurt you.”

“I’m not fragile, Jed. Other people have disappointed me before. You wouldn’t be the first.”

“Then that makes me very sad.”

I summon my courage, take another deep breath, and step closer to him. “The thing is I do want you,” I say. “I want you so m-much, Jed,” I stammer. This is the most nerve-racking thing I’ve ever done. “You and me being together is all I can think about.” I take another fortifying breath. “What about you?”

He closes his eyes, his hands clenching the desk, and with a shocking thrill, I realise he’s fighting the urge to reach for me. Confidence stirring, I step between his spread legs, resting my hands on his thighs and feeling the muscles tighten.

“Artie,” he breathes warningly.

“No. You wanted to know my thoughts, so here they are. I want you. I know you’re still in love with Mick, and that you had a real marriage with him. And ours is fake and won’t go anywhere.” A funny expression crosses his face, but I keep going. If I stop, I’ll lose my courage. “But that’s fine. And since we’ll have to be together—for appearance’s sake—for a while…” I slide my hands up his thighs. He rests his hands on mine but doesn’t stop me when I ease my palm up to his zipper. He exhales—a sound much like a groan—and I note red flags of colour on his cheekbones. “…then why can’t we be together and give each other a bit of happiness?”

He opens his eyes. The green has almost been eclipsed by his pupils. “And then what?” His hoarse voice sends a shiver down my spine.

“Then it’s done, and we go back to being us. Jed the boss and Artie his assistant.”

I’m lying through my teeth, but I’ve never thought of us as simply being in those roles, so what’s one more lie in the web we’re weaving? This arrangement will never hurt him. I wouldn’t suggest it if it would.

“Artie,” he says slowly, the word full of reluctant temptation. “I’m not sure it’s advisable.”

“Well, what if I want it?”

He stares at me.

“Oh, I know you’ve probably done loads with half of London. Sexual things,” I add in clarification.

“Yes, I did grasp your subtext,” he says dryly. “And it wasn’t half. I did have a business to run.”

“But,” I say, ignoring him, “I never have.”

He swallows hard. “You mean you’ve never…” He trails off and it takes me a moment to understand.

“Oh no. I’ve done sex. I’ve had one boyfriend, but I was so important to him that he fucked off to America without a second glance.”

His face darkens, and I wave a hand to stop his inevitable remarks. His mouth twitches, but he subsides, sitting back on the desk and watching me.

“Ben was my first,” I explain. “We met at school.”

His fascinated interest goes to my head like strong wine. “When he left,” I continue, “I never really met anyone else. I’ve been to bars and gay clubs, but I’m too quiet to stand out to the men there. I’m not loud and colourful,” I add wistfully.

I know Jed’s type is bold, beautiful men like Mick, and I can never be that. If I had been, he’d have had me on my back as quick as he could manage.

But my type is rather easy to ignore or refuse.

“Artie.” His eyes are very fierce. “There are more ways to get attention than being loud and bold, and gay bars can be bloody hard on anyone’s self-confidence. You are beautiful.” I blink and his mouth twists in a half smile. “You are clever and kind, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with being quieter. Some man will love that in you.”

His expression is strange, but I don’t stop to analyse it, too intent on making my point. “What if I don’t want to wait for this mythical man? I never had the chance to experiment. What about if I want to experiment now? This could be my only chance to do that with someone who I really trust, who I know won’t hurt me.”

“But I might hurt you!” He sighs. “Not physically. I’d never do that, but there are a lot of ways to hurt your partner. People in a relationship are in a unique position to know all of them.”

There’s something in his voice I can’t decipher, but I step closer, his interest in this idea drawing me like a moth to the flame. “But we’re not really partners,” I point out. “This is just casual, right?”

My heart is hammering because I’m pretty sure he’ll see right through me. My feelings for him are as clear and obvious as the nose on my face. It’s only me who stands a chance of getting hurt if we do this, and I’m willing to take that risk. I’m fully aware he will never love me, but at least this way I can have some small bit of him. And maybe when we’re done, and I see him with other men, I’ll have the strength to break the chains that bind me to him, and I can move on and find someone who would be better for me.

Ignoring the pang that thought gives me, I lift my hand and cup his cheek. He leans into my touch, and there’s something so trusting about the movement that my heart swells. “Well?” I say breathlessly. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure this is you,” he says doubtfully, but his eyes are full of emotion. Desire. My spine tingles again. He wants me. It gives me the courage to do what I do next.

“Really?” I lower my hand and cup his cock daringly. I swear I can feel his pulse in the hard length. “Then maybe you don’t know me so well after all.”

I’m not sure I even know myself as I kneel at Jed’s feet and pull his zipper down. I slowly reach in and draw out his cock. It’s ruddy with precome slicking the head, and I hesitate before darting my tongue out to catch the salty drops. “Mmm,” I breathe. The taste makes me hard, and I push on my cock to calm myself.

He grunts as if he’s been shot, and I gasp as he pulls me to my feet. He stares at me with a wild look on his face. “You swear?”

“Never in front of the customers.”

“Don’t be glib.” His groan sounds like victory and defeat in one small noise and then he slams his mouth on mine.

The kiss is hard and so forceful it makes my head spin. He eats at my mouth, sucking on my tongue before pulling away to lick my lips. He continues the kiss, and I clutch him, letting my head fall back, loving being under his control. It makes my head blissfully cloudy.

I moan in protest as he pulls away and then squeak as he grabs my hips and lifts me onto the desk. “What are you doing?” I gasp.

He gives me a crooked smile, his eyes full of lust as he unbuttons my shirt. “I’m checking an item off your lust list.”

“What list? Oh god,” I breathe as he licks my nipple. He blows a stream of cold air over it before suckling. “Jed?”

“You must have a list of things you want to do in this grand experimentation you’ve decided on.”

I lick my lips and love the way his eyes follow the small gesture. “I think sex on the desk,” I say tentatively.

“Your wish is my command.”

I groan as he strokes my thigh and traces the outline of my cock which is protruding lewdly. I make a choked sound as he rubs it, and then cant my hips, pushing towards his hand.

“Up,” he commands.

I arch off the desk so he can pull down my trousers and briefs. They catch on my shoes, and, with a frustrated noise and quick movements, he removes them. And then he takes care of everything else. I barely have time to focus on the fact I’m naked before he spreads my legs and steps between them.

“What are you doing?” I whisper and then give a startled cry as he licks my penis.

He looks up, his eyes heavy-lidded and fierce. “You have to be quiet.”

I swallow hard as I nod obediently.

He grabs my shirt and shoves it at me. “Put that in your mouth if you need to make noise.”

“I just want you to know this is the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me,” I say earnestly.

A gleam of humour appears in his eyes. “Stick with me, kid. There’s more where this comes from. It’s also going to be the quickest, because we don’t have time for foreplay.”

“How is even that hot?”

He rolls his eyes before lowering his head slowly towards my groin. My cock bobs in the air as if it’s shouting, “Pick me!” and I gasp when he takes the head into his mouth and sucks on it, his cheeks hollowing like he’s sucking a lollipop.

The feeling is incredible. His mouth is so hot, the suction tight, and I thrust involuntarily upward, pushing into his throat until he makes a choking sound. I go still and begin to apologise, but he just sucks harder, his eyes full of approval.

I rest back on my hands, gazing avidly at the sight before me. I’m naked on my boss’s desk and he has my cock in his mouth. I arch into every suck, reaching out to trace his lips with my fingertip. They’re stretched tight and damp with spit. He pulls back and I moan as he takes my fingers into his mouth to suck and lick at the digits the same way he did with my cock. I writhe helplessly, because I want more, but I want his mouth on my cock again too. I groan needily.

He pulls away, clasping my dick again. “Be quiet,” he growls before taking me deep.

I stuff my shirt into my mouth, breathing heavily through my nose. My arms don’t want to hold me up, and I lie back, staring dazedly at the ceiling as he bobs over my groin. He sucks me even deeper, swallowing around my dick. The feeling is so intense that I slam my eyes shut and moan into my cotton gag. I reach down with both hands and grab his head to feel his thick hair between my fingers.

He goes after me like a starving man, licking at me, blowing cool air over my sensitive skin, then sucking me again and again before restarting the whole process. I might be in heaven. When he moves away again, I make a garbled protest, forcing my eyes open. I gasp at the sight of him.

His lips are swollen, the high colour in his face making his eyes very bright. He strips off his jacket and throws it to the floor before unbuttoning his shirt with long, nimble fingers. I look greedily at his tight abs and hair-roughened chest. I hadn’t been able to see much in the dim light of the bedroom last night, and he’s beautiful, with wide, powerful shoulders and biceps that bulge as he unbuckles his belt.

“Open your legs. Let me see you,” he orders.

I slam my eyes shut, concentrating on not coming. Then I open them and very slowly and deliberately spread my legs. He can see everything in this position, but it doesn’t make me shy. Instead, I revel in the look of intense arousal on his face. I did that, I think in delight. Jed Walker wants plain and boring Artie Campbell.

“What do you want?” he asks, sliding his hand down his cock.

I look at the long, hard length greedily. He’s thick and I wonder if I should be worried about him hurting me. No. Jed would never hurt me.

I pull my shirt away from my mouth and say, very clearly, “I want you to fuck me.” I was going to say “make love to me,” but that might result in me putting my clothes back on.

His eyes flare. “Are you sure?”

“Completely sure. Please, Jed.” The begging rekindles my need, and I arch into the air as if fucking it. “Please.” I fist my cock. “I need you inside me.”

I gasp as he flicks my hand away. The sting makes my blood run warm and heavy between my legs.

“We haven’t got much time.” He grabs his messenger bag and draws out a condom and a packet of something that I presume is lube.

I sit up. “Can I put it on you?”

He shuts his eyes for a second. When he opens them, his eyes flare hot with need I’ve never seen before. With his red cheeks and swollen mouth, there isn’t much left of the formerly civilised Jed. The thought thrills me enormously.

“You’ve done it before?” he asks.

“Not really. Ben and I were each other’s first, so we went bare.”

He draws in air through his nose and seizes the back of my neck. He slams his mouth into mine, kissing me hungrily while groaning under his breath. We pull away, panting, and he licks his lips as if tasting me.

“Don’t mention his name when we’re like this,” he commands. “One day we’ll go bare. Would you like that?” He runs his hands up my thighs, his expression intent and then pleased as I arch towards him. “I’ll go in you bare, and I’ll flood your pretty arse with my come,” he says in a guttural voice. He grips me hard and tugs me to the desk’s edge before kissing me again.

I wrap my arms and legs around him, loving the feel of his trousers against my bare inner thighs. I pout when he pulls away.

It vanishes when he says, “Get me ready.”

I take the condom he hands me. It’s slippery and rubbery, and I suddenly feel very silly. The only time I’ve ever done this was on a banana in sex ed—not a thing that prepared me for an encounter with a real and very hot human being. I bite my lip and look up at him.

His finger slides across my lip. “So pretty,” he says. His eyes are fierce, but his smile is gentle. “Like this.” He shows me how to pinch the condom’s tip, so it doesn’t break, and then how to roll it down. His cock is thick and hot through the rubber, and I clasp him tightly, exhaling sharply when he thrusts into my hand.

His smile is strained. “You’re a natural,” he says before kissing me. When he pulls back, he’s breathing harshly. “Lie back and get the gag,” he orders.

I obey, watching as he squeezes lube onto his fingers and rubs them briskly. I realise with startled affection that he’s warming it. I won’t mention Ben again, but it’s a fact that he never bothered with this, seeming to enjoy my instinctive recoil whenever he put cold fingers inside me.

“I thought I told you to open your legs,” Jed says.

I hasten to do as he says. In my fantasies, he’d been gentle and sweet when we fucked. The reality is a zillion times hotter, with every demanding word and forceful gesture turning me on more. I’ll be lucky if I don’t come before he’s inside me. I grab the base of my cock, because I want to feel him fuck me. It’s the only thing in my mind now.

He traces gently around my hole, and I automatically tense. I always associate this bit with pain.

He looks up, and his eyes soften. “Relax,” he says in his deep voice. “I won’t hurt you. I’d rather cut my fucking arm off than do that. By the time I’m finished stretching you, you’re going to be begging me.” He winks. “Well, as much as you can beg with your mouth stuffed.”

He touches my hole again, rubbing the lube in as he goes. His touch is gentle but firm, playing with me and making pleasure spark in my balls. Before I know it, I’m grunting into the fabric and pushing to get him in me.

He finally slides the tip of his finger inside me. A moment later, he pulls out. He repeats the action several times, getting deeper with each try. My eyes widen as I realise there’s no pain. Finally, he pushes in fully, rubbing a spot inside me that makes electricity shoot down my spine.

“Ungh,” I cry out, pleasure settling in my balls. I spread my legs wider and hump into his finger, no thought left to how I must look and only concentrating on the pleasure. He rubs and taps until my eyes are squeezed shut and my hair is wet with sweat.

“Two now. I know you can take it. You’re my good boy.”

I give a garbled cry and push demandingly at him, and he’s as good as his word. He stretches me with two and then three fingers, tapping my prostate while sucking kisses on my neck. I stare blindly at the ceiling and listen to his harsh breathing. I can’t form words and can only moan and whine.

When he pauses, I give an inarticulate moan, pulling at him until he falls against me. He puts a knee on the desk and climbs onto it. I’m fully naked while he’s half-dressed, and it’s unbearably erotic.

“Are you ready?” he asks hoarsely. His skin gleams with his sweat and his eyes are nearly feral. I nod and he removes the shirt from my mouth. “Give me the words this time.”

“Fuck me,” I breath. “God, I need you.” I writhe impatiently.

He gives a choked laugh and puts his hand on my thighs to stop my restless movements.

“That’s a definite yes. Be still,” he orders, grabbing his cock and pushing against my entrance.

I can’t help but tense as he pushes in and then my eyes widen. “Oh, it doesn’t hurt,” I whisper.

His eyes flare. “He was a fucking idiot,” he says thickly.

He’s obviously talking about Ben, and he’s right, but I can’t think anymore.

He pushes all the way inside me, not stopping until his balls bang against my arse. He pauses, panting heavily. “Okay,” he says thickly. “I won’t move until you’re ready.”

I move a little, testing the feeling. He hisses but he nods calmly when I give him a worried glance. “Not until you’re ready,” he says steadily.

A tic pulses in his jaw, but he’s still as I cautiously move against him. There’s a bit of a pinch, but his cock knocks against that place in me—my prostate, I finally understand with shock. He does it again, and I groan and grab his arse, trying to pull him in.

“Oh god. It’s so good,” I gasp.

Then he starts to thrust, and I realise it can get a hell of a lot better.

The feeling of fullness, the way his chest hair rubs against my nipples, and the stinging kisses he’s leaving on my neck—it’s all mind-blowing. I clutch his back, winding my legs around him as he guides me. Soon, I’m moving with him rather than against him. I close my eyes, listening to our panted breaths. They’re loud, and the thought that there are people beyond the closed door working while I’m in here being fucked on Jed’s desk sends pleasure skittering through me.

“More?” he asks.

I nod feverishly. “Give me… Oh god, that’s so good. Give me everything,” I gasp.

He grunts as he hammers into me. He isn’t gentle now, and I’m fiercely glad of that fact. I don’t need it. I need his sweat on me, his tongue in my mouth, and his hand working my cock as he shoves into me. I grunt and push into his hand as he stretches me more.

“Oh god,” I whisper.

He nods, his teeth stretched back in a snarl. “Come now, baby,” he orders, fisting my cock.

I throw my head back, squeezing my eyes shut as the pressure bursts and my come floods his hand.

“Fuck,” he groans. He batters into me a couple more times. I’m still coming when he grunts and goes still for a moment. Then his cock twitches inside me and I feel the warmth of his come inside the condom.

Everything seems to go dark and our bodies shake and heave together.

He collapses onto me, somehow managing not to crush me, and I wind my arms and legs around him, squeezing him tight. I stare at the ceiling, my thoughts a mass of spinning stars.

Finally, he stirs, pressing a kiss under my ear. “We’re a mess,” he mutters.

I become more aware of the sweat and come sticking us together, and I tighten my grip on him.

His chuckle sends vibrations through me, making me shudder. “I need to get rid of the condom.”

“One more second?” I ask.

He settles back but keeps his weight on his elbows so he can examine my face intently. I love the fact that his hair is messy, and he looks satisfied. I did that. It’s a breathtaking thought.

“Are you okay?” he asks anxiously. “Do you hurt anywhere? I was a little rougher than I’d planned.”

“That was the best thing ever. I feel amazing,” I declare robustly.

He chuckles. His eyes are soft, a stark contrast with the commanding lover of before. I’ve learnt in the last half an hour that Jed is as bossy during sex as he is in the rest of his life, but it seems I get only sugar afterwards. I pull him tight and hug him, very happy with that fact.

After a few seconds, I feel his body go tense, and I sigh. It’s probably time for soul-searching and recriminations. I don’t know why. He just gave me the best experience of my life. “Jed?”

“I’m sorry,” he blurts. I tense as I wait for the axe to fall. “I can’t believe that you of all people want a sex-only relationship.”

That is not what I thought he’d say. “Why not me?” I say, offended. “I’m as capable as the next person.”

“Only if the next person was a nun. Name one sex-only arrangement you’ve had?”

“All my relationships.” I pause. “Well, I’ve only had one, but it turns out that was just sex.”

“That’s not quite what I meant. You’ve got the soul of a serial dater. Not a serial shagger.”

“So?” I rub the tight muscles on his back. He’s such a beautiful man. I can’t believe my luck that this is happening. “I may not have previous form.”

“Form? You’re not Reggie Kray.”

“But I’m perfectly happy to have a sex-only arrangement with you.”

“And we won’t be developing any feelings, yes?” he says, his body very still.

“Of course not,” I lie. What’s one more in the thousands we’ve told so far? Although this one seems more important. But I don’t want to think about it right now. “None whatsoever.”

“Well then,” he says slowly, still examining my face intently. He bends towards me, and I lift up eagerly.

Then we both jump as the door slams open.

“Artie,” comes Raff’s voice. “I’ve finally got the coffee and— Oh shit.”

I squeak as Jed pulls out quickly. Then he immediately shields my naked body with his partially dressed one. Raff’s getting a lovely view of his bare arse.

The door slams shut and there’s a moment of stunned silence.

Finally, Jed groans and lowers his head into my neck. “Fucking hell, I forgot to lock the door,” he breathes.

My cheeks are flaming, but I couldn’t stop my chuckle if my life depended on it.

He raises his head. “You think this is funny?” he says incredulously.

“Just a little.” I try to stop laughing but there’s another knock at the door.

“Just me,” Raff’s voice comes through. “I wish very much that anyone else in the world had opened that door rather than me. The memory is going to last forever. It’s probably replaced tons of important stuff that I could not afford to lose. If I forget my future anniversary, it’s because this image is in my head. So I’m going to ask you to tell Stan it’s your fault.” He pauses. “Is it morally wrong that I have an erection, or just socially awkward?”

I snort and Jed shakes his head in despair. He cups my face and kisses me hard. When he pulls away my brain is soft, and my cock is stiff again.

“We’re coming,” he shouts.

“Well, I know that,” Raff says.

I break into laughter.

Ten minutes later, having washed in Jed’s private bathroom and looking as put together as I can be, I wander out of the office. Raff is swinging on his chair and grinning. I immediately flush bright red.

“Well,” he says cheerfully. “It’s a good job that was me, Artie.”

“Why?” I ask faintly.

“Well, someone else wouldn’t be the soul of discretion that I am.”

“Oh dear. I don’t think that’s strictly true. Isn’t it you who thinks it’s healthy to share gossip?”

“I don’t think I’m wrong.” He points his finger at me. “There’s your sass, anyway. I like it when that comes out.”

“I thought you’d want to discuss what you walked in on and not my so-called sass.”

“No need.” He zips his lips. “I will take it to my grave.”

“Which you may be in sooner rather than later if you ever speak to me about what just happened,” Jed says as he approaches us. I squeak when he pats my arse. “See you in there,” he says and walks off whistling.

I stare after him, and Raff shakes his head. “Well, I never,” he says softly.

I turn to him. “Pardon?”

“I’m a bit relieved, to be honest.” He stands, gathering his diary together. “I was concerned that everything still seemed businesslike between you, even though you’re married now.”

“Shouldn’t we be businesslike at work, though?”

“Not if you’re in love, no.”

He doesn’t see my flinch as he wanders off towards the meeting room.

I wonder if I should take that as a warning. But I wouldn’t be able to heed such a warning, would I? I feel alive for the first time in my very boring life. I just had stupendous sex with the man of my dreams, and it was epic and we’re going to do it again and again. Hopefully, very soon.

I couldn’t stop these feelings, even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. I’m going to go along with this as long as Jed wants me. I’m uneasily aware that if he knew I was in love with him, he’d break the one-minute mile to get away from me.

But that’s a worry for later. I head to the meeting room with a smile on my face and a sleek, stretched feeling in my body that I like.

After all, people have fallen in love for a lot less, haven’t they? Maybe there’s hope for me yet.

ten

. . .

jed

I juggle my bags as I open the front door. The house smells of paint and fresh wood and, after I put down my things and take off my coat, I’m happy to feel the air is toasty warm. It’s a welcome treat after these last few weeks when they’ve struggled to get the boiler working.

The weather has been terrible, so we’ve been gravitating to the bedroom where we can run the heater and cuddle up under the sheets and blankets. We’d then found other ways to generate heat. Desire slides through me like warm honey at the thought.

Since I made the incredibly foolhardy decision to pursue a fuck-buddies sort of relationship with my formerly quiet and shy assistant, I’ve found myself throwing caution to the wind and fully embracing it. We’ve fucked in the office, and all over the house, burning up the sheets at night as we sweat and writhe together.

I’ve been around the block more than a few times, but I don’t think I’ve ever found this combination of sexual compatibility and fascination.

He’s not exactly quiet or shy in the sack. Or out of it anymore. The moments when he’s sassy with me are becoming more frequent, and they only make me want him more, which, in turn, leads to more fucking. Yesterday, we’d been at a hotel to discuss a wedding, and Artie had said something snarky. I’d dragged him to the bathroom and fucked him, putting my hand over his mouth to stifle his cries and biting into the shoulder of his suit jacket to stifle my own. We’d only just avoided getting caught by the client.

I hardly recognise myself nowadays, and yet somehow this doesn’t make me fearful. Instead of withdrawing back into my shell, I want to do more.

Which brings me to tonight. I flush at the thought of what I’ve done. There is truly no fool like a forty-four-year-old idiot.

I hear voices and follow them into the lounge. The room is unrecognisable. The broken fireplace surround has been replaced with light oak with hand-carved animal details. The blue-and-white tiles are from the Netherlands. The walls are painted a warm saffron colour, and new French windows open onto what will soon be a large flagstone patio.

Artie stands talking to Tyler the apprentice. Heat washes over me as I observe my fake husband. He’s wearing faded jeans that cling to his small, round arse and an old blue jumper of mine. It’s far too big, and although he’s rolled up the sleeves, it drowns him. Seeing him in it, I want to beat my chest and shout, “Mine!”

He looks up and his whole face lights in the special smile he seems to only give me. It’s wide and so warm, and I wonder again vaguely if I’m in the middle of a midlife crisis. If so, it feels too good to stop it.

“You’re home. How did the meeting go?” he asks.

“About as well as you’d imagine with Raff involved. I’d do the world of wedding planners a favour if I gagged him on a permanent basis.”

He chuckles and gestures at Tyler. “We have a tiny problem.”

I’m about to point out there is nothing small about the problem that is Tyler, but Artie’s eyes stop me. Their warning twinkle sends a frisson through me, but I’ve learnt lately that there’s nothing about Artie that doesn’t give me a thrill.

“Oh yes?” I finally say.

Tyler shifts nervously, and my eyes narrow in interest.

Artie pats his arm. He’s a foot shorter than Tyler, yet he seems like the grown-up. “I told you he wouldn’t be mad.”

“And I said I was a little bit concerned about your view of the situation.”

“Oh, his bark’s worse than his bite,” Artie says blithely.

“Only if he doesn’t draw blood, Mr Walker.”

“Are you actually talking about me?” I say mildly.

Tyler looks at me, and I bare my teeth at him in a sinister smile out of Artie’s view. His eyes widen. Artie spins around, and I blink innocently. “What’s happened now?”

“Well, there’s been a small accident.”

“Of course there has.”

He shakes his head, his eyes still twinkling. “It’s the en suite in the guest room.”

I open my mouth to ask what guest room but realise just in time that he’s talking about my bedroom. “What about it?” I say warily.

“Well, Tyler misread Eric’s instructions.”

“Where is Eric?” I say, looking around. “Has he emigrated to the Arctic where he can fuck up building work for the polar bears?”

“He’s at the dentist, but he left strict instructions for what Tyler was to do.”

“That man’s naïvety never ceases to astound me.”

“Maybe it would be better if we showed you,” Artie says decisively. “Come along, Tyler.”

Tyler follows him like a puppy, shooting nervous looks back at me. I follow them up the stairs.

Everywhere there are signs of change. A plush carpet runs up the stairs and the walls are papered in a light turquoise patterned paper that Artie happily told me was inspired by the Royal Pavilion.

Artie stops at the door to my bedroom. Not that I need it at the moment. All my nights have been spent in Artie’s bed. I have no desire to move into this room. “You probably need to prepare yourself.”

“Oh god." He smiles and I look over at the apprentice who’s doing his best to appear invisible. “I insist Tyler must go first,” I say silkily.

Tyler’s aggrieved sigh makes my mouth twitch, and he shuffles into the bedroom. It’s a big room with a view over the street, but I prefer the one I share with Artie. I look around. “So, what’s the problem?” I ask.

Artie steps next to me. “Why don’t you open the door to the en suite?”

I move forward and then blink, running my hand over the solid wall. “Where’s the door?”

He nods. “Yes, that is rather the root of the problem.” Artie taps the wall. “It’s actually supposed to be here.”

“Tyler,” I say grimly.

Tyler examines the wall as though the door might mysteriously appear. “Yes, Mr Walker. I’m afraid I read Eric’s instructions wrong. He asked me to block up the old door in the dressing room and get the wall ready for plastering.”

“And?”

He spreads his hands in an aggrieved fashion. “Well, I got the wall wrong, didn’t I? You get dressed in a bathroom too. It was an easy mistake.”

“It’s a good job you didn’t work in a medieval nunnery,” I observe. He blinks in confusion, but Artie chuckles. The sound fills me with warmth, and I smile at him. I make sure it drops when I turn to Tyler. “So where is the bathroom door? Is there one, or should our guests just abseil down from the roof whenever they need a shower?”

“Ah, there is a new door,” he says, brightening. He points at a door that has appeared on the other side of the room. “I did do that.”

“Where does that lead to?”

He sighs. “Into the third bedroom.”

“Well, I’m sure it’ll be super good fun to find dynamite to blow a hole in the wall just to have a bath. How lovely that you’re reconfiguring my house,” I say.

I shift a glance at Artie. He might be irked that I’m claiming ownership of his home. But his expression is unadvisedly thrilled. I certainly shouldn’t be grinning at him like an idiot either.

I begin composing a speech to tell off Tyler, but then I just sigh and wave my hand. “You might as well go home early, Tyler.”

He brightens. “Really?”

“Yes. I think we can wait for you to open a cupboard door and bring the whole house down around our ears.”

He smiles because he’s become very adept at ignoring my sarcasm. Then his face clouds. “What about Eric?”

“I’ll tell him,” I say resignedly.

“Thanks, Jed. Bye, Artie.” He’s gone quicker than a cartoon cat chasing after a mouse.

We listen to the clatter of footsteps and then Artie turns to me. “You’re so lovely,” he says with a sigh. He runs his hand up my chest and smiles up at me, admiration in his eyes. It makes me feel ten foot tall.

“Not really.”

“Are you sure? Because you should know I find niceness incredibly erotic.”

“In that case, I am the nicest man in the whole world.”

He laughs and twines his hands behind my head, drawing me down. I go willingly, taking his mouth with a sigh and gathering him into my arms. A locked-tight feeling inside me—one that arose the moment he’d left work earlier—suddenly eases. The kisses lengthen and become more passionate. I’ve just pushed him gently against the wall and I’m fighting with him over who gets to lower my zip when I remember my plans and pull back.

“Where are you going?” His pout is so adorable that I drop a kiss on it. And then another. And another until we’re kissing again.

Finally, I pull away. “Unhand me, you minx.”

He looks far too thrilled at that moniker, and I sigh. I know when I’m fucked.

He smiles at me, his nimble fingers again finding my zipper, behind which is my hard and aching cock.

“No,” I say reluctantly, stopping his hand.

His smile turns sympathetic. “Are you too tired?”

“What? No,” I say in revulsion. “I’m never too tired for sex with you.”

His whole face seems to glow, and I almost end up kissing him again. It’s like he possesses his own sexual tractor beam.

“You’re so lethal you should come with a warning label,” I say.

He chuckles. “What’s up?”

I tug at my collar, feeling hot and constricted. “I’ve done something,” I confess.

His eyes narrow. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you blush before. This must be very interesting. What is it?”

“You might not like it. But I went ahead and booked it even though that might make me an idiot. But in my defence I think you’ll love it, and I love your smile, so I’ll be happy too.” I stop abruptly, horrified at the word salad that just spewed out of my mouth.

His face softens and he rises and kisses me so gently it’s like a butterfly landing on my lips. “If you’ve done something for me, for that reason, I will never not like it.”

I cough. “Well, don’t speak too soon.”

“So?” he prompts after a moment of silence. “What is it?”

“I’m taking you to a ballroom dancing class,” I blurt.

“What?” His eyes widen.

“A ballroom dancing class. It’s LGBT,” I add quickly. “I went a few times when my brother and Mei got married, and they wanted us all to know how to dance. It’s a great group and I loved it.” I shift awkwardly. “You said how much you like Strictly, so I thought we could do this together.” I’m horrified to see that his eyes are glistening. “Oh shit. You don’t have to do it— Ouf!”

My words are cut off when he flings himself into my arms. “That is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“Then you must get out more,” I say gruffly. I hate these careless references he makes to a childhood that sounds so affection- and care-deprived. It makes my heart hurt to think of him like that. I bet he was such a sweet little boy—eager to please and so kind.

He hugs me, and I tug him closer. My grasp is far too tight, but he doesn’t complain. Instead, he just snuggles in, and I rest my head on his, smelling the fragrance of his shampoo. It’s fresh and clean like him. Sometimes it feels like he’s this cool breeze that’s blown through my life, getting rid of all the fog of old hurts and guilt.

He pulls back to look up at me. “What should I wear?” he asks eagerly.

I smile, delighted he likes the idea of the class. “Jeans and a T-shirt will be fine. Something comfortable.”

“What about shoes?”

“Trainers will do for now.” I shrug. “If you like it, we can buy you some proper shoes.”

His smile is wide and excited. “We can go again?”

“Of course,” I say gruffly.

“I’ll go and get ready.”

My arms don’t seem ready to let him go, but I drop them and watch him race out of the bedroom. Then I walk into the hallway to find the entrance to my bathroom.

The lessons are held in a dance company’s suite of rooms above an Italian restaurant. We’re treated to the smell of onion and garlic as we climb the stairs. As if on cue, Artie’s stomach rumbles. He sends me a laughing glance, and I pull him close, dropping a kiss into his hair.

“I’ll feed you afterwards. I can recommend the lasagne.”

“Really? We’re not going home afterwards?” His smile is comet bright, but I pause on the stairs in sudden doubt.

“Not unless you want to. Are you tired? Would you rather not⁠—”

I stop talking because he’s put his hand over my mouth. I raise my eyebrow, but he just offers me a crooked smile which is so charming I want to poke myself in the eye.

“I want to stay out,” he says earnestly. “I love spending time with you. I just thought you were doing this to please me, and I didn’t want to encroach on your time.”

I pull his hand away from my mouth and drop a kiss on his long fingers. There’s a smudge of ink on one which is peculiarly endearing. “I like to please you,” I say steadily. It’s actually alarming how much that statement is true. “If you’re happy, it makes me happy.”

“I don’t want you to look on it as a full-time job and end up resenting me.”

My eyes widen. “Is that what your ex did?”

“Ben?” He stares at me for a second and then bursts into laughter. He takes a breath and says, “Good god, no. That would be far from the reality.”

“Why?”

I’m both fearful and curious to find out more about Artie’s ex. The thought of his hands on Artie makes my stomach clench, but I’d like to know what happened to Artie, so I can help him, if need be.

“Did you ever watch Cinderella?”

I blink at the change of subject. “My nephew Grant was very attached to the film when he was little.” I grimace. “We had to wear tiaras and have a tea party whenever we watched it. He was more demanding with the tea service than a customer at The Ritz.”

His eyes flare with approval and humour. “It will be my eternal regret that I didn’t see that.”

“I’m sure my mother has a photo,” I say darkly. “She has one for every occasion and most of them are on the wall in the hall so casual strangers can peruse them.”

His eyes brighten.

“No,” I say. “Just no, please. You know she’ll do anything for you.”

“I made no promises to use my powers for good.”

I start to laugh.

He grins at me and says, “I know we’re supposed to see the prince as the happy ending, but when I watched Cinderella as an adult, the prince just looked tiring.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Cinderella would have existed as an extension of him—always seeking to please him just like everyone else in his life. His happiness would have been her career. That’s how it would have been with me and Ben. I’d have spent my life trying to make sure he was happy.”

I draw him to me. He comes easily, his hands resting on my chest and his eyes bright with affection. I swallow hard at the sight. “Someone else’s happiness isn’t your job.”

“But what if it’s your partner? Surely I’d want to make him happy?”

“But that should never be a job or an onerous task, and the other person should do the same for you. You’d be a team. Not a boss and his employee. You are treated the way you allow someone to treat you,” I say steadily. “If you value yourself so low, other people will do the same. You should never value yourself low because you deserve everything, Artie,” I finish a little too fervently for my taste. He cocks his head, looking at me, and I shift uncomfortably.

At that moment the door at the top of the stairs opens and breaks the moment. “Come on,” I say with relief. “Let’s go and learn a dance.”

He looks around with interest as we enter the reception. It’s bright, the walls painted with primary colours, and the warm scent of vanilla fills the air. Voices sound from the door leading to the studio, and I nudge him towards it. “In there.” When he hesitates, I ask, “You okay?”

He bites his lip for a second and then says, “I just don’t want to embarrass you. I’m probably going to be terrible at this.”

Affection flares in me so powerfully it steals my breath for a second. I take his hand and pull him to one side. “No one’s going to be judging you, and there are all ranges of ability in the group, from beginners to advanced.” I clasp his square chin so I can look into his pale blue eyes. “You will never embarrass me,” I say steadily. “Never.”

He considers me for a second and then smiles. “What if I’m no good and fall over my feet?”

I shrug. “I’ll just pick you up and we’ll laugh.”

His smile widens. “That sounds like a euphemism for life.”

“God, I hope not. That would mean I’m becoming tediously wise.”

I tug him into the studio. It’s brightly lit, the lights chasing away the autumn darkness at the windows, and the wooden floor is honey gold. Several couples are already here, and I feel Artie relax as he looks around. There are all ages and different relationships represented, and the atmosphere is inclusive and fun with excited chatter.

“How long did you take classes?” Artie asks.

I guide him round a group of people, my hand at the small of his back. My hand had been in the exact same place last night when I’d held him down in bed. Artie is beautiful when he’s naked and his back has an arch to it that makes my mouth water.

His eyebrow cocks as he watches me, like he’s reading my mind.

I roll my eyes, and he chuckles. “I did some lessons for the wedding and then came back a few times afterwards.”

“With Mick?”

“God, no. He liked grinding on a dancefloor. This type of dancing was completely out of his comfort zone. He said I was an eighty-year-old stuck in a hot, thirty-something body.” The comment had stung at the time, but now it just makes me want to laugh, particularly when I recall his face when I’d suggested the lessons.

“Jed.” The instructor comes over. He’s in his thirties, and he’s slim and dark-haired. “Well, hello, tall, dark, and handsome stranger.”

I grin at him and shake the hand he holds out. “Hello, Bernie.”

“I haven’t seen you in ages, gorgeous.”

“I’ve been busy.” I draw Artie forward. “This is my husband, Artie.”

Artie directs a sparkling glance at me, and Bernie leans forward to give him a hug. He steps back and winks at me. “Busy? I get you, darling. Well, lucky old you, that’s all I have to say.”

“You lie. That is never all you have to say.” I grin at Artie. “Bernie has a word for every occasion.”

Artie chuckles, and Bernie puts a dramatic hand to his chest. “Just the one? You wound me.” He pats my arm affectionately. “I thought we’d lost our spare. Men went into mourning and beat their chests in despair.”

I shake my head. “I’m very sure they coped.”

“You could have heard the wailing from Japan.”

“Spare?” Artie asks.

“Oh, not in the Prince Harry sense, darling,” Bernie declares. “Jed danced with anyone.”

“That makes me sound like a ho.”

“I speak as I find, you naughty boy.” He turns to Artie who’s observing us with laughing eyes. “He danced with anyone who was lacking a partner.”

“I’m pretty sure he did that in private too.”

“Artie,” I gasp, and the two men chuckle merrily.

“You little strumpet, Jed,” Bernie declares, turning admiring eyes on me. I shift awkwardly. They look at each other and laugh again.

“How wonderful that I’ve brought Artie to a place that has reinforced his desire to take the piss out of me,” I say, sending them into more paroxysms. I smile at them.

Bernie steps back. “It’s lovely to meet you, Artie.” He looks at me. “Waltz?”

“That’s Artie’s favourite dance in Strictly.”

Bernie leaves us, and I feel Artie’s hand slide into mine. I shoot him an affectionate look and get lost in itemising the navy-blue flecks in his pale eyes.

“Okay, people,” Bernie says, clapping his hands and snapping me out of my reverie. “It’s a waltz tonight. Grab your person and let’s get our groove on.”

I whisper to Artie, “He’s permanently stuck in the seventies. If they offered him a time machine, he’d have his bell bottoms on before they could blink.” People move around us, walking to the spots on the floor where Bernie has taped box shapes. Artie stares at them, unmoving. “You okay?” I ask.

He takes a breath. “Did you sleep with him?”

“With Bernie?”

He nods and I wonder if I’m imagining that hint of jealousy.

“No. Good grief, no.”

He immediately relaxes. “Why not? He’s very beautiful.”

“He may be, but his husband is bigger than me and very possessive. I like my assignations to come with an orgasm. Not traction.”

He laughs, and a few people smile at the merry sound. I steer him over to the side of the room where he’ll be more comfortable out of everyone’s immediate gazes.

“Okay. The first thing you need to decide is who is leading,” Bernie announces.

There’s a clamour of voices, and I look at Artie in question. He gives me a heated glance. “I happen to like it when you take the lead. It makes me feel so good,” he whispers.

I cough, resisting the urge to adjust myself. “Thank you so much,” I mutter. His air of excitement is irresistible.

Bernie has us perform a simple box step, and we follow the taped lines while he walks around the room, calling out encouragement and making jokes. Artie stumbles occasionally to the beat of the music. He’s as graceful as a hippo skating on butter, but he’s never looked more beautiful to me, and I’m glad to see the hesitation has gone. He’s fully in the moment, and he takes my breath away.

“Time to get into hold,” Bernie calls. “Face each other and stand tall and straight as if you’re being crowned like the kings and queens you are.”

Artie moves into position, staring up at me. I swallow hard, fighting the urge to kiss the smile off his face. I’m not used to being so distracted, but Artie keeps making me feel brand-new things.

Bernie continues, “You should be looking over each other’s shoulders, concentrating as if Austin Butler has just walked into the room. But don’t get too excited, folks. That man is mine.” Everyone laughs, and he steps to the front of the room. “And now we hold each other. The lead’s left hand to their partner’s right.”

Artie looks confused but he steps closer, raising his hand. I slide mine over his and the contact is a sweet relief. How has that happened? I went years never touching him and now being five minutes without contact makes me act like a fool.

“Put your hand on my shoulder,” I say. The music weaves a sweet, refined beat around us. I swallow as his long fingers clasp me, playing with the seam on my shirt. I slide my hand around him, cupping his sharp shoulder blade, my fingers flexing as I fight the urge to pull him closer.

Bernie starts to call out the beat, and Artie steps forward. I grunt as he immediately stamps on my foot.

“Sorry,” he says. “You’re supposed to be leading.”

“I’m not surprised you’re struggling with that concept out of the bedroom,” I whisper just to see the blush on his cheeks. Then I wink at him. “It’s a fact that you’re in the lead everywhere else.”

“Am I?” he says, astonishment and titillation at the idea written all over his pretty face.

“You could make me do anything you want.”

His eyes narrow. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“Then you don’t know how important you are to me. I would walk miles barefoot just to see you smile.” I stop talking abruptly, unable to believe I just said that.

I shift awkwardly and then he smiles with his usual charm. “Well, I’m pretty sure I’d be walking next to you, telling you to put your shoes on.”

The image makes me smile, and I tune back into Bernie.

“Ready?” I ask, brandishing our joined hands dramatically.

“Always,” he says quietly, and I pull him closer as we start to move.

I’ve danced the waltz with many partners during my time spent here, and I have to say most of them were a lot more graceful than Artie. He steps all over my feet and nearly strangles me with his grip on my shirt collar. But no one has ever danced as joyfully. He follows me, his body warm against me, and Bernie’s instructions fade away as we smile at each other.

His eyes are full of glee, and I know he thinks I was exaggerating about my desire to see him happy. But every word I spoke was the truth. And that’s the scariest thing of all.

We walk into the house laughing, full of wine and good food.

“Oh my god, I’m so stuffed,” Artie moans. “That was the best lasagne I’ve ever tasted.”

“Told you.”

I take his coat and mine and put them in the cupboard before smiling at him. “Did you have a good night?” I’m pretty sure of his answer because happiness beams off him like rays of sunshine. This is only reinforced when he shoves me back against the wall, crowding against me. I automatically spread my legs, feeling my cock start to harden. I lick my lips. “Well?”

“I had the best time. The absolute best. Can we go again?”

I smile at him. “We can go as many times as you like.”

He rises as I bend down, and our lips meet in the middle in a lush kiss. I immediately pull him closer. I can’t kiss him without needing full body contact. Try as I might to keep our connection light-hearted, our kisses never feel that way. They feel like home. I shove that thought away, but it remains there, a niggle of disquiet under the feel of his mouth. Our tongues tangle, and I start to pull up his T-shirt.

“In the hallway?” he asks, pulling back and trying unsuccessfully to look scandalised.

I smirk. “I think it might be the only place we haven’t fucked so far.”

“Apart from the coal shed.”

“I can work with that. I love a challenge.”

He laughs and I drag him nearer. We both jump when there’s a knock at the door.

I make a disgruntled sound as he pulls away, but he grins up at me, his eyes sparkling. “Stay just like that,” he whispers.

I wink. “Anything for you.”

His smile widens. “I’ll get rid of whoever it is and then I’m going to hold you to that.” He taps my chest. “All night. I have big plans for you, Mr Walker.”

“I’m entirely at your disposal, Mr Walker.”

He hesitates, grinning at me with approval all over his pretty face. Then he races to the door and flings it open. He goes entirely still, his hand tightening on the door. “You,” he gasps.

I scramble to fasten my jeans as adrenaline pours into me. In two steps I’m at his side, nudging slightly in front of him, so I can see what’s alarmed him.

A man is at the door. He’s about Artie’s age and very good-looking, with sleek blond hair and very blue eyes. I glance at Artie for an explanation, but he’s staring at the stranger as if he’s Marley’s ghost.

The man shifts on the step. “Hello, Artie,” he says softly. “Long time no see.”

Artie shakes his head as if disbelieving his eyes. “Ben,” he breathes.

Recognition tugs at me. He’d mentioned that name tonight. Then my eyes widen, and I turn back to the stranger.

This is Artie’s ex. Their relationship was serious enough that his family took Artie in. This is the man who left Artie behind and broke his heart.

eleven

. . .

artie

I gaze open-mouthed at the man on my step. Ben.

He’s changed, and I can’t help but itemise the differences to the boy I knew and loved so long ago. He’s taller, his shoulders more broad, and his hair shorter.

The last time I’d seen him was a couple years ago. I’d bumped into him on the high street, and he’d told me he was home from New York for Christmas. I’d been hurt because if I hadn’t seen him by chance, he probably wouldn’t have told me he was back.

“Surprise,” he says now, laughing as he scoops me up into a hug.

I return it, bewildered. A cough sounds from beside me and I pull back. “What are you doing here?” I ask Ben.

He gives me the wide, little-boy smile that pulls out a dimple in his cheek. “What’s up?”

That smile used to charm me, and I thought I’d see it for the rest of my life. Now, it looks a little thin, and I can’t help comparing it to the ones my formerly reticent husband has given me so much lately. Those I hoard like Rumpelstiltskin does his gold.

Ben clears his throat. He’s always had my instant attention. It must be startling not to.

“Erm, Ben.” I step back and Jed’s arm immediately clasps me to his side. “This is my husband, Jed.”

Jed directs a charming smile at Ben, and I notice it doesn’t meet his eyes.

“You’re Artie’s husband?” Ben says.

Jed nods. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Something flares in Ben’s eyes. “Aww, so Artie’s spoken about me. I’m glad he hasn’t forgotten me.”

I shift my weight, feeling suddenly awkward. I never expected to see Ben again, and having him near Jed is disconcerting.

Jed keeps his arm around me but doesn’t say anything.

“It would be hard to forget you, Ben,” I say quietly. “Your parents did take me in for a long time.”

Irritation flares, and I remember how cross he used to be if I didn’t understand him immediately. “They took you in because you and I were together. They’d have never done it for anyone else.”

I tip my head, considering this. I quickly decide it’s not worth further thought. “What are you doing here? Are you over for the holidays?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. I’m back for good.”

“How very Take That of you,” Jed murmurs. His arm has a wire of tension vibrating through it, but he still has that smile on his face.

“I thought you were happy over there, Ben,” I say.

When the New York office offered him a job, he’d been off like a fox after a rabbit. He had no intention of inviting me along and I doubt he even looked back once.

“Well, I was, but it was time to come back. My old man promised me a corner office and their flat in Bermondsey.”

“Oh, you always wanted that.” I smile at him. “I’m pleased for you. Your mum and dad must be happy to have you home.”

His laugh has a careless edge. “I suppose so. Anyway, never mind that. I came to get you.”

“Get me? I’m not a sack of potatoes you forgot to pick up.” I hear a soft laugh and step closer to Jed.

Ben reaches out, but Jed positions his body slightly in front of me.

Ben’s hand drops and his eyes fill with anger, but then he gives me a coaxing smile that I know very well. He uses it to get his way in all things. It’s the most successful thing in his repertoire. “Sorry. Poor choice of words. I came to take you for dinner.”

“It’s ten o’clock at night,” Jed says flatly.

“And we already had lasagne,” I add. I look up at Jed and smile. “After the lovely dance lesson.”

His face relaxes slightly, and he gives me a faint smile. “It was hungry work fucking up all those dance steps.”

I shove him, laughing, and his smile widens.

“Well, come for a drink with me instead, Artie,” Ben says coaxingly. I hesitate, and he rolls his eyes. “Surely Jed can spare you for a few minutes? Or does he need you every second of the day?”

What the hell does that mean? “Don’t be rude,” I say sharply.

Ben raises his eyebrows, obviously surprised at my tone.

Jed gives me a reassuring squeeze. “It’s fine,” he murmurs.

“Sorry,” Ben says, recovering quickly as usual. Laughing, he looks at Jed. “Please, can I take your husband?”

Jed looks steadily at him until Ben squirms—something I’ve never witnessed Ben do. Jed gives him a charming smile. “You can certainly borrow him, but I must insist you give him back.”

That gives me more of a thrill than it should, but Ben grimaces. “There you go, Artie. You have the royal permission.”

Jed’s watching me intently. When I catch his eye, he smiles and steps back. My body is suddenly cold without his touch.

“You should go,” he says placidly.

“Really?”

He nods. “Of course. It’s good to see old friends.”

“Well, we were a lot more than that,” Ben offers. “But we won’t mention it, eh, Artie?”

I ignore him and take the coat that Jed hands me distractedly. Then, before I can even say goodbye, Ben’s pulling me out of the door. It’s all so quick—like being a passenger on a runaway train.

“Don’t wait up,” Ben calls to Jed.

“I won’t be long,” I say.

Jed offers me a reassuring smile. “It’s fine,” he says. “Take as long as you want.”

Just before the door shuts, I look back. Jed is standing like a statue in the doorway, his expression closed and cold.

I sigh and fidget in my seat, watching Ben place another order at the bar. This is the third drink he’s had, and his conversational abilities have suffered the consequences. We’ve travelled so far down memory lane that I’ll need a bus to get back home. And my back is twinging because I’ve had to contort myself to stop Ben from touching me. The touches have been constant—light ones on my knee and hand, and firmer ones to my face—but they all feel much too intimate to give someone who’s married.

Fake married, I remind myself. I can’t help but be annoyed by Ben’s posturing as he walks towards our table clutching our drinks. There’s a swagger to his walk, and he lifts his chin so the light gleams on his golden hair. There was a time when I would’ve been breathless with admiration, but now I just want to roll my eyes and tell him to hurry up so I can go home.

This man once had the power to get me to do anything. It’s nice to realise the last vestiges of his sway over me have worn off.

“Here you go,” he says, putting my drink on the table.

“I thought I said I wanted a soft drink.” I frown at the large glass of wine.

“Lighten up, Artie. You’re old before your time. Like your husband,” he mutters.

“What?”

“Jesus, it was just a joke,” he says with a martyred look. “You used to have a sense of humour.”

I stare at him. “Was that because I laughed at all your jokes? I can assure you one of those things is not like the other.”

He twitches as though something’s bitten him, but he apparently decides to ignore my comments. “Budge up,” he says, gesturing to my side of the booth.

“No, I don’t think so,” I reply quietly. “You can sit over the other side.”

“What the fuck?”

I shrug. “You’ve been sitting far too close, Ben, and touching me all the time. It’s wrong when I’m with someone. If Jed behaved the same with an old friend, I wouldn’t like it.”

I’d more than not like it, but I won’t share that.

“An old friend? I was a lot more than that.”

I note the spoilt pout of his lips and the tightness around his eyes. He’s always been unpleasant when thwarted, and I used to run rings to avoid displeasing him. It seems silly to me now that I’ve been with a man who’s so different. Jed never manipulates me or plays games. He’s honest and forthright and always puts me first.

The revelation gives me even more courage. “No, I don’t think you were ever more than a friend, Ben. I know that now.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Nothing. I think I’m going to go. It’s been nice,” I lie, standing up.

“No, wait.” He tugs on my hand, keeping me in my seat. “Why are you so anxious to get back to him?”

“Because he’s my husband,” I say patiently.

He rolls his eyes and then leans closer. “Listen, I know.”

Anger stirs at his supercilious expression. “What do you know? How to irritate me? Well, you’re completely right with that assumption.”

“I don’t think I recognise you anymore.”

“Well, we all change. You and I are different people now.”

“Not that much. I still want you.”

I gape at him. I’d have been less stunned if he’d socked me in the face with a packet of fish.

His look is almost defiant. “Why are you looking at me like that? I do. I’ve missed you so much while I was away.” He leans in closer over the table.

I pull back. “Where has this come from?”

“Listen.” He takes my hand, but I only pull away again, making his mouth tighten. “I know about your marriage.”

Alarm seizes me, and I stare at him with wide eyes. “Pardon?”

“Guess who’s my mother’s housekeeper?” he asks, his tone triumphant.

“I can’t even begin to imagine,” I say wearily. He likes a fanfare more than the king. “Is it Taylor Swift?”

“It’s Violet.”

I look blankly at him.

He gestures impatiently. “Your stepmother’s old cleaner.”

“Oh.”

He nods, his eyes bright with enjoyment. “She told us all about the bequest.”

I take a steadying breath. “I think she needs to get her own solicitor. She might be in trouble regarding confidentiality.”

He ignores that. “You were always so determined to get that house, and I just know that Daisy’s sticky fingers are all over this.”

“All over what?” I say faintly.

“Your fake marriage, of course.”

“That’s a big leap in reasoning.” My heart hammers, but my voice is gratifyingly calm.

He sits back and sips his drink, insufferably smug. “It didn’t take much to guess. You haven’t been with anyone since me.”

“And you’d know that how?”

“Jamie knows Daisy.”

“Oh well, it must be true if your friend says so.”

He rolls his eyes. “And to make an arrangement with your boss of all people, Artie.”

Anger stirs in me so fast it makes me dizzy. “What about him?” I say fiercely.

He recoils. “Whoa. What’s that attitude for?”

“You don’t get to sneer at him,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Sorry, but the idea that the two of you are an item is ludicrous. He’s completely different from you.”

“And that’s where you’re wrong, which is hardly surprising, seeing as you hit right about once in a blue moon.” No one gets to talk badly about Jed in front of me.

“I beg your pardon?”

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. I have to protect Jed. If this gets out, he’d be a laughingstock, not to mention what we did could get him in trouble. I feel fiercely protective of him.

“He is my husband,” I say calmly, regarding Ben in a pitying way. “I don’t know where you’re getting your ideas from. Maybe you’ve watched too many soaps, but I can tell you that my marriage is as real as they come, and I’m very much in love with him. We were together way before Laura died.” I settle back, pulling the sleeves of my jumper down and steadying myself. “I’m going home.” The word comes out with a yearning ache, and Ben raises his eyebrows at me.

He’s probably seeing someone who doesn’t exist anymore. We met when we were at school together. I was the quiet one while he was popular and impossibly beautiful. I couldn’t believe it when he looked at me, and I never got rid of that faint sense of being unworthy of him.

I’m so bloody different from the boy I was, and I’m realising Jed is partially responsible for my transformation. He’s mentored me over the years, always patient, encouraging and giving praise I’d never had before. I’ve blossomed from his friendship, gaining the courage to try new things. Ironically, he gave me the very courage I needed to reach for him.

I was never really in love with Ben. Love is an emotion I feel for my husband, in all its ugly and glorious beauty. If I were sitting across from Jed after not seeing him for years, I’d be feeling a desperate passion and pain that I wasn’t with him.

My feelings for Ben had the clumsiness of a first relationship, and my time with him was always underlaid with the gratitude I felt towards his parents. Even though he might not have been fully conscious of it, Ben had all the power.

I smile at him, and after he considers me for a moment, his shoulders slump. “It is real,” he says. “You’ve really moved on?”

“Of course. You know I wouldn’t go into marriage without love.” I’m not lying, so the words ring true.

Ben sighs, giving me a resigned smile in return. Relief washes over me. He won’t challenge my marriage, and Jed will be safe from scrutiny.

I pat Ben’s shoulder. “You moved on before me. I just clung to the idea of you for a little longer. You were my comfort blanket.”

He grimaces. “Just what every man wants to hear. Thank you so much.”

I chuckle. “I’m not what you want, and you must see that.”

He takes my hand, his face as serious as I’ve ever seen it. “You’re very wrong, Artie. I want you back. That’s why I’m here.” He talks over me when I begin to protest. “You don’t believe me, and I know it’s too late, but I had time to think when I was away, and I realised that no one ever fit me like you did. You looked after me and cared for me. No one ever put me first like you.”

I remove my hand with difficulty from his octopus-like grip. “And that was the problem, Ben, because you didn’t do the same for me.” I smile at him. “You miss coming first? Well, maybe in your next relationship try putting the other person first, instead. Love is a two-way street, and you were strictly one-way for me.”

“And I suppose this attitude is all down to your new husband?”

I wink at him. “I know. Isn’t it wonderful?” I check my watch and stand up. “Well, I must be off.”

He sneers. “Got to go and put your husband to bed with a hot water bottle. Maybe make him a milky drink and lay out his flannel pyjamas?”

He’s been thwarted, so his charm has vanished the way it always does. It’s his mum’s fault. She’s lovely, but she always babied him and taught him that his needs were more important than anyone else’s.

I stare at him for a moment, not shy about my annoyance, and he looks slightly chastened. “Jed doesn’t wear pyjamas because it would be a crime to cover that body up, and I don’t need to warm the sheets for him. We burn them up together.” I tap his open mouth shut. “Be happy, Ben.”

I leave the bar. I know I won’t be seeing him again, and the thought makes me feel strangely free.

My phone rings after I start the walk home, and Daisy’s contact picture pops up. “Hey, you,” I say happily. “How are you?”

There’s an almost startled pause. “Why are you talking so loudly?”

“Was I?” I grin. “Maybe it’s because I just told Ben what I thought about him.”

“Ben, your ex?”

“That’s the one.”

“Oh my god, tell me what you said to that fucking tool and make it extremely detailed.”

She never liked him, and she laughs loudly as I relate the events of the evening. “That’s fucking epic, Artie. I’m so proud of you.” She pauses and her voice is thoughtful when she speaks again. “So, let me get this straight. You were being nice to him until he was rude about Jed?”

I blink. “Yes, I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”

“But why are you so bothered by him being nasty?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I really can’t see Jed ever being bothered by anything that arsewipe had to say.”

I hesitate. “Well, I know. But Jed is so lovely to me, and I feel a certain loyalty and—” I stop as she blows a raspberry. “Daisy?”

“Oh my god, you’re sleeping with him.”

I lick my lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure, Pinocchio. Save it for Geppetto. You’re sleeping with him.”

I sigh. I can never keep anything from her. “Okay, I am.”

She screeches. “I knew it.” There’s a brief silence. “Are you being careful?” she asks, her tone concerned.

My cheeks flush, probably as bright as Rudolf’s red nose. “Of course,” I mutter. “He takes care of everything.”

“That wasn’t what I meant, sweetie. I know how you feel about him.”

“Daisy, I’m fine,” I say firmly. “I have the chance to be with him the way I’ve always wanted, and so I’ll take it for the time we have. I never thought I’d get this opportunity, and it’s all good.”

“And you say he takes care of you?”

“Yes, of course. He looks after me. He’s more than I ever thought he would be.”

There’s another long pause. Then she says, her voice light and airy, “Well, that’s great. I’m so happy.”

“You are?”

“Of course. If he looks after you, I’m happy.”

“I’m not sure we’re talking about the same thing.”

“Oh, I think we are.”

“You are a mystery wrapped up in a ridiculous conundrum tonight. Let’s talk about you, instead. Seeing anyone new?”

“Yes.”

I narrow my eyes at the unusual brevity of that reply. “And? How long have you been seeing this one?”

“For a month.”

“Wow! That’s like a declaration of eternity with you. When do I get to meet her?”

“Maybe at a later date.”

“But I always meet your girlfriends.”

“Not yet. I want to keep this to myself for a while. Is that okay?”

“Of course it is,” I say after a moment of surprise. We both seem to be doing some growing up. “You know I’m always in your corner.”

“I do. And I’m so proud of you, Artie. I know how hard it is for you to speak your mind like that, especially to Ben.”

“Thank you.”

The energy buoys me all the way home. This speaking your mind is a marvellous thing. I give a little skip and make my way up the steps, fumbling for my keys.

The door opens before I can get them out of my pocket. Jed looks down at me. “Ben not with you?” he says, peering down the street. His voice is very tight, almost monotone.

I gape at him. “I thought you’d be in bed. We’ve got a really early start for the wedding in Cornwall tomorrow.”

He stands back to let me in. “As if I’d go to bed without knowing you’re…”

“What?”

“Home and safe,” he says reluctantly.

I keep glowing as I follow him down the corridor.

“You seem happy,” he observes.

“I am.” We pass the lounge and I notice something new. “Oh, you got the sofa out,” I exclaim.

The huge new sectional sofa was delivered yesterday, but we didn’t have time to do anything with it. Now it’s set in front of the fireplace, the cushions we chose arranged, and a newspaper open on it. Flames in the fireplace crackle and pop, filling the room with the scent of applewood and making the room look so cosy. My mum’s Tiffany lamp has pride of place on a side table, and it twinkles in the firelight.

“Yes,” he mutters. Rather than stopping to admire it with me, he stalks past me into the kitchen. I direct a bewildered look at his tight back, the muscles showing gorgeous definition.

“Are you okay?” I give the sofa a last fond look and trot after him into the kitchen. “You seem very tense. Ouf!” I rebound off his back because he’s stopped dead in the middle of the room.

“Do I? Do I really?” His eyes glitter, but his expression is unreadable. If it weren’t for the tic in his cheek, I wouldn’t know how tightly he’s holding on to control.

“What’s the matter?” I ask immediately, coming close. “What’s happened?”

“Where’s Ben?” he snaps.

“Ben?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Ben. The man who you went out with tonight. The love of your life, wasn’t he?”

Oh. Is he jealous? I examine his face, but it’s hard to tell. No man has ever been jealous over me before.

“He’s fine,” I say tentatively. “He’s back for good.”

“Really? How lovely.” He spins and picks up a towel to clean the counter, but as there’s only one length installed, and it’s covered with a kettle, a toaster, and a bread bin, it doesn’t take long.

I watch as he does it again. “Jed?”

He spins around. Any sign of emotion is now gone. “I needed to say that if you want to bring him back here, I can clear off and get a hotel for the night.”

This is so out of left field that I stand there gaping at him. “What are you talking about?”

He sucks in a breath and then visibly calms himself. “I said if you wanted to bring him back, I’d get out of your way.”

I put my hands on my hips, anger stirring. “And you’d be okay with that? What happened to our agreement that we wouldn’t see other people during this arrangement?”

He looks down at his hands. He’s clenching the tea towel so tightly his knuckles are white. He folds it neatly and sets it down. “That was before someone you really care about came back on the scene. I could never stand in the way of you being happy.”

The earnestness in his voice is so endearing that my anger drains away. “So, would you be okay if he came around here again to see me?” I ask, examining his face carefully.

His gaze shifts towards the window, but hiding won’t work, as his distraught face is reflected clearly in the glass. “Of course,” he says woodenly.

“And you’d be okay if he sleeps in my bed?”

His face spasms, and he closes his eyes.

I’m abruptly ashamed of myself. “Jed, I⁠—”

“No,” he snaps, spinning around, and now everything is naked on his face—jealousy and pain and something else. “No, it’s not okay.”

“Why?” I say steadily. His eyes flare, and he steps towards me. And when he takes another slow, purposeful step, I move back, slightly regretting pulling the tiger’s tail. Which is why it’s bemusing to find myself saying, “It doesn’t seem like you’re okay with me seeing Ben?”

“Don’t say his name,” Jed snaps.

I gasp as he drags me into his arms and takes my mouth. The kiss is furious and hard, but the passion behind it makes it the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced.

“I don’t want you to see him,” he says between kisses. He pulls at my clothes, fabric tearing and falling to the floor as he strips us naked. He stops to rummage in the pocket of his jeans for a packet of lube and a condom, and then he grabs my arse, hoisting me up and pressing me against the wall.

His effortless strength turns me on, and I stroke his bulging biceps and wind my legs around him.

“Don’t fuck him,” he says, kissing me between words. He shoves his tongue into my mouth and sucks on mine. “Please don’t fuck him.”

“I won’t,” I promise feverishly, holding him tight and pulling at his hair.

He gives a pained grunt. “I mean it. I couldn’t stand it. You’re mine while this is going on.”

I’m always his, but I can’t say it, so I kiss him back, rutting against him, feeling the pressure of his abs against my cock.

“He means nothing,” I promise, gasping as he presses rough kisses to my throat. “I told him I wouldn’t see him again.”

“Good.” He examines my face intently, both of us drawing in hoarse gasps of air. I wriggle against him, groaning as he grips my arse. “Come here,” I whisper, and he obeys.

Our kisses become deeper and more lush as we suck and lick each other’s lips. His hands sting as he clenches my arse, holding me as if he fears I’ll run away. That’s not going to happen, and I tell him so in heated whispers as I rub against him, delighting in his rough chest hair on my nipples. They’re swollen with the abrasion, and I cry out as he bends to take one in his mouth, sucking at it before biting it gently. The pain is sweet and bright, and my balls tighten as if I’m going to come. I stay still for a second, hearing my breaths come fast and hard.

“Oh god,” I whisper, twining my hands in his hair and clutching him close. “Do that again.”

My head falls back against the wall, and I stare sightlessly up at the ceiling as he bites and sucks on my nipple until it hurts—hurts and feels so good at the same time. And when he takes the other nipple between his fingers and pinches it hard, pleasure runs through my body like an electric shock.

I clutch him close and let everything go—all my worries and concern, the hopes and the love I feel for him—all lost in this passion between us.

When he pulls away, his mouth is swollen, and the colour is high on his face. Keeping his eyes locked on mine, he pinches my nipple again. Another sharp, vicious pinch, and his face is dark with want as he watches me squirm.

“You like that?” he says hoarsely.

“I love it,” I whisper.

His eyes flare. “No one else can do this for you.” I nod, and he hands me the lube packet. “Open it,” he orders, and I make haste to obey him. “Now get yourself ready.”

It’s awkward but he lifts me higher so that I can contort and reach for my hole. The first touch makes me screw my eyes closed. “God,” I whisper.

“Eyes open. I want to see,” he snaps.

My eyes fly open. Our gazes clash and hold as I insert my finger. I’m tight, and in the pain is a flare of dark pleasure.

“Keep looking,” he orders.

I hold his gaze as I open myself up with one and then two fingers while he watches me with hungry, avid eyes.

“Enough,” he finally says. “Give me your hands.”

I lift my arms, groaning as he grabs my fingers and sucks them. “They taste of you,” he says, and I squirm to get closer. “Arms around my neck. Hold on tight.”

I hasten to obey, bracing myself as he reaches between us and slides the condom on. The sight is so arousing that I fear I’ll come. But then he thrusts inside me, making me give a sharp cry.

He goes still, panting, his breath hot on the side of my face. “Okay?” he gasps. He kisses me, and I cling onto him, feeling the stretch and burn.

“It’s perfect,” I say fervently.

The sex is hot, fast, and furious. He hammers into me, grunting loudly with each thrust while I cling on like a limpet, wrapping my arms and legs around him and forcing myself down on his cock. In this position, he’s hitting my prostate almost constantly, and I shudder in his arms, gasping, my toes curling. Sweat clings to both of us making us gloriously sticky. His hot breaths strike my throat, and I suddenly need to see him. I grab his hair, and his face comes up. His lids are lowered sexily and sweat runs down his cheek. His lips are drawn tight, and his cheeks are ruddy.

“Jed,” I groan.

“Fuck,” he grunts, pushing into me again. “I just want to fucking live inside you.”

I curl my arms around his neck, dragging him closer and groaning as his hair-roughened body rubs against me, the wet tip of my cock painting stripes on his stomach.

“I’m close,” he says, burying his head in my neck and biting down on the tender junction at my shoulder. “Do you need my hand?”

The bite lights me up like a pinball machine, and I clench my arse. A loud groan escapes me as I come all over him. He follows me quickly with a long, drawn-out moan. I feel the warmth of his come.

“I wish you weren’t wearing a condom,” I gasp, shuddering as another wave goes through me. “I want to feel you come inside me.”

A deep shiver rocks his body, and his head comes up. We stare at each other. He looks dazed with pleasure, which makes me feel good.

“You’d want that?” he asks.

I clench around him in response.

He jerks like he’s been electrocuted. “Artie, have some pity, or I’m going to drop you on the floor.”

I frame his face in my hands. “I want to feel it running out of me.”

A wry look crosses his face. “And there’s the minx again.”

We both grunt as he slips out of me, and I wind my arms around him tight. “No, don’t go,” I whisper.

He kisses the side of my head. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers. “But it’s cold. Let me take care of you.”

“I don’t need that,” I say, looking into his eyes.

He arches one eyebrow. “Maybe I do.”

I consider that and then smile at him. “Go ahead, then,” I say magnanimously.

“Thank you so much.”

He strips off our remaining clothes and then despite my protests, he carries me up the stairs and sets me on the counter next to the newly installed bath in our en suite. The bath is enormous and easily able to take two men, and it’s set in the corner in front of a tall window looking out over the common.

“What are you doing?” I ask, kicking my legs idly.

“Running a bath.” He turns on the taps. “You’re freezing cold.”

“For both of us?”

He hesitates. I drag him closer, using my feet. When I wind my legs around him, he grunts and falls against me.

He trails his fingers down my thigh, his expression worried. “I was rough. I think you might be bruised.”

“I liked every single thing you did to me,” I tell him.

“I had no right to that caveman display. It was very petty.”

“It was actually glorious.”

He groans. “You’re supposed to be telling me off.”

I run my hands down the sides of his muscled torso, feeling the hair under my fingertips. “Why would I do that, when I loved it?” I reach in and lick up his neck, sucking on his earlobe and feeling him shudder. “I loved every single thing you did to me, and those bruises make it even hotter.”

He’s quiet, but I hope he’s listening, because I mean every word. He needs to realise that I’m not breakable.

I tug on a strand of his hair. It’s darker now, with only a few golden strands giving hints at the past summer. “Were you jealous?” I whisper, holding my breath.

He examines my face, his expression wry. “And would you like that, minx?”

I grin at him. “Maybe.”

“Really?” His lip twitches as he moves away to light the candles on the shelf. “Then maybe I was.” He narrows his eyes, and I’m pretty sure he’s about to lecture me, but then I shiver, and he shakes himself. “You’re cold.”

He checks the water and then helps me into the tub. I look at him steadily and gesture to the bath. “You, too.”

“You’re extraordinarily bossy, do you know that?” he says, but there’s a wry cast to his lips, and he slides in behind me. I rest back against him with a sigh of happiness.

We lie in contented silence for a few minutes, the room lit with the glow of the candles. It’s extraordinarily romantic, but I won’t enlighten him about the fact. He reaches forward and starts the jets, and we both sigh as they pummel us. His hands slide down my arms before he picks up one and examines my fingers. He lifts them to his mouth and kisses them with a courtly gesture that’s somehow so him. He manages to combine raunchiness with a gentleness that seems effortless and gets me every time.

Catching my expression, he rolls his eyes wryly and grabs the sponge. He pours the soap that I like onto it and runs it along my shoulders and arms, pausing occasionally to rinse me with hot water.

“Did you bathe with Mick?” I ask and put my hand on his thigh to stop him from moving away. “It’s a simple question,” I whisper. “I’d like to know something about him, Jed.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “For you. It doesn’t do you any good to keep him locked inside you. It’s not fair on him, either.” I hold my breath, and when he says nothing, I sigh. “I’m sorry,” I say immediately, feeling dreadful. “My experience of speaking my mind to Ben has obviously gone to my head. I have absolutely no right to lecture you on your own bloody grief.”

There are a few seconds of silence, and I wish I could see his face.

“You spoke your mind to Ben?” His voice sounds odd, but he holds me still when I try to turn.

“That is what you’re focusing on?”

I feel him shrug, his skin sliding wetly against mine. “Answer the question.”

“Yes, I told him that what we had was gone.”

His hand clenches on my leg. “So, he did come to get you back?”

“Violet is his mum’s cleaner.”

“And she told them about the clause.” He puts it together as quickly as I expected him to.

“You can relax. I told him we were already together when Laura died. He believed me.”

“And he was trying to get you back? I knew it.”

Why is he focusing on that, rather than possible legal ramifications? “It actually came as a surprise to me.”

“Of course it did. You don’t see yourself.”

“And how is that?” I ask breathlessly.

He’s silent for a second. “You’re brilliant. Clever and funny and sweet as sugar with a snarky bite to you that stops you from being too sweet.”

“That’s actually the nicest thing I’ve had said to me.”

“Well, that’s just disappointing. Men should’ve been falling over you.”

“I’m not sure I’d like that. It sounds painful and ultimately very irritating.”

There’s a second’s pause, and then he bursts into laughter and drags me against him, kissing the side of my face. “Never change.”

“Well, I did change towards Ben. I told him that he was selfish in our relationship.”

After a moment, he simply says, “Good,” and takes up the sponge again.

After a few minutes, he says, “Mick didn’t like baths.” I hold my breath, unwilling to distract him. “Said he couldn’t abide lying in your own filth. He liked showers.” He chuckles. “He used to love these shower steamers with essential oils. You throw them on the floor but unfortunately, they are by nature oily, and one day I stepped in after him and fell flat on my arse. I broke my collarbone.”

I snort. “I’m so sorry.”

“Save it. He laughed, too.”

“He sounds nice,” I say when his words seem to have dried up.

“He was.” He pauses. “He was also incredibly strong-willed. He’d been on his own for too long and was also very rich, so he was used to getting his own way.”

“I bet he was surprised with you.”

“Then you’d be wrong. I was very malleable with him.”

“You?” His mum’s words about their relationship suddenly come to mind.

“Yes, me. He was so much older and worldly, and he lived in a part of society I didn’t know and couldn’t get used to. His friends were the same.” He runs the soap over my arms, his voice distracted. “They thought I was just his latest—something different to excite him. They couldn’t believe it when he married me.”

“I completely understand why he did.” I can imagine a young Jed, and I bet he was gorgeous.

He kisses my shoulder. “Thank you. It was a good marriage. Not always easy and definitely not what I expected.” He taps my arm and says slowly and almost reluctantly, “Remember in the future to be honest about what you want from the bloke you end up with, or you’ll have problems when the shine wears off.”

I wonder how he can say that to me at this moment. I hate imagining him with other men. He falls silent, and I can feel his body tense behind me. Is he thinking of another bloke with me?

I sag a little. He’s probably just thinking of Mick.

“Did you do that?” I ask tentatively. “Were you honest about what you needed?”

“No, I didn’t, and we were incompatible in a lot of ways.” He stops talking, and I’m just thinking the conversation is over when he speaks again. “He wanted to bring men into our bed.”

“Really?” I blurt loudly. I’m surprised. Jed has never struck me as the kind of man to share. He seems very possessive, but who am I to judge those things about him? He’s a stranger to me in many ways.

“The first time he invited someone, I was hurt. And that’s why I’m telling you to make yourself clear in a relationship.” He pauses and his next words are passionate. “I would hate to see you unhappy.”

Would seeing me in a relationship upset him? A short while ago, I’d have said no, but my opinions have been changing over the past weeks. I caress his hip soothingly, feeling him slowly relax under my touch.

“I’ll be clear about what I want,” I finally say. Of course, what I want is him, but it’s not the time to tell him that.

“Good. Because that way lies trouble. There’s nothing wrong with an open relationship. Lots of people do it, but it has to suit all the partners. He said he wanted to introduce new men because he didn’t want me to get bored with him.” He pauses and then says softly, “It took me a long while to realise that he was actually talking about himself getting bored.”

I twist to face him, touched by the doubt I hear in his voice. I want to reassure him and make his world right again. “I can’t imagine anyone ever getting bored with you,” I say honestly.

A smile crosses his lips. He boops me on the nose. “It’s very early days. You don’t know me.”

I’ve just had the same thought myself, but I do know a lot about him. I know that he takes responsibility for everyone and doesn’t seem to know how to turn that off. I know he’s kind, funny, and a bit geeky when it comes to music. I know he can more than physically stand up for himself, but he doesn’t like to use his strength and the power of his body in that way.

Fortunately, I don’t have to debate saying all this for long, because he stands up and grabs a towel to swaddle me in.

“Bed,” he says.

Our conversation is over, but I’m still happy we had it. He’s opened up to me and he doesn’t do that with many people. Surely that has to mean something?

“To sleep?”

He winks. “Probably not.”

“Oh good,” I breathe.

He laughs as he follows me into the bedroom. I know I’ll be thinking about all this later when he’s asleep, but hope is already a swelling pressure in my heart.

twelve

. . .

jed

I’m stringing white bistro lights along the roof of the cavernous barn, and as I reach out to hook the last strand, I feel the ladder wobble.

“Be careful,” Artie hisses.

I look down at where he has a death grip on my ladder. “It’ll be fine.”

“You’re being rather cavalier with your safety.”

“I’m safeguarding the future well-being of my eardrums. Our bride will be hysterical if her fantasy farm wedding isn’t perfect.”

He grimaces. “Oh my god, please don’t do air quotes when you’re ten feet up a ladder.”

“I can’t help it. That sentence deserves as many air quotes as possible.” I step down the ladder.

Artie says, “She is rather more attached to a bucolic fantasy than the reality of a farm and the animals.”

I too was bemused when the bride, who’d screeched like she’d seen Armageddon on the horizon when she got a mark on her skirt, announced she wanted to get married on a farm where there is rather a lot of animal shit lying around. Then I discovered the attraction wasn’t the sheep, but the supermodel who owns the farm.

Sighing, Artie adds, “Grant is still out there scooping up the sheep poo.”

“Good,” I say with relish.

He shakes his head. “That’s your nephew.”

“This will get him back for the evening when he threw up in my lap while I was babysitting him.”

“One more shovelful, and he might recreate that night.”

I start to laugh, and his fond look makes my belly warm.

“I love it when you laugh,” he says.

I reach out to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. The brown waves are getting long now, and I love it. I particularly love grabbing it when I’m fucking him and making his back arch until he comes, untouched.

A faint flush shades his sharp cheekbones, and I’m hit with my usual wave of lust for him. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times we have sex—and we have a lot—but I’ll start to feel desperate if I’m not inside him. He’s only had one partner, but he’s the sexiest man I’ve ever been with—intense, passionate, and eager to try everything.

But what catches me the most is the tender way he treats me, as if I’m somehow special. I feel it in every touch he bestows on me. Last night, we’d lain in bed, and I’d rested my head on his chest. I’d fallen asleep to the feel of his fingers gently stroking my hair. I know I’ll want to both cling to and push away that memory. I don’t want to address what it might mean.

I also don’t want to address how I’d felt last night when he was out with Ben. The man has got to be an idiot. Who in their right mind would leave Artie after having the pleasure of being with him?

I swallow hard. I’ll be the one who’s out of my mind in a few weeks. The end of our arrangement is nearing, and it’s becoming harder to push away the panic whenever I try to envisage a world where I don’t have him. All his smiles and the light he brings to my life will be gone, and I’ll be alone again.

But of course, I can’t be with him. I’d barely survived losing Mick, but I know that if I had a real relationship with Artie, but then lost him, it would be a thousand times⁠—

I stop that disloyal thought in its tracks. Artie’s watching me anxiously, so I bend and kiss him. I’d only meant it to be an affectionate peck on the lips, but as usual, one touch of those bee-stung lips, and I’m lost, grabbing his arse and bringing him close so I can grind against him.

He moans gratifyingly loudly, but we quickly break apart when a cough sounds from behind us.

I spin around and find a man grinning at us. He’s quite possibly one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen, with a slim, tall body and long, chocolate-brown hair that frames a sharp face. He looks as out of place here as an orchid in a vegetable patch.

His grin is wicked and seductive and… does absolutely nothing for me.

Hmm. I don’t want to know what that means.

“Are you the happy couple?” he says brightly. Then he blinks. “No, you can’t be. One half of the partnership is a lady called Claire who is rather demanding.”

I grimace. “Rather? That’s a bit of an understatement.”

He throws his head back, laughing, and there’s something unconsciously studied about him. I realise this must be Claire’s mystical supermodel.

“You must be Mal Booth,” I say.

He takes my hand and shakes it. His eyes are very wicked. “Must I? I suppose there’s only me that could possibly be that.”

I put my arm over Artie’s shoulders and draw him forward. “My husband, Artie.”

I can feel Artie’s startled pleasure at the title.

Mal’s eyes sharpen. “Goodness, you are pretty, Artie.” I can’t help my instant frown, but Mal catches my gaze and rolls his eyes. “Oh, not for me. I meant for potential modelling. He’s pretty enough for that, and he has beautiful bone structure.” He winks at me. “I’ve got a farmer in my bed who keeps me very busy. You know the saying, ‘Once you’ve gone Cornish, you never go back to Dawlish’.”

I blink. “I don’t think that is the saying.”

“Really? What a silly flibbertigibbet I am. Well, it should be the saying.”

He looks around, taking in the barn, which looks beautiful in the autumn sunshine. A temporary wooden floor is down, and tables are covered in immaculate white linen. The flower arrangements add a delicate fragrance to the air and the glassware gleams. The numerous hay bales festooned with fairy lights aren’t to my taste, but each to their own.

“Goodness, the barn does look nice. It’s actually tidier than our house. Maybe Cadan and I should move in here after the wedding and let the sheep have our room.”

“Well, I’ve moved the fucking sheep.” A Cornish-accented voice sounds irately from the doorway. An equally stunning man appears—tall and broad-shouldered, with brown-blond shaggy hair. “They’re now in a field that’s so far away from the farm they might as well be part of our neighbour’s stock.”

“I do hope not,” Mal says. “Jowan will never let them wear leg warmers.”

“And neither should we.” A grin lights up his face, and he strides towards Mal. “You’re home,” he says, giving him a kiss that lasts a very long time.

I waggle my eyebrows at Artie, who snorts. The sound breaks the couple apart.

I smile at the man and introduce myself and Artie. Then I say, “You must be the famous Cadan I’ve heard so much about this morning.”

Mal grins. “Oh dear. That never presages good things.” He considers that. “Apart from the time he found me at a party and shagged me in a cupboard.”

Cadan shakes his head and reaches out to shake my hand. “Sorry, I wasn’t here to greet you. I was moving all our livestock to Timbuktu.”

I grimace. “Yes, I feel like I should be saying sorry.”

“I’d say if you started, you’d never finish. The bride is rather intense. She’s already collared me three times and asked more prying questions than my mother did when I was twelve and started locking my bedroom door.”

Mal stirs. “Have you really moved all the sheep? Even Robbie, Gary, Mark, Harold, and Jason?”

Cadan rolls his eyes. “Yes, because they are actually part of my flock.”

“Makes you sound like Jesus,” Mal says fondly.

I stare at them. “You named your sheep after Take That?”

“Pre-split,” Mal offers. “They’re very close.”

“Not that close,” Cadan mutters. “Gary kicked Robbie in the head this morning.”

Mal sighs. “Oh dear, life imitating art.”

Artie laughs.

“It’s very warm in here,” Cadan says, looking around.

I grimace. “That’ll be the heaters. They’re everywhere. Global warming hasn’t ever occurred to these people. She’s done more to melt the icebergs than if she’d stood over them with a hairdryer.”

“We do need the heaters, though,” Artie murmurs, ever kind. “It’s cold out there.”

A hysterical screech makes us all jump. Claire, the bride, is standing in the doorway. “Oh my god, Jed and Artie. We have to do something about the cows.”

I make a mental note to cancel my ear-syringing appointment. It’s not necessary anymore. I observe Claire, who’s dressed in a thin silk gown. Her head is full of rollers and she’s wearing a green face pack, so she looks rather like a hysterical alien who’s landed on Earth to bother humans with her unreasonable demands.

“Do what with the cows?” Cadan asks warily. He turns to Mal and whispers, “I’m telling you now, this wedding business is the worst idea you’ve had since you decided to deliver meals to tourists’ doorsteps.”

“That could have worked if we’d given it a chance.”

“Only if either of us could cook.”

Artie steps towards the alien bride. “Oh dear, Claire,” he says gently. “Whatever is the problem?”

She immediately calms—such is Artie’s effect on overwrought wedding people. We call him the wedding whisperer and send him into the trenches whenever there’s a problem. It was one of the reasons I started having him do weddings with me. Then, I quickly got used to having him there. I look at him affectionately as he calms Claire.

“It’s the cows,” she’s hissing at him. “They’re not right.”

I scratch my head. “Not right for what?”

She paces, ignoring Cadan and Mal, her whole being intent on importing more news of doom. “They’re too loud.”

“Am I going to have to ball gag the cows?” Cadan says, sotto voce.

“I have never found you more attractive,” Mal says seriously.

Cadan laughs, his whole face lighting up.

“I can’t have cows at my fantasy farm wedding,” Claire continues. “It completely spoils the vibe I’m looking for.”

“Is that IKEA does farming?” Cadan mutters.

Mal stirs. “What would you like? Dragons? They’d be more problematic than cows with all that fire blowing, although you probably wouldn’t have needed the five thousand patio heaters.”

She looks over at Mal and straightens as if she’s been tasered. “Oh,” she says, patting her rollers. “Mal Booth.”

“That’s me. Famous and fabulous.”

She laughs a little too loudly. “Oh, I’d know you anywhere. My fiancé bought me a cardboard cut-out of your Calvin Klein advert. I keep it in my bathroom.”

Mal looks interested. “They have cardboard cut-outs of me?” He winks at Cadan. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Cadan’s mouth twitches. “Nothing surprises me about you anymore.”

“Maybe I should leave a cut-out behind to keep you company whenever I go away. You could have one in every room.”

“Yes, because that wouldn’t be creepy at all. If they follow in the footsteps of their human counterpart, they’ll probably set fire to something to cause maximum catastrophe.”

Claire smiles at Mal. “I booked my wedding here when I saw the spread on the farm in Marie Claire.”

Mal comes forward, a charming smile crossing his face. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you. You’re my first bride.”

“Maybe a little less Bluebeard,” Cadan mutters.

Claire ignores him, her smile glowing.

Francis the best man steps into the barn and approaches us. He’s very good-looking, but I think his arrogance spoils his looks. Claire greets him breathlessly. “Francis,” she says as if George Clooney has come down from on high to mingle with the livestock, and walks towards him to be swept into a hug that lasts a little too long.

Artie watches the two of them, his face creased with concern. He catches my eye and moves next to me.

“I want it on record that I expressed concern about this situation at least three weeks ago,” I whisper.

“I smell disaster.”

“In all honesty, that might be the cows.”

He chuckles, and I must agree with Mal about Artie’s prettiness. But Artie’s utterly real to me—not a model or a cut-out—and his smile makes my heart clench.

His smile fades as he watches Claire and Francis. He whispers, “Is it wrong to be concerned about getting her married and off our hands?”

I draw him close, my hand on his back. We’ll be going back to our hotel room to change into our suits later, but now he’s wearing an old grey jumper and jeans that are faded white in places and cling to his long legs and small, round arse.

“Not at all,” I say quietly. “Our job is the wedding. The cock-up of their lives is completely down to them.”

His smile is wide. “Oh, I do love—” Everything goes dark and silent in my head. I take a sharp breath and come back online just in time to hear him say, “—the way you make things so much better.” He frowns. “Are you okay? You’ve gone a bit pale.”

“Yes,” I say in a too-high voice. He didn’t say what I thought he was going to. Am I sad or happy about that? “Absolutely fine.”

“Are you sure?”

His concern is a constant. He might be quiet and doesn’t push himself forward in company, but he’s incredibly fierce on behalf of those he cares for. He’s also gently intractable, which amuses me and turns me on. To see his square chin lift and a stubborn look come into his eyes is very invigorating, and I provoke it far more than I should just to see it.

I hear Mal clear his throat and glance over at him. “And this must be the groom,” he says to Francis. “Well, you look perfect together. I can always tell. Everyone says I’m very psychically gifted when it comes to relationships.”

“Literally, no one has ever said that,” Cadan mutters to me.

Francis blanches. “Oh no, my friend is marrying her. I’m just the best man.”

Claire gives a nervous laugh. “Exactly. Just the best man.” Mal blinks, and she turns back to me. I resist the urge to cower in a corner. “Can we do something about the cows, Jed? I can’t have all that mooing when I’m exchanging my vows.”

I notice she doesn’t mention her husband-to-be. This has been a common feature of the arrangements so far. He seems like an accessory to the whole ceremony rather than one of the stars.

“That’s sad,” Artie says.

I narrow my eyes. What’s he up to?

“What do you mean?” Claire says, echoing my thoughts, which immediately makes me want to bleach my brain.

“Well, farm animals are just so trendy at the moment.”

“Are they?” she says doubtfully.

“Really?” Cadan says, and Mal nudges him.

“They’re very smelly,” Claire offers.

Artie nods. “Yes, but they echo the bucolic splendour of the pre-French revolution era, and you know how popular that is now.”

I look at him with respect. Artie Walker, you are a fucking genius.

Claire turns to me in question. “He’s right,” I say solemnly. “I’m just amazed we haven’t installed a guillotine yet.”

She looks confused. “Did Marie Antoinette have a lot of farm weddings, then? I thought she invented the nuclear bomb.”

I blink. “You might be thinking of Marie Curie, who discovered radium.”

Artie heroically soldiers on. “Oh yes. Marie Antoinette had a small farm, the Petit Trianon, where she pretended to be a shepherdess.”

“Really?”

“Not that you’d want to go that far,” I add quickly.

She looks thoughtful, which makes me instantly nervous. “Would the sheep not like that?”

“They don’t take directions from random birds in long white dresses,” Cadan mutters, and then winces as Mal elbows him.

Claire stares at Artie as if he holds all the universe’s secrets. I can’t blame her. I often find myself doing the same. “You really think it’ll be okay?”

“Definitely,” he says. “Marie Antoinette is still a trendsetter.”

“And rarely gets a headache,” I offer. Artie bites his lips, his eyes twinkling.

“Well, okay then.” Claire begins to turn away.

Then, with his predictable lousy timing, my nephew appears in the doorway wielding a shovel. He’s wearing a suit and huge wellies. “What am I supposed to do with this shit?” he says, waving the shovel. His voice is edged by hysteria. “The bin you showed me is completely full now. They just keep shitting.” He shakes the shovel to emphasise his point.

As if in slow motion, a tiny bit flies off and spirals lazily through the air until, with the certainty of wedding drama, it lands on the blushing bride.

Her shriek is so loud it startles some birds in a nearby tree. Then she’s in motion, sprinting out of the barn with Francis in hot pursuit. My nephew blinks and then wanders off, having done his worst.

“This is what would happen if Satan was a wedding planner,” I say grimly.

Artie follows in a rush. “Claire, it’s okay,” he calls. “It’ll wash off, and you know it’s actually good luck.”

His voice fades into the distance, and we all stand still for a second. Then Mal stirs. “I’ll take your card if I can, Jed.”

I blink. “For the wedding or psychiatric services?”

He tuts. “The wedding, of course.” He strikes an elegant pose. “When I started out as a young model with cheekbones to die for and a face that made grown men weep⁠—”

“I’m sure I’ve shed a tear or two myself,” Cadan mutters.

“I said to myself,” Mal continues. “Malachi Booth, you should ignore Dior and Zegna, what you really want is a wedding planner with beautiful eyes and superior forearms.”

“Are you booking a wedding planner or flirting?” Cadan asks wryly.

Mal pouts. “Can’t I do both?”

He smiles affectionately at him. “Always.”

“Will you be wanting to get married on a farm too?” I ask.

“Maybe, but we do make vodka on this one, and my husband always shovels his own shit.”

“A glowing recommendation,” Cadan says sweetly. “I may need to add that to my CV.”

“Then count me in,” I say, handing him a card from my holder. “I must go and rescue my husband.”

“You go very well together,” Mal says. I look at him, and he raises his eyebrows. “I can always tell.”

“Yes, that’s been very ably demonstrated,” I say, and Cadan snorts.

There’s the sound of running footsteps, and I look up as my nephew appears again.

“What now?” I groan. “Do you want to smear more faecal matter over the bride, or has an asteroid landed on the groom?”

“That’s not a common occurrence in Cornwall, but I’m holding out hope,” Mal muses.

Grant grimaces. “It’s worse than that, Jed.”

“Worse than the groom being flattened? What is it?”

“Does anyone own a black-and-white cow?”

Mal brightens. “Oh, that’s Coco Chanel. I raised her, you know. I’ve taught her everything she knows.”

“Words to strike fear in the hearts of man,” Cadan offers.

“She even opens doors. She’s very clever.”

Grant brightens. “That’s so cute. She should have her own Instagram account.”

“Well, now that you mention it, I⁠—”

“Grant,” I interrupt wearily. “What about the black-and-white cow?”

“Oh, it’s in the kitchen eating the wedding cake.”

I stir in my uncomfortable seat in the hospital waiting room. “I don’t think this has ever happened to me before,” I muse.

Artie leans into my side, and I sling my arm over his shoulder, enjoying how he immediately nestles close. “Really? I would have thought you’d have seen most things after the years you’ve been in the industry.”

“I’ve had my share of disasters, and before this, I’d have said the worst was the pirate wedding when the rum ran out and the sea got rough.” He starts to laugh, and I grin at him. “But this is the first time I’ve had a bride say the best man’s name at the altar rather than the groom’s.”

Artie purses his lips in thought. “Does that mean Claire’s legally married to Francis now?”

“Since we now know they’ve been sleeping together for two years, that might have been a better outcome.”

“Too bad about the outcome for the father of the groom.”

We both look towards the door where they’d steered the aforementioned father for an X-ray of his injured hand. We’d driven him here while his wife stayed behind to oversee the end of the party.

“I think it’s broken,” I say gloomily. “But at least he signed all the cheques before he punched Francis.”

Artie grimaces. “Well, look on the bright side. When Francis fell on top of the cake, it covered up the damage Coco Chanel had done.”

“I’m quite relieved about that,” I confide. “I wasn’t comfortable about anyone eating it after the cow had a nibble. I was going to hide it when the guests were all too half-cut to remember they even had a cake.”

“At least that’s been taken care of by now. Mal was opening bottles of their farm vodka and booking tours by the time we left.”

“That man,” I say admiringly.

“I liked him and Cadan,” he offers. “They were good fun, and Mal was very interesting.”

“Please don’t let him mentor you. You’ll have taken over the world by lunchtime.” I eye him. “Interested in the modelling offer? I saw him slip you his card.” I hold my breath, but release it in a rush when he immediately shakes his head.

“Not in a million years.”

“He’s right, though.” I examine his fine-drawn features in the bright hospital lights. This close, I can see the spray of freckles on his nose. The sight always makes me want to kiss them one by one. “You are beautiful.”

He flushes, and the pleasure in his eyes makes me want to beat my chest in satisfaction.

He shifts position, distracting me, and I note how his eyes are drawn tight.

“Is your back hurting, sweetheart?” I ask.

He directs a startled gaze at me, and I bite my lip. Endearments keep falling out of me lately. They join my brains that appear to be dribbling away at the same rate. “Just a bit,” he finally says in a low voice. “It’s been a long day.”

It has. We left home in the early hours and were at the farm for seven o’clock this morning, organising the florist and checking the arrangements, and we’ve barely stopped all day. I can feel the tiredness tug at my own bones, and they’re older than his.

“I’ll say.” I nudge him. “It’s nice that they had such a beautiful setting for the complete annihilation of their relationship, though.”

Ever soft-hearted, his brow furrows. “Do you think they’ll be okay? The groom must be brokenhearted.”

“They’ll be fine. Maybe not together, though. As we left for the hospital, I saw him disappear into the shrubbery with the head bridesmaid.”

“Ouf, that’s not good.”

“I don’t think he was brokenhearted. His pride was damaged, and she’s probably done him a favour. No one likes to be second best in someone’s heart.”

“No. It’s not nice.”

His face is distracted, his attention a mile away, and I swallow, worry seizing me. This has happened a few times lately, and it’s like the sun going in, leaving me in a cold, shady place that I’m starting to realise was my life after Mick’s death. Since I’ve been with Artie, my life has been full of laughter and warmth, and I don’t want it to go away.

I suddenly wonder with a sinking feeling if he’s talking about feeling second best to Mick. I open my mouth to tell him that could never happen and that no one has ever had my attention like this. But then he stirs and winces again, and I shelve my thoughts. “Turn around.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to solve your little problem.”

“Here?” He directs a scandalised look at me that makes me smile.

“I’m going to massage your shoulders. Not whatever your dirty mind just conjured up, Arthur Walker. I’m actually scandalised.”

He flushes and then laughs, his eyes bright. “It would take more than that to scandalise you. And it’s your fault that my mind went to what we’ve done lately. It’s a comprehensive list.”

“Don’t rest on your laurels. I have loads more to add.”

“Good god, I’ll be dead of sexual satisfaction before I’m much older.”

I bite my lip to hold a smile in and reach down to rub at his shoulders. He gives a soft groan that goes straight to my cock. I look around, but we’re the only ones here, so I carry on until the tension has eased from his muscles. I move on to rub at the base of his back.

“God, that’s so good,” he slurs, and I lick my lips, my attention focused on the vulnerable nape of his neck. When I’m inside him, I like to lick and suck there, and I can see a faint bruise by his ear where I sucked a mark last night. The sight hardens me all the way, and I reluctantly pull back.

He turns his head and pouts adorably. “Why have you stopped?”

“Because I didn’t want to top off our peach of a day by getting arrested for lewd activities in an NHS waiting room.”

“Is that on your list?”

I chuckle. “You should be prepared.”

“Lucky I was a boy scout.”

“I bet you were adorable,” I say affectionately. “Was your uniform the neatest of anyone?”

“Yes, and I was very popular with the scout leader because I liked the cleaning up afterwards.”

I laugh, lean in, and whisper into his ear, “However, when we drop the groom’s father at the hotel, all bets are off. You’re all mine, and I warn you I’m going to take my time, and you definitely will need to clean up afterwards.”

His shudder moves his whole body this time, and I bite my lip, arousal racing through my body like a tsunami.

thirteen

. . .

artie

I let myself into the hotel suite, looking around appreciatively. The hotel is very exclusive and perched on the edge of Bodmin Moor. The suite that Jed booked is enormous, with a seating area of comfy sofas, a bed you could get lost in, and a terrace overlooking the moor. The French windows have been left open, and I wander out, hoping to find Jed, but the flagstone terrace is empty, and the stars momentarily catch my attention. I’ve never seen so many. They’re spread across the sky like a sparkly blanket and look close enough to touch.

In the distance, a horse whinnies, and I shiver as the cold wind blows my hair back. I edge nearer to the patio heater and lean on the cast iron railings, feeling the strain of the day slowly slide away. The wedding from hell is finally done, and the thought that I now have Jed all to myself makes me glow inside.

I wander back inside after a few minutes. “Where are you?” I call. His suit is lying across the chair, and his shoes have been kicked off to the side. I brighten even more because the likelihood that he’s naked is high.

“In here.” I follow the sound of his voice into the bathroom. It’s very luxurious, with a huge sunken tub and not one but two showers. But it’s empty. Then I spy a door on the other side of the room, I walk across and fling it open. What I find has all the blood draining from my head to pool in my groin.

It’s a small sauna, and the scent of warm wood is pleasant, but my attention is all on Jed. He’s completely naked and stretched across the long wooden bench. Sweat glistens on his body, and his wet hair has been shoved back from his handsome face. His hand is between his legs, sliding along his hard cock. He opens his eyes, which look like silver in the low light.

“There you are,” he says lazily. He looks me up and down, and I swallow hard as he arches into his hand, the head of his cock very red. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I—” I stop to clear my throat. “I think I might be overdressed.”

“I’d say that’s a certainty.” He smiles at me, and it’s pure sin. “Get your clothes off and come in here.”

I nod, going to take a step back into the bathroom, but pause when he shakes his head. “No. I want to watch.” I swallow hard, and he smiles. “Do it slow.”

In the past, whenever I’d felt awkward, I’d run away. But that was pre-Jed. Now, I know the pleasure of removing an article of clothing at a time, enjoying the way his eyes flare with arousal. When I’m naked, I stay still, patiently waiting because I know the reward will be an aroused Jed who would never leave me unsatisfied.

He motions for me to turn around. I obey, waiting for the catch of his breath when he sees my bottom. Ah. There it is. He has an obsession with my bum and can spend ages sucking and licking it until I’m crazy with lust.

“Hands on the wall and bend in front of me,” he orders.

I hasten to do as he says, inhaling the scent of warm wood and feeling the sweat dampen under my arms and drip down my body. He reaches out one long leg and kicks the door open a little, and I sigh in pleasure as a stream of cooler air immediately hits me. I shoot him a grateful glance, and he winks at me. He’s so domineering in bed, but underneath, there’s always this care for me, which is why I feel so safe with him. I can let him take charge, knowing he won’t hurt me. Physically, at least.

My breath catches when his big hands land on my cheeks, spreading them. My head falls back, and I moan loudly as his beard tickles the sensitive skin and then his tongue flirts over my hole. I’d never had anyone do this to me before Jed, but I have to say it’s now one of my favourite things.

He licks and sucks, occasionally pulling back to blow over the entrance or press a stinging kiss to the lower curve of my buttocks. I drop one of my hands to my cock, and he lifts his head. “Hands on the wall, Artie.”

I do as he says and then groan as he goes back to licking. He pushes his hand between my thighs, cupping my balls before gripping my cock and stroking me. I grit my teeth and shove into that tight, warm hold, a sudden tingle in my balls making me catch my breath. Before I come, his hands and mouth leave me.

I wait, holding my breath and shifting position where my leg has gone numb. There’s the pop of a cap in the quiet room, and then I groan as I feel his fingers massage my hole. I’ve learnt that it’s the key to fantastic sex, and so I lean forward and spread my legs a bit more, giving my bottom a wiggle just to hear his husky laugh.

He obliges, and I gasp as he suddenly spanks my bum. It’s only a playful slap, but the thrill that runs through me is surprising, and I can’t help my groan of pleasure. Jed stills and then I feel him drop a kiss on the small of my back. “A thought for another time,” he murmurs. He kisses that spot again. It’s one of his favourite places on my body, and I think if I ever had a tattoo, I’d put it there on the Jed spot.

I press my fingers more firmly into the wood panels, getting my balance as he fingers me slowly, adding another digit, scissoring, and occasionally tapping my prostate. Each tap shoots electricity through me, making my toes curl on the tiled floor.

By the time he’s satisfied that I’m ready, my body is covered in sweat, my hair is wet, and we’re both breathing loudly.

He pulls his fingers out, and I moan at the sensation. When I look back, I have to quickly count from five to stop myself from coming. He’s sitting with his legs spread and his hand working his cock. It’s huge, the head angry-looking and wet with precome. Even as I watch, he licks his lips and then lifts his cock in my direction.

“Go and get a condom from my bag, and then I want you to sit on this.”

I blink. We’ve never done that before. Whenever we’ve made lo… er, fucked, he’s been on top, taking the control and the lead in the way I needed him to.

I bite my lip, worry stirring. “What if I do it wrong?”

There is no one else on this earth I would ever admit that fear to, but I don’t even hesitate when it’s Jed. Even so, I hate how I must appear so young and inexperienced next to the men he’s previously had in his bed.

His eyes soften. “There is no right or wrong in sex, baby. I want you to do whatever makes you feel good, and I absolutely guarantee that it’ll make me feel even better.”

“You promise?”

“I swear,” he says seriously.

Nodding, I swing around, but then a sudden thought occurs to me. “Erm, Jed⁠—”

“What is it?” he asks, concern rising.

“What about what we said yesterday?”

“The condom?” he says, as usual, understanding me immediately.

I nod and heat flares in his eyes, making them gleam. I watch open-mouthed as he clenches the base of his cock. My question turned him on enough to make him come. It’s a thrilling thought, but his tone is very serious when he says, “It’s a big decision, Artie. Maybe you shouldn’t make it during sex. It needs thinking about.”

I put my hands on my hips and watch him steadily. “I don’t make any decisions on the hop. You do know me, don’t you?”

His lip twitches. “I certainly do. Outside and deliciously inside.”

I drift closer. “Then I know my own mind. What about you?”

I gasp as he reaches out and grabs my hips, pulling me into his lap and kissing me. It’s a deep, wet kiss full of tongues and sighs, and when he pulls away, I sway. Ever concerned, he shoves the door open a little more with his foot. A welcome breeze drifts in, but he needn’t have bothered. It was the kiss and him that made me dizzy. Not a sauna.

I wiggle in his lap, rubbing my cock against his stomach and feeling him shove hard and wet against my bottom. I reach back and spread my cheeks invitingly, and he gives an approving groan when his cock pushes up into my channel. The head catches on the rim, and I push back, feeling it pop in. Before I can move further, he grabs my hips, staying me.

“Turn around.”

I blink. “Away from you?”

He nods, dropping a kiss on my nose. “I want to look at that beautiful little arse stuffed full of my cock, and when I come, I want to watch it slide out of your hole.”

Another shudder rolls through my body. “You’ll make me come now if you’re not careful.”

He slaps my bum again, two swift, hard slaps, and then rubs the skin as I grind against him, frantically mouthing his neck and panting into the skin.

“Again,” I whisper and then cry out when he does as I ask. I never thought anything like this would appeal to me, but the sting of pain and then the glowing warmth as he rubs my bottom turns me inside out, and I thrust faster, the hair on his stomach rubbing my cock in a way that makes me squeeze my eyes shut.

I groan when he lifts me off his lap and pushes me to my feet. He keeps a firm hand on my wrist to steady me and then grabs my hips and spins me around.

“Get on my cock,” he demands. The dirty words uttered in his familiar voice are so hot. “Hands on the wall and get your balance.” I do as he says, feeling him part my cheeks. He pets my hole, rubbing the lube in. “Yes, you’re ready. This greedy little hole is open wide.”

I feel him tap his cock against my hole, and I don’t need him to tell me what to do. As his hands help me balance, I lower down, taking him in slow and steady.

The breach pinches because he’s big, but I quickly forget the slight pain. In fact, I’m coming to love it, and before I know it, I’m sitting in his lap with his cock fully inside me. I lean back and cry out. “Oh god.”

“Are you okay?” His voice is strained, and when I clench my bum, he cries out, too, his hands like claws on me. “Artie?”

“I’m fine,” I whisper dreamily. “You’re just so high inside me like this.”

“Do you like it?”

I twist, searching for his mouth, and kiss him. “I love it.”

His grin is almost a grimace. His hair and body are soaking wet with sweat, and his eyes are feral. “Then move. Use me.”

I wiggle a little, clenching my eyes shut as it rubs his penis against my prostate. Then I lean forward, rest my hands against the wall, and rock on him. I don’t bounce up and down like in a porn clip he showed me the other week. We’d watched it lying naked in bed and fucked while it played. At the time, I’d thought it looked so good to ram up and down, but now I know it feels better to shove against him, keeping him inside and rubbing against the spot that makes me whine. The root of his cock stretches my hole like this, and the pleasure is sublime.

I writhe and twist, sweat dripping into my eyes and stinging. But I can’t stop.

“That’s it,” Jed gasps. “Fuck yourself on me. Make yourself come, sweetheart.”

I sit back. “I need you all around me,” I mutter.

He gives a groan of agreement, his hands instantly all over me—one hand over my chest holding me tight and tweaking my nipples, while the other rubs at the root of my cock.

I grind down on him, and he gasps, clutching my hip. Then he grabs my cock. It’s wet with my sweat, and the lube on his hand makes the slide so good I’m done for.

“Coming,” I gasp, forcing myself down on him.

He cups my balls, and I start to come, white cream shooting out and coating his hand. I let go with moans and gasps and when I come back to awareness, he’s still hard inside me, his entire attention on making sure I’m fully pleasured. I squeeze my buttocks, and he groans, arching up into me.

“Can I stay inside?” he whispers.

“I’d kill you if you tried to leave.” I sit back in his lap, raising my arms and twining them around his neck. It brings his cheek next to me, and he buries his face in my shoulder, gasping and groaning as he shoves up into me. Within seconds, he gives a deep groan and goes still. I feel warmth inside me and shudder, knowing it’s his come. It’s sexier than I thought it would be.

He collapses back onto the bench, and I go with him, loving that I can stay here without him having to move to get rid of the condom. I feel hot liquid slide between my thighs, and Jed gives a pleasured groan and lifts me slightly. I feel his fingers trace my hole and raise up so he can see properly.

“Fuck, that’s so sexy,” he says in a low voice. “Your little hole is white with my come, all sticky and used.” It makes me shiver and tighten around him, and he grunts. “We’re definitely doing that again.”

He reaches forward and kicks the door open before lifting me off his cock. I feel a gush of liquid, and then he settles me back on his lap so I’m facing him. We kiss, and I’m so dreamy I’m almost dazed. My only reality is the cosy darkness of the sauna and his arms around me.

It seems to take ages before I finally stir, feeling his hands holding my arse and cuddling me in his lap. He’s affectionately nuzzling my neck, dropping kisses along the sweat-dampened skin.

I clutch him close, the words on the tip of my tongue like always. I love you.

I say them silently, but that doesn’t mean I mean them any less.

I sigh. And it will all come to an end soon, and we’ll go back to the way we were. Not for the first time I wonder if that’s going to be possible.

I assured him it would, but I lied because I’m not sure I can go back to being his assistant and meeting the revolving door of men he has in his bed. That would break my heart. I tighten my grip, press a kiss into his sweaty hair, and repeat it silently. I love you.

He stirs, opening his eyes. The green is soft now, like the underside of a leaf. “That was a heavy sigh.”

“I’m a bit hot,” I lie, and he’s immediately in action, standing up and lifting me with him. I curl my legs around him, holding on like a monkey as he steps out of the sauna and walks into one of the showers. He starts the jets, shielding me with his big body until the cold spray warms just a little and then steps fully under the water. It’s cool and lovely against my hot skin, and I make a move to get down.

“What are you doing?” he murmurs.

“Giving your back a rest.”

He scoffs. “You’re no weight. I like having you like this.”

I tighten my legs around him immediately my whole body warming at the affection in his eyes.

“I’ll do your hair then, seeing as your hands are full.” I reach for the shampoo bottle and pour some into my palms. A mint and herb scent fills the stall, and Jed leans back against the wall. I start to lather his hair. I make the massage hard the way I’ve learnt he likes, and his immediate groan of pleasure is gratifying.

He moves, and I clutch his big shoulders in alarm, but he’s just sitting down on the marble bench inside the shower. “You make my knees weak when you do that,” he mutters, and I grin. He shakes his head. “How did I never know you were such a minx?”

I laugh, feeling his silky hair slip through my fingers. “Maybe you bring it out in me. I’ve never been that for anyone else.”

He shakes his head, a wry look on his face. “I like that more than I should.”

I stare at him, my hands falling still. “What does that mean?” He shrugs and tightens his grip on my arse, his fingers starting to caress the wet skin. My dick stirs, but I need to know. “Well?”

He looks up at me, and I catch my breath. The beauty of his bone structure is very evident when it’s wet. “I mean that I like the fact that you’re different with me.”

My heart starts to hammer, but I know him very well. If I react to that statement with the hope and joy it brings out in me, he’d run a naked mile to get away.

“How very caveman,” I say lightly, and I chuckle when he beats his chest and makes a very credible Tarzan roar.

He falls silent while I make devil horns in his hair. He snorts, and I rinse his hair, holding my fingers over his eyes to stop the soap. I look up when he cups my chin in his hand. His eyes are solemn. “Artie, maybe⁠—”

I jolt as a bell rings in the room. “What on earth is that?”

“Someone’s at the door of the suite. Who would be here at this time of night?” he asks, whatever he was going to say forgotten. I want to scream. He grimaces. “Not a member of the bridal party, I hope. I’ve had enough of them. It’s our time now.”

I repress the big smile that wants to emerge at the possessiveness in that statement. “I ordered dinner,” I say lightly. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

I’m cursing my forethought at the moment, but he gives me a smile full of gratitude.

“Thank you,” he says fervently. He hesitates. “You always think of me.” The bell sounds again, and he sets me to one side. “You finish washing up, and I’ll get the food. I’ll set up on the terrace. It’s a gorgeous night, and the heaters will make it nice and warm. You need the fresh air and peace after today. Join me out there, yes?”

I nod, accepting the kiss he lays on my lips. Then he’s gone, fastening a hotel robe around himself, the white towelling emphasising the golden tone of his skin.

“How can I not think of you?” I whisper. I lick my lips nervously. I keep telling myself to stop dreaming—that he’s given me far more than I ever expected, but lately, I can’t stop this hope. He’s so different with me now. It’s as if the sex has loosened his tongue, and he tells me things all the time. Little inconsequential things that I nevertheless hoard with the passion of a man in love, because everything is interesting about him.

After finishing my shower, I grab a robe and make my way out to the terrace, hope growing inside me—like a tree reaching for the sky. Dozens of candles have been lit, and their golden glow flickers over his handsome face.

“Where did all these candles come from?” I ask in amazement.

He shrugs. “The hotel did it for me.”

It looks romantic, and his awkward expression indicates to me that this was his intent.

Maybe he’s falling for me a little bit too. Maybe it’s enough that we can make something of this fake marriage. I try to dismiss that radical thought, but it stays there all night as we eat and talk and laugh under a starry sky, and later, when he moves inside me, his whole attention is focused on me like I’m the most fascinating person he’s ever met.

When I wake up in his arms the following day, tumbled together in the sheets, his body warm and our arms and legs entwined, I know I’m more in love with him than ever, and all I can do is hope.

fourteen

. . .

artie

Our footsteps sound loud on the path as we jog through the wood. The trees are painted in their autumn colours of red and gold and our feet crunch through the fallen leaves. My whole body is loose and warm, my breaths white on the frosty air, and I feel that peace I always get from running.

Jed is a little ahead of me on the path, his long body moving fluidly. He told me he’s always enjoyed running, having taken it up for his fitness to enter the police force and then afterwards as a way of calming his mind. I recognise a fellow runner, with his even stride and that peaceful inner look.

Since we started living together, I noticed how he’d vanish every morning for a run on the common or to the gym. He takes his fitness very seriously, as his dad had died of a heart attack when he was young.

He’d been almost shy to invite me along with him the first time, which had been adorable, and his visible relief when I kept up with him had been amusing. If I hadn’t been able to manage his pace, he’d have slowed for me, so it’s nice that we’re compatible.

Mornings have become my favourite time, only topped by the nights in our bed. We’ll run through one of the royal parks, enjoying the peace and seeing the wildlife. Then, once home, we’ll shower together and make love— I mean, we fuck, and it’s the best start to a day.

This morning, I spot a deer eating grass, its delicate lines a thing of beauty in the cold light. It raises its head, still chewing, and watches us pass as if contemplating the lunacy of the human race.

I slow my stride when I feel my knee twinge. I’d twisted it earlier when I slipped on a patch of mud, and I’ve been taking it a little easier.

Jed immediately looks back. He always senses my pace, even if he doesn’t appear to be looking. He slows down until I catch him up. “Knee hurting?” he asks, his face creased in concern.

“It’ll be okay. I can go on.”

He comes to a complete stop, frowning. Then he crouches to examine my knee. My cock gives a hopeful jerk, and he directs a wry gaze at me before running a gentle hand over my knee. “It’s swollen,” he observes.

“It’s not the only thing.” I laugh sheepishly at my sassiness.

Jed snorts and shakes his head. “Well, I’m sure I can help with both of those things.”

“Oh really?” I look around uneasily. “I’m not sure, Jed. There are a lot of runners who use these paths.”

He rolls his eyes. “Back at home. Really, Artie. Your exhibitionist nature never fails to astonish me.”

“I’m sure,” I say wryly.

He chuckles, his eyes bright with amusement. He stands up, stretching with a grunt. “Let’s eat breakfast out. There’s a nice café near here that does amazing pastries. We can eat and then catch a cab back.”

I don’t want to deprive him of his run, so I say quickly, “Let’s just keep going. I’ll be fine.”

He smiles and cups my face in his palm. “That knee is going to swell even more, and if you run on it, you could put yourself out of action. Rest up. I’ll get you an ice pack when we get home, and you’ll probably be okay in a day or two.”

My heart swells at the way he casually uses the word “home.” He’s done it a few times, and I can understand why because it does feel like our home. I might have inherited the structure, but the interior has become all ours. Although he was tentative about advice at first, the renovation has now melded our tastes. I’m hopeful it will be a factor in making him stay.

The way he touches and treats me makes me sure he cares for me. If I’m incredibly lucky, he might even fall in love with me. Maybe.

That cheerful thought makes my smile extra bright, and his eyes flare as he leans down and takes my lips in a lush, lengthy kiss. When he pulls away, I’m sure my cheeks are cherry red. His eyes are predatory. I lick my lips, and he makes a move as if to kiss me again, but my stomach seizes the moment to grumble loudly.

“Come on,” he says, laughing and throwing his arm over my shoulders. “Let’s feed you.”

He’s stopped smiling by the time we reach a side street. My limp has become more pronounced. He guides me to a bench. “Sit there,” he orders. “I’ll get your breakfast. A croissant and a cup of tea?”

As I sink gratefully onto the bench, I follow his gaze to the other side of the road where there’s a small bakery with green and gold awnings.

“How did you know that was here?” I ask.

He smiles at me. “It was Mick’s favourite place. We always had to call here on our way back from clubbing. The owner used to say how cheerful Mick was, but that was ninety per cent whisky sours.”

I grin up at him, feeling happy because he’s started to mention Mick more often and in an upbeat way. Not the sad, desperate yearning he’d had in the early years.

“It’s funny to think of him like that,” he says, as though reading my mind. “Nice thoughts.” His brow furrows. “I’m so sorry. Do you mind me mentioning him?” he asks, his smile dying.

I shake my head immediately. “Of course not,” I say firmly. “It’s better to remember good things about someone, and you have some wonderful memories of Mick. He sounds like someone I wish I’d known. Good memories keep him alive.” I hesitate. “I think, in a way, the way you were before, kept him…”

“Dead?” he suggests.

I nod.

He ponders that for a few seconds, before saying, “I think you’re right. I don’t know why I’m surprised. You usually are right.”

“Really?”

“Don’t look so startled. I’ve taken your advice for years. You have a keen eye for people and a clever, quick mind.”

“Thank you.”

“You sound more pleased by this than when I compliment your looks.”

“Looks fade. It’s nice if there’s a brain there too.”

“Well, you have no need to worry about that.” He cups my chin again, his face affectionate. “Clever and beautiful,” he says thoughtfully. I must be glowing because his face turns wry, and he leans down and kisses me. “Stay.”

“Like a dog?”

“Not one owned by Joe.”

I snort. Joe and Lachlan have got a new puppy, and it’s so wild that it’s almost feral. Yesterday, Joe tied the lead to his office chair while he went to the loo, and the dog took off running. It ended up with the chair wedged in the front door, while the dog barked furiously at a startled bride and groom.

“He shouldn’t bring that dog to the office anymore. You can tell him.”

I blink. “Me?”

“Yes. You’re much better with the unpopular news. You always find a positive way to spin it.”

“I’m going to say okay, secure in the knowledge that you will allow Joe to bring the dog in until it’s okay being on its own. Because that puppy loves you.”

He grimaces. “Well, I could have done without the slobbering on my trousers. I’m not a puppy lollipop.”

“No, you’re a husband lollipop.”

His eyes flare at the memory of the blowjob I gave him kneeling under his desk, and he bends to steal another kiss.

“You’ll keep that dog away from me. My hero.”

“I’m pretty sure I won’t. Roger loves you because he recognises you are a big softy underneath your growl.”

He waves that away. “Roger is a ridiculous name for a Jack Russell. And why does Joe have to carry it everywhere? He looks like he’s auditioning for Downton Abbey.”

I laugh, and he turns and lopes over the one-way street, his stride graceful, his head high. A woman passes, offering him an appreciative look, and I can’t blame her. She passes me, and I notice the hot chocolate she’s carrying, and my mouth waters. I think I fancy that rather than tea.

I get up, wincing a little as my knee twinges. Jed’s already ducked into the bakery, but it seems worth it to pop over and ask him to change the order. I take a step into the road and freeze at the sound of screeching brakes.

Something hits me hard.

The breath punches from my chest, and as pain sears through me, I’m oddly aware I’m falling, the sky blue above me. I hit the pavement, and everything goes black.

When I come back to awareness, I’m lying in a bed, and I’m freezing. My whole body shudders with the chill, making the sheets rustle around me. The only warm spot is my hand.

I try to force my eyes open. They won’t work for a second, and I have an intense stab of terror, but then they open stickily. I wince at the bright light and slam them shut again.

Pain starts to make itself known. I hurt all over. My head is throbbing like a drum, my ribs hurt, and my right arm is heavy and numb. When I shift position, I can feel the tackiness of blood on my legs. What has happened?

I try to focus, which makes the pain worse. The last thing I remember was hot chocolate. And then… Something hit me.

My eyes fly open. This time, the light is a little less bright, and my eyes widen when I see Jed. He’s sitting hunched over with his head on the mattress next to my hip, and my hand is warm because it’s clasped between his. His body seems to vibrate with intensity.

I swallow hard. “Jed?”

It’s only a whisper, but his head shoots up so fast that his neck cracks. I gasp. His face is white, his eyes red, and the lines of strain on his face make him appear years older.

“Artie,” he says, sweet relief flooding his face and easing the tension a little.

“Where am I?” I stop to clear my throat.

He exclaims and stands up. I have a moment to mourn the loss of his hand, but then he reaches for something on the side table. I see a cup with a straw, and he offers it to me, gently guiding the straw to my mouth.

“Slowly now,” he warns as I start to suck on the straw. The water is ice cold and delicious on my sore throat. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

As I slow my sips, I feel his fingers touch my hair. It’s a gentle gesture, and his hand falls away as I look up at him. After setting the drink on the table, he reaches to the bottom of the bed for a blanket. He unfolds it over me with a snap, and I instantly feel a little warmer. My face hurts, turning my smile into a wince.

He stares down at me, something making him flinch. “Your poor face,” he whispers.

Panic seers through me. “Oh my god, am I scarred for life?”

“No. Oh no,” he says immediately. “Sorry. That was such a stupid thing to say. You’re banged up and scraped, but the cuts will fade. It just looks so sore. I wish I could take it away.”

“What happened?”

His face darkens. “A moped driver went the wrong way up a one-way street.” His mouth tightens and he looks stern. I bet this is the way he looked as a copper. “He didn’t see you and was going at such a speed that he sent you reeling. You fell on the pavement and hit your head. You have a concussion, a broken arm, and bruises and scrapes, but you’re very lucky.”

“Am I going to be okay?” I ask anxiously. I wriggle my toes, relieved when they cooperate.

“You’ll be fine.” His fingers tremble when he touches my face. The touch is as delicate as a butterfly’s wing, and now that I look properly at him, I can see the tremors running through his body.

I frown, wincing as it pulls at a sore spot on my face. “You look terrible. Are you okay?”

“It was bad,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “I saw it happen.” He swallows convulsively. “You went flying, and when I got to you, I thought you were de—” He stops and swallows again.

My gaze sharpens. I’m becoming more alert and noticing things. He looks sick, and even as I watch, he draws himself inward, and his gaze shutters, as if a wall has suddenly gone up between us. An alarm bell rings in my head.

“Jed?”

“I’ll go and get the doctor,” he says abruptly. My hand hovers in the air as I reach for him, but then drops to my side as he strides away, relief to be away from me written all over his body.

I swallow hard, feeling the headache pulse at my temples and nausea churn in my stomach. But my mind focuses on the way he just left me. I have a horrible feeling that my accident has just brought back Mick’s ghost, and now bad memories will be front and centre in our marriage again.

Two Weeks Later

jed

The knock on my door drags me from my blind contemplation of the view outside my window. I spin my chair around to find Joe hovering with an anxious look on his face.

“Yes?” I stop to clear my throat. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

“I just wanted to say I’m going home. Are you locking up?”

I look at my watch, startled. “God, is that the time already? I didn’t realise.”

The anxious look deepens. “I thought you’d be home by now. Eager to get back to Artie.”

Unspoken is the question as to why the fuck I’m still here, when my husband is at home.

“He’s fine now,” I say defensively. “The headaches are gone, and he’ll be back at work next week.”

He holds up a hand. “Whoa, I never said he wasn’t fine. He couldn’t have been better looked after. We all know that.”

I shake my head. “Sorry for jumping down your throat.” I hesitate before admitting, “I just feel a bit guilty.”

And I should. Yes, I’ve nursed him to the very best of my ability. I’ve moved heaven and earth to get anything he wanted. Not that it’s been onerous, as he’s the least demanding man I’ve ever met. Nevertheless, I’ve driven him to hospital appointments, cooked for him, helped him shower, and read to him when his head hurt. Yet, it’s all been at a distance, and he knows it.

He tried to cheer me up when we’d first come home, making conversation and light jokes and cuddling up to me at night. But it didn’t work, and now he’s withdrawn to a careful and watchful neutrality.

It’s just as well. Nothing he does can break the wall I painstakingly bricked up in that hospital room waiting for him to wake up.

I shudder at the memory—the blind panic oozing dark and sticky from my pores as I watched his thin face turn the colour of milk, the cuts and bruises obscenely dark on his skin.

“Jed, are you okay?”

I flinch. “Sorry, just thinking of work,” I say vaguely.

Joe frowns, his eyes pools of concern. “Maybe you should go home,” he says gently. “You’re not doing any good here.”

I lick my lips. “Maybe.” I look at him and say, “It’s six months today.”

“Pardon?”

I tap the desk distractedly. “They sign the house over to Artie today.”

“Oh?” He’s obviously trying to work out what the fuck I’m talking about and settles for a nod and a cheerful, “Well, that’s good news. You should buy a bottle of champagne and go home and celebrate.”

The operative word is “home,” but I wave him off with vague promises of leaving soon. The door shuts behind him, and I return to my thoughts.

I can’t do this.

The thought has been hovering in the back of my mind constantly, beating panicked wings. I shudder and raise my fingers to my temples, trying to push the image away. It’s always in my dreams—that moment when the bike had hit him, and he’d sailed into the air. I’d screamed, although the scene seemed to happen in slow motion and utter silence. But when he hit his head, the thud was deafening.

It seemed to take ages to reach him, and then I’d scrabbled for his pulse, thinking over and over again, Please not him. Not again.

I lost my dad too young, but I’d had my job as my mum and brother’s protector to get me through. The memories of him were gentle and not razor-edged.

Then Mick. His death had almost killed me, but I’d finally managed to pull myself out of the emotional grave I’d put myself in and go on living.

But I don’t think I can do that with Artie. I don’t think I have the strength anymore to lose another person.

Maybe I’m bad luck. This is another thought that’s been on repeat. It starts up at night when I lie sleepless next to Artie, counting his breaths and the hours of the night.

“Stop it,” I say out loud and take in a deep breath.

I have to get over this. It couldn’t have come at a worse time. My limited time with Artie is like a ticking clock in my head. He’ll go back to being Artie, my assistant, and I’ll have to watch him fall in love with someone in the future. It all makes me want to scream and beat my chest.

Do I want to push him away? Do I want to see him with another man?

No, is my instant answer. I want more of what we’ve had these few months—the laughter, the closeness, the midnight conversations wrapped up in our sheets with his scent in my head.

I want him. I take a steadying breath. But I can’t have anything more. That hospital vigil was proof that I mentally and physically cannot do more. Is that enough for him?

I groan. My thoughts are an endlessly spinning merry-go-round, and I stand up and gather my stuff listlessly. It’s time to go home.

I need to be better for him than some distant stranger. Maybe it will all make sense if I talk to him.

artie

The wind is howling around the house tonight, rattling the windows and making the fire gutter in the hearth. Del Amitri’s “Kiss This Thing Goodbye” plays on the stereo while I’m curled up on the sofa under a soft throw. I’d found the album in Jed’s huge collection of vinyl earlier. It had been difficult to put on the turntable, fumbling with one working hand, and I’d been a little nervous using the deck because it was obscenely expensive. But I don’t think I did any damage.

I watch the embers spark in the fire while clutching the letters that came today.

It’s late. I drew the curtains against the autumn dark a while ago, and there’s still no sign of Jed. It’s been this way for the last couple of weeks, and my sigh is loud in the still room.

He’s been an exemplary partner through my recovery, and I needed that. My concussion was a bad one, and for a few horrible days, I couldn’t do anything except lie in bed, riding the pain and throwing up. Then it had been hospital visits to get a proper cast put on my broken arm. I couldn’t do much, and he’d taken on everything. I couldn’t have asked for a more caring or gentle partner. He’s bathed me, washed my hair, chauffeured me around and sat holding my hand in various waiting rooms. He’s cooked and cleaned and worn himself ragged trying to make sure I’m okay while balancing the needs of the business.

Yet through all of it there’s been this weird distance between us. He will talk and laugh with me, but it always seems false—like he’s wrapped in cotton wool, and I can’t find the real passionate man underneath.

I can’t blame him, and I can’t be angry at him. How could I, when I know why he’s behaving like this? He’s running scared. It must have brought back so many terrible memories of Mick’s accident and the long days spent at his bedside until they turned off his life support. And even that decision had to be made by Jed. What a burden to be under.

So, I don’t blame him. And yes, I’m aware what he feels for me is a thin thing compared to his love for Mick.

But I’m his husband, too. The thought stills me, and I look down at the letter from the solicitor. It’s done. The house is mine. Our marriage can end the way we always planned, and we can go our separate ways. I square my shoulders. But I have one more throw of the dice. It’s a desperate gamble, and I could end up losing everything, but it’ll still be worth it. I love and want him, and I know he cares for me. I want to give him the chance to ask for more.

I look at the other letter and shiver. And if everything goes wrong, I have another option.

The sound of Jed’s key in the lock rouses me, and my heart starts to hammer. I hear him come in and then wince when there’s the customary silence. He doesn’t move or call for me. Instead, there’s this waiting moment as if he’s girding himself to deal with me. My mouth twists in pain.

One chance, I tell myself. Be honest, and maybe…

I stop that thought in its tracks. “Jed?” I call.

“Here,” he says, his voice full of that fake cheeriness that sets my teeth on edge. He comes into the room, bringing the scent of the outdoors on him and a faint trace of his cologne. “Sorry, I’m late. I brought takeaway,” he says, coming over to me. He drops a kiss on my lips that is deliberately brief even though I lean into him. He pulls back and stands up, and I sigh.

He cocks his head, listening to the music. “Del Amitri? Aren’t you a little young for them?”

“Ben used to like them. He said they were retro.”

He winces. “Wanker.”

My mouth twitches in a smile. “Do you like them?”

“I saw them in concert once. I lost my shoes for some reason lost in time, but I’m not levelling any blame at the band.”

I chuckle, but it dies away as he paces over to the fireplace, clutching the mantle and staring into the flames. “How are you feeling?” he says over his shoulder.

“The same as I was an hour ago when you rang, and the hour before that, and the hour before that.”

He gives a strained chuckle. “Sorry.”

I’m horrified to realise I’m not sure what to say next. This isn’t something that used to happen with Jed—we could always share a good conversation—and I’ve never been more aware of the “fake” quality of our current relationship.

“What have you got there?” he asks, gesturing to the letters in my hands.

I hold one up. “A letter from Mr Davies,” I say almost reluctantly.

He winces. “Ah, yes. Is it done?”

I nod. “The house is all mine.”

I want to say ours, but I sense that won’t go well. My gaze drifts to the other letter.

“That’s good news. I brought champagne home. I’ll get it and plate the food. Are you hungry?”

“Jed.” My tone halts his frantic movement towards the door. “Please, can you come and sit down?”

“Be My Downfall” begins on the record player as he sits on the edge of the sofa opposite me. I hope it’s not an omen.

“What is it?” He holds up a hand. “Is it because I’ve been at work for so long? I’m sorry. I know there’s no excuse for it.”

“It’s fine. I’m sure you’re busy.”

Ever honest, he grimaces. “I could have been at home.”

I itemise the brown-gold waves of his hair, his pale green eyes, and the beard that is always so soft against my skin. I’m committing them to memory in case this goes wrong.

He stirs under my stare. “Are you okay?” he asks anxiously. Panic is never far away these days. “You’re being odd. Do we need to go to the hospital? I’ll get the keys.”

I stay his clasping hands. “No. No, Jed. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very,” I say firmly. “I’m just nervous.”

His gaze sharpens. “Why?”

I take a deep breath. This is it. Time to take a chance. “Because our arrangement is over.” I hold up the letter from Mr Davies. “We said this would end when the house is mine. You’re free again.”

A complicated expression crosses his face, and the silence grows. Then he stirs. “And what if I said I didn’t want that?” he says hoarsely.

My heart starts to thunder, and hope flares as bright as a supernova. “Really?”

He takes a moment and then says slowly, “We make good friends and lovers. I’ve enjoyed being together with you. I think we’re a good match.”

My stomach twists. “Friends and lovers?” I whisper.

“Only that, of course.”

“Of course.”

The supernova winks out, a few sparks flaring before dying to ash. I summon my courage. “Well, I don’t want that.”

He flinches, an uncontrolled motion for a very controlled man. “Oh,” he says. He clears his throat. “Well, if you don’t want that, I completely understand. I will always be your friend, and I’m glad that⁠—”

“I love you.”

He can’t conceal the shock on his face. Or the dismay. “What?”

I grimace. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so blunt.”

He looks like I bludgeoned him over the head with a sharp instrument. “You l-love me?”

I take in a bolstering breath. “I do.”

“But why?”

Tenderness stirs in my heart for this complicated man. “You’re asking me? The answer could take all night. I love that I can tell you anything without worrying about you judging me. That you make me laugh harder than anyone else. I love the way you brush your hair off your face a thousand times a day and only I know that it smells of coconut. I even love the fact that you’re short-sighted and keep forgetting to take off your prescription sunglasses when we’re on the tube, so people think you’re either a douche or a film star. And I love that I now understand you’re distracted by making everyone’s world better while paying very little attention to your own.”

He doesn’t respond. He’s either completely stunned or busy building up that wall of protection again. Either way, I’m grateful he’s letting me speak at this moment. I’ll experience the pain later. Right now, I need to finish telling him this. “And that’s why I can’t be your friend,” I whisper. “I want more. I want everything.”

“But you can’t love me.” The panic in his voice makes me sad.

“Well, I do,” I say simply. I take his trembling hand. “And I love you enough to finish this. You’re not happy, Jed.”

“Yes, I am. I⁠—”

“You aren’t. You are turning yourself inside out by fighting your emotions, and it’s making you ill. I cannot and will not have that.”

Panic makes his eyes wild. “But I can be better. Is it because I’ve been absent?”

“Jed, I couldn’t have had a better nurse. It’s nothing to do with your physical presence and everything to do with how you are absent in other ways. You’ve built a wall between us, and I can’t cope with living with you and loving you while you stay behind it. It would destroy me, and I know you well enough to say that would hurt you.”

“I couldn’t bear to hurt you,” he says, startling me as he comes down on his knees next to me, grabbing my hand. “Artie, please.”

“Stop,” I say quietly, my eyes burning with tears. I lift his hand to my face and kiss the long fingers. I listen to the song playing for a few beats. “It’s not like the lyrics of this song,” I say. “I want you to love me happily and joyfully and without any regret in your heart. I need more from you than being just friends. I’ve never mattered to anyone, and I deserve that,” I finish simply.

“You deserve everything. You’re the best man I’ve ever known.” I’m stunned to see tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says thickly. “I’m sorry I can’t be that man. I just can’t, Artie. I think of loving someone, and panic comes over me. I’m a coward.”

“Don’t ever say that to me. You have never been a coward,” I say fiercely. “You’re the bravest man I know.”

His face contorts as though he’s struggling to explain or protest, but he can’t get out the words.

I press my fingers to his lips. “It’s really okay, Jed.”

We listen to the rest of the sad song. When it ends, he asks, “What will we do?” He sounds suddenly young—like I’m the older, wiser person—and maybe I am in this.

I sit back. “I’m leaving.”

“What?” He jumps to his feet and begins pacing by the fire, his movements clumsy. “But you can’t.” His face suddenly darkens. “Are you going to him?” he demands.

I gape at him. “Who?”

“Ben.”

“No, of course not. Whatever gave you that idea?”

When he remains stubbornly silent, I pass him the other letter I’m holding. “I’ve had a job offer, and I think it might be best for both of us if I take it.”

He looks down at it, scanning it, and frowns. “It’s in Germany.” He pauses. “Karl Nesbitt. Why do I know that name?”

“We did his daughter’s wedding last year.”

Recognition and outrage dawn on his face. “The arrogant wanker who’s been trying to poach you ever since?”

“Yes, he’s working in Berlin for a year. He contacted me on LinkedIn when his current assistant gave his notice. He offered me the job. This was him putting it in writing. It seems like a good time to take it.”

“So, I won’t even get to see you anymore?” He sinks into the chair as if someone has cut his strings. His face is white and drawn.

I get up and perch on the arm of his chair, stroking his hair back, feeling the soft strands and the way he leans into my touch like an old dog who’s scared but still needs affection. It makes my heart burn with tenderness.

“I think it’s best,” I say softly. “It’s only for a year and it’s a good job. I’ve always wanted to see Berlin,” I say, trying for cheerfulness.

“But what about the house? You’re just going to leave after you waited so long for it?”

I think about telling him that my house is just bricks and mortar. What I always longed for was a home and I’d found that in him. But I don’t want to make him feel any more awful than he already does.

“I’ll rent it out for a while,” I say instead.

He looks dazed. “God, I never even thought about that. I’ll get out of the way for you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say immediately.

“I do.” He sucks in a deep breath. “I’ll move back to my flat.”

“Thank you.” It’s funny what manners make you do. The thought of someone else living in a place I consider to be ours, fills me with indescribable sadness, but we’re still talking as if we’re at a garden party—so horribly civilised. “I’ll arrange the divorce.”

“No,” he jerks out.

I scan his angry face. “What do you mean?”

“Leave it for a bit. Get settled into a new country first.” He’s talking very fast. “I won’t contest the divorce when you get around to it.”

“I didn’t ever think you would,” I say in stupefaction.

He sets his jaw and narrows his eyes—it’s his plotting expression. But when he speaks his tone is oddly matter of fact. “But I have one request from you. Something I need.”

“Jed, how could I refuse you anything after all you’ve done for me?” I say simply.

“I want an hour.”

“An hour of what?”

“An hour with you every week. That’s all I want.”

“But I’ll be in Germany.” I scrutinise his face. Has he gone mad? But all I see is that stubborn edge I know so well.

“So? That makes no difference to me. One hour, Artie, where we meet and spend time together without any distractions. Well?”

I stare at him, baffled.

He gives me a coaxing smile. “Please.”

I sigh, still utterly confused by why he’d ask for this. Still, the thought of being able to see him is too irresistible. Maybe I can build up immunity to him and then move on.

“Okay,” I say. “It’s a deal.”

“Thank you,” he says with dignity.

I stare at the complicated man I love and will probably never understand.

“You’re welcome.”

fifteen

. . .

Six Weeks Later

jed

The alarm on my phone sounds, and I roll over, nestling into the warmth of the sheets. For a moment, everything is okay, and then I remember. I sink back against the pillows, groaning. “Shit.”

I’m at my flat in my bedroom. Everything is neat and tidy, the furnishings pristine and expensive. And it feels completely wrong. It’s empty without the scent of him in my bed and the sound of him singing to himself in the kitchen with his sweet, off-key voice.

I scrub my hands over my eyes. Everything has been wrong since he left. I miss him. I keep telling myself it’s for the best, that he will be happy in Germany and find someone else to lo⁠—

I break that thought off. It still has the power to send me into a panic. Artie will find someone who will love everything about him—his gentleness, his sharp intelligence, and his shy sweetness. And I’ll be his older friend, someone he’ll share details with over an occasional meal and then carelessly leave and return to his real life. And I’ll return to emptiness.

Maybe I should get a dog. I reach for my phone and then pull back. I can’t get a dog. Artie is allergic.

“What are you thinking? Are you actually a sad twat, Jed Walker?” I say out loud. It echoes in the stillness of the flat, and I already know the answer.

I’m spending a fortune flying to see him every week. I’ll be able to buy a small country with my air miles soon, and the British Airways staff know me by my first name. They think it’s terribly romantic that I visit my husband weekly. If they knew the truth, they’d be a lot less starry-eyed.

So why am I doing it? The answer lies somewhere in the way he looks in the winter light—soft and warm and glowing, and the way, for an hour, my whole life lights up like he’s switched on a lamp inside me. But I don’t examine my reasons further than that. Instead, I plod along, stuck on the notion that if I can’t have him at home and in my life, I will have a little bit of him once a week.

“We’re friends,” I say and grimace. Even I know that’s not the truth. Well, not the sole truth anyway.

The phone ringing distracts me from my hamster-on-a-wheel thoughts.

Picking it up, I groan when I see the caller. “Hi, Ma.”

“Oh, you are alive, then.”

“Oh dear.”

“I haven’t seen you in six weeks. I was wondering whether aliens had abducted you.”

“Or I was busy. No need to break out the galactic probes just yet.”

“Cheeky. Well, it’s fortunate I’ve finally got hold of you.”

“Why?” I ask warily.

“Because I’m cooking Sunday dinner, and your arse has an appointment with the chair at my table. I’m sure you’re not too busy for that.”

There’s a challenge that I have no intention of taking up. “Yes, I’ll be there.”

“And Artie? Will he be coming? My friends in the book club were cooing over his photo last week. I think I’ve won the most handsome son-in-law competition very easily.”

I swallow hard. “No, he can’t make it, Ma.”

There’s a long silence, and then she clucks. “Just you then, love. See you at one.”

I end the call, throw my phone down on the bed, and scrub my eyes again. “If at first you practise to deceive,” I quote, then give up and go to grab a shower.

A couple of hours later, I let myself into my mum’s house. It’s warm inside and does not smell of Sunday dinner. “Ma?” I shout.

“In the kitchen.”

I walk into the room and groan. “Oh fuck.”

My mother and brother are sitting at the table, arms folded. My mum looks determined, which never bodes well, but my brother’s eyes are twinkling.

“This is an intervention,” he announces grandly, and then winces when my mum pinches him.

“That was my line, Adam.”

He rolls his eyes. “Come on. This is Jed. I’ve been waiting for years to say that. I had dreams of saving him from press gangs and pirates.”

“Really?” I ask.

He considers that and then shakes his head. “It’s hard to be abducted by pirates when you’re always in the office.”

“I do get out, you know,” I say mildly. “And where is my roast beef?”

My mum waves a careless hand. “I’ll make you a sandwich afterwards.”

“After what?” I sigh and slide into my seat. It cradles my bum as if it were made for me. “Go ahead,” I say, gesturing. “Let’s get it out of the way.”

My mum tuts. “What a way to describe a family chat.”

“Hang on,” my brother says. He puffs his chest out and waves his fingers at his head. “Line, please.”

Sighing, I say, “Jed, we are concerned.”

He snaps his fingers. “That’s it. Jed, the family is concerned, and we come together as a family to celebrate family love and family concern. I know I don’t exaggerate when I say that the family is worried.”

“You’re overusing the word family more than Prince Harry in an interview.”

“Shit.”

We grin at each other, and my mum smiles. She gets up and pats my head before trotting over to the kettle. “Tea,” she says. “And then talk.”

“At what point will you warm up the thumbscrews?”

“They’re baking at the moment,” my brother says cheerfully. “Got to get them at the burning point. I also want to let you know that I’ve sharpened the pliers, so your fingernails come out smoothly. No shoddy tools for the princess that you are.”

I laugh. It feels rusty and unused, but my mum smiles at me approvingly. She sets the tea down in front of me and takes her seat again.

She gives me an innocent smile that instantly makes me wary. “I popped by your house to see Artie yesterday.”

I choke on the sip I just took. “Really?” I say as my brother helpfully thumps me on the back. I shove him off. “Is there any need to hit me so hard I cough up a lung?”

He considers that. “Probably?”

“Enough,” my mum says, and we both subside. “It came as a bit of a surprise when I spoke to Carla.”

“Who?”

“Your neighbour.” She rolls her eyes. “You should really try and make friends more, Jed. You were always such an insular boy.”

“As opposed to me,” my brother says, winking at me. “Isn’t that true, Ma?”

“Well, I could never get a word out of Jed. I didn’t have that problem with you. The trouble was making it a sensible word.”

I raise my middle finger at him as he chuckles, but my mum returns doggedly to the subject.

“I know Carla. She’s in my chess club.”

“I didn’t know you played chess.”

“I’m learning. It helps to be strategic when I’m dealing with numpties like you and your brother.” I stare at her, and she raises an eyebrow. “Well? I’d love to know why your husband is in Germany, and I’ve only just heard about it?”

I lick my lips. “He took a job there.”

She raises her eyebrows. “And that’s it? That’s the best you could come up with? I could have done that myself and still had time to make a batch of biscuits.”

“I wish you had,” I mutter.

She reaches out and grabs the biscuit tin, pushing it towards me. “You’ve lost weight,” she says, her eyes warm with the ever-present love and concern she can’t hide.

I grab one of her homemade shortbreads but can’t face it, so I settle for crumbling it on my plate. They’re both watching me when I look up.

I groan. “Okay, but you have to swear that whatever I say here doesn’t leave this room. I’m serious.” I point at my brother. “You can’t even tell Mei.”

“Really?”

“I know you have chronically loose lips.” I take a deep breath. “I was never really married to Artie.”

“You had a ceremony,” my mum says, her face creased in confusion.

“Well, yes, we are actually married, but we did it because Artie’s stepmother left him his family home on the condition that he be married and live there for six months.” I stop talking and my mum just sips her tea. “Ma?”

She sets her mug down. “That Laura. What a cow she was.”

I gape at her. “You knew her?”

She shrugs. “She was in my bridge club.”

“But you don’t play bridge.”

“I do now. Well, of a sort. My partner is Mr Hampson, and he’s terrible at overcalling and⁠—”

“Ma,” I interrupt. My eyes widen at her serene countenance. “Oh my god. You already knew?”

She gives me a smile. “Laura did like to talk about her stepson. We all felt terribly sorry for the poor boy to be saddled with her. She liked a drop of red wine or a couple of bottles, and then she’d tell me and Martha Henshaw all about what she’d done with her will. I told Martha I didn’t want to talk to Laura again, and she agreed.”

“When did you guess?” I say hoarsely.

“Almost immediately. You and Artie weren’t terribly good at getting your stories completely straight, dear.” She tuts. “It’s a good job you became a policeman, because you’d never have made a good criminal.”

I slump in my chair, feeling like I’ve just been punched. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

An enigmatic expression crosses her face. “I wanted to see it play out.”

“See what play out? We’re not at the test match.”

She just shrugs and says, “And I presume he has the house now?”

“Yes.” I clear my throat.

“So, he’s gone to Germany, and you let him?”

I gaze at my brother helplessly, but he doesn’t interrupt. Typical. The one time in our lives it might have been welcome, and Adam just sits there staring at me like he’s at the theatre.

“I couldn’t actually have stopped him.” I swallow. “We wanted different things from our marriage.” I pause. “I just want him to be happy,” I say quietly. “More than anything, he has to be happy.”

They exchange a look of relief that I pretend I don’t see, and then my mum gets to her feet. “Well, that’s good, then.”

I blink. “You’re not going to try and persuade me to get him back?”

She widens her eyes innocently. “What would be the point? You’ve made your mind up, haven’t you?”

“Well, er, yes. Yes, of course,” I say more forcefully. “I’ve totally made my mind up. He’ll be happy in Germany, and probably… He’ll probably meet someone there.”

“That’s lovely, then.” She claps her hands. “While you’re here, can you help your brother? A fence panel has fallen down and cracked. I’ve bought a new one, but I need you to put it in.”

“Not another one?”

“It’s the wind, dear, and Mrs Frederick’s dog keeps getting in the garden. It’s peed all up my tulip bulbs.”

She vanishes into the lounge, and I hear the TV come on. I turn to Adam, who’s watching me with a smile on his face.

“What just happened?”

He shrugs. “I really don’t know.” He jumps to his feet. “Ready?”

I look outside, where it’s blowing a gale. The clouds are heavy and dark with rain. “Not really.”

He claps me on the back. “That’s the spirit.”

We grab our coats and our boots from the laundry room and edge into the garden. The wind hits us, and we stagger slightly.

“Remind me why we’re doing this in a gale-force wind,” I say grimly.

“It’s to get us back for the time we set fire to the tree house.”

I shake my head and look at the sky worriedly. “I hope the weather improves, or they’ll cancel flights.”

“Going somewhere?” he asks innocently.

I glare at him. “To Germany to see Artie,” I say with as much dignity as I can manage.

“That’s nice.”

He falls silent until I say in a provoked voice, “Nothing to say, then?”

“Nothing at all,” he says serenely. “It’s nice that you’re still friends.”

“Yes, friends are very good,” I say too forcefully.

He grabs the old fence panel and, swearing, we manage to manoeuvre it out of its slot before sliding the new panel in. I step back, sweating as the wind jostles me.

“It needs painting,” I say.

“I’ll do it when we’ve got a clear day. You know she’s going to want to pay a trip to Homebase and pick a new colour.”

I look at the current purple panels. “Hope it’s better than this. It looks like Prince’s bedroom.”

I grab the old panel, take it down the garden to add to the bonfire pile, and then pause to look at the house. The windows are golden jewels in the dark afternoon and a Christmas tree twinkles merrily in the lounge window. It’s funny, but no matter how many years go by, you never stop seeing your parents’ house as home. This old place has witnessed many sad moments in our family history, but for every one of them, there are a thousand more good memories too. I suppose that’s what Artie was trying to tell me about Mick.

I push the thought of him away with difficulty and after a few moments, I walk back to where Adam’s opened the shed. He gestures at me furtively.

I stare at him. “Why do you look like an old man who’s about to offer me a Werther’s Original if I sit on his lap?”

“Gross,” he says, grimacing. “I’d have at least sprung for a Ferraro Rocher.”

“Well, I am worth it.”

“Thank you, Mister L’Oréal. Come inside the shed. I’ve got some whisky.”

“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

We edge into the shed and grab the camp chairs from the corner. It’s warm and dry in here and smells faintly of creosote. I chuckle as we bang into each other. “We’re a lot bigger than when this was our den.”

“Yours,” he says, retrieving a bottle of whisky from the old cupboard under the sink. “I was only there on sufferance to stop me reporting you to Ma. It was mainly you and Ellis Read.”

“I wonder what happened to him?”

“Prison for fraud.”

“Good grief.” I consider that. “He always thought he was better at maths than reality suggested.”

He starts to laugh and after a second, I join him. When we calm down, I hold out my hand, and he gives me the whisky. I take a sip from the bottle, feeling it burn down to my chest. “God, that’s good.”

“No need to sound surprised. I’m very much a connoisseur when it comes to hiding alcohol from Ma.”

We pass the bottle back and forth, taking turns sipping it and watching as rain starts to fall. It’s light at first, but within minutes, it becomes a deluge, obscuring our view of the house like a watercolour painting. In the shed, it’s warm and cosy.

Eventually, my brother stirs. “I saw Samantha the other day.”

“Really? Where?”

“Mei dragged me to Harvey Nicks, and she was there. She’s so lovely.”

I smile at the thought of Mick’s mum. “She is. I haven’t been down to Sussex for a while. It would have been too complicated to talk about Artie.”

“Would she be cross you’d got remarried?”

“God, no,” I say, startled. “She always said I should. Said I was meant for marriage.”

“Well, she’s not wrong.”

I take another sip from the bottle. “Not really.”

I hear the rustle of his clothes as he turns to me. “What does that mean?”

The whisky blazes a track into my stomach, which I blame for my following words. “I was thinking of leaving Mick before he died.”

“What?”

I wince. “Keep your voice down.”

“You were thinking of leaving him? Why? Had you fallen out of love with him?” He pauses. “Did he do something?”

“Why do you say it like that?”

“Because much as I loved Mick, he was a vast proponent of doing now and paying for it later.”

To my surprise, I chuckle. “God, he really was.” I shake my head, still smiling. “He did everything with my full knowledge. Mick might have been naughty, but he was never a liar.”

There’s a moment of silence. “So why leave him, then, if you weren’t in the dark? And I presume we’re talking men?” He hesitates. “Either that or bank robbery. I wouldn’t have put anything past him.”

I laugh. “Neither would I. God, he lived life so well. Better than anyone I’ve ever met. Almost as if he knew.” I hesitate, but the whisky has my tongue, and for some reason, it’s easy to talk about this now. It no longer carries the pain or guilt that has edged my memories for so long. “He had other men, but I knew about that.” I lick my lips and admit the truth finally. “I think he’d have got bored of marriage, eventually. He always wanted more.”

“But he’d never have got tired of you,” he says firmly. I turn to look at him, and he nods. “He loved you so much, Jed. He’d never have been finished with you. Even if the marriage was over, he’d have wanted you in his life.”

“But I was done at the time,” I say slowly. I take another sip. “I felt old. I couldn’t live at his pace.”

“A twenty-something on acid would have struggled.”

I shake my head, smiling. “Maybe I wouldn’t have gone through with it in the end. Maybe we’d have worked things out. I’ll never know because the accident happened, and I’ve felt guilty ever since for even thinking about it.” His eyes are full of concern, and I hand him the bottle. “But I’ve had time to think about it over the last six weeks, and I know that even if I had left him, we would still have been friends. He never held a grudge.” I laugh. “He couldn’t stay angry for more than ten minutes, and then he’d be bored and want to have a chat. We would never have left each other’s lives.” I sigh. “I did love him very much.”

“Of course you did. I liked him immensely.” He takes a sip of the bottle and hands it back to me. “So, is that why you’re still seeing Artie?”

I stiffen. “What do you mean?”

“Are you staying friends with him now he’s moved on?”

My hand tightens on the bottle, and I know he’s noticed. Not much gets past Adam. “Yes, of course,” I say thickly. “Why else? I would like to be in… in his life,” I finish roughly.

“Of course,” he says, his voice cheerful. “I’m glad you’re not feeling guilty about anything. There’s no need for that.” He looks determinedly at the rain.

“I think… I think I’m ready to move on from Mick,” I say with difficulty, waiting for a lightning bolt to strike or a laughing ghost with sparkling eyes to appear. But nothing happens, and the rain continues to fall.

“I think you already have.”

I stare at him, and because he’s being so infuriating, I shove him off his chair. The fact that he lands in a puddle only improves the moment.

The flat is empty and dark when I get home, and I quickly light lamps and start a fire. It crackles cheerily as I move into the bedroom and grab my overnight bag. It’s constantly on the chair in the room, waiting for me to go to Germany.

I grab a change of clothes, my toiletries and laptop, and pack quickly, my movements efficient, as it’s something I’ve done so often. My chest tightens with anticipation. The only time I feel truly alive now is when I’m about to see him again.

His fingerprints are all over my life. I can’t hear something funny without wanting to share it with him, and somehow, things aren’t as amusing without him. I turn around a hundred times a day to tell him something, and I ache for him in my bed at night, longing to feel his skin against mine and inhale the scent of his hair.

My new PA is efficient and nice, but he isn’t Artie. This is undoubtedly the reason why I’ve kept his employment temporary. Nobody can fill Artie’s space.

The rest of the office misses him, too. Artie simply announced he was taking up a job offer that was too good to turn down, and we were doing long-distance for a while. We didn’t say anything about a split. I refuse to address it until it’s a definite certainty, and when my thoughts intrude with the idea of breaking things off for good, they steal my breath with pain.

I take the paper flower from the bedside table and carefully put it into a small cardboard box. I bring one to Artie every week, obviously telling him with flowers what I can’t say with words. He hasn’t realised I’ve been conveying affection and yearning, probably because he’s failed to realise he’d married a Victorian gentlewoman. Today’s flower is a red rose, and it’s a bit of a mystery to me, as I’d intended to make a daffodil.

Ready for my eight o’clock flight in the morning, I wander back into the lounge. I contemplate ordering a takeaway, but, as usual, I’m not hungry. Tiredness heavy on my bones, I settle down on the sofa and switch the TV on. I don’t pay any attention to the screen, though. Instead, I look around the room. It’s a beautiful flat and has been my sanctuary ever since Mick died. Here, I could still feel him and be close to him.

I glance at his photo on the bookshelf—one of a few on display in the room—and take a deep breath, waiting for the familiar pang of loss to hit. I exhale slowly when it doesn’t come. I stand and walk towards the photo. I smile easily in response to Mick’s laughing face.

Still no pain.

Frowning, I run my fingertip over the shelf. I think I prefer the teal-painted shelving Artie had chosen for the lounge at home⁠—

The pang hits finally—hard and heavy—but it’s not the feeling of loss I expected.

Home…

I glance around again, walking towards the windows with the view I love. I still love the view, of course, but the carpet beneath my feet feels wrong and the walls around the panes are a boring white.

Should I redecorate? Do the work here that I’d lied about to Artie?

A hoarse laugh leaves my throat. If I did redecorate, I’d want Artie’s opinion on every choice.

The realisation comes to me in a flash and is startling in its vividness.

This flat is no longer my home, no longer my sanctuary—my safe and quiet place.

My home is my husband, who’s currently in Germany, no doubt enjoying himself tremendously with a wealth of German men who aren’t such twats as not to recognise what’s right under their noses.

My home is Artie. I lick my lips and sweat breaks out all over my body. And he’s my home because I’m in love with him.

I whirl, knocking against a table by the window with a clatter. One of my paper flowers—an early experiment of the peony variety—falls to the floor and I pick it up.

Of course, I’d made Artie a paper rose this week. My heart and hands recognised the symbol of true love before my mind caught up.

I stare blindly into the too-quiet lounge and finally admit the truth. It’s a truth I’ve been frantically denying for a lot longer than our fake marriage. I love Artie. And I love everything about him—his crooked smile that somehow contains more sunshine than any other, his long fingers that can either soothe or arouse me, his kindness and the simple joy he takes in life, refusing to indulge in self-pity. He makes me feel happy, alive, protective, and cherished.

And by some miracle, this beautiful young man actually loved me back. I knuckle my eyes. And in return for that gift, I rejected him and offered him a shitty friends-with-benefits arrangement. I have so much more to offer him—so much love. But am I too late?

I have only an hour a week to convince him of my love before he finds someone else.

“I know wherever you are, you are fucking laughing at me, Mick,” I grumble and then sigh. “And I know you’re furious that I’ve spent years mourning you. You’d have hated that with every fibre of your being.”

I remember a conversation we had years ago at the start of us. He’d been talking about his age and wanting me to move on quickly if he died before me. I’d laughed and dismissed it, not wanting to hear about him dying, but he’d been curiously insistent. “If you’re not inside a pretty boy by the time my memorial ends, I’ll fucking haunt you,” he’d threatened. We’d laughed, and I’d completely forgotten that conversation until now.

“You kept your word, then, you contrary wanker,” I say affectionately.

The fire gutters and for a wild second, I imagine I can smell his cologne—spicy and warm like him. “I will always love you,” I say quietly. “I don’t know whether we’d have lasted if we’d been given the chance. But I do know that I promise to think of you with a smile from now on, because that’s what you’d have wanted. You’d like Artie. You wouldn’t have understood our relationship in the slightest, but you’d have liked him.” I take a breath. “Bye, babe,” I whisper.

A peace steals over me that I haven’t felt in years. Maybe never.

I pace the room, seized by energy for the first time since Artie left. I’ve never got anywhere in life by backing down from a challenge. “I’m getting my husband back,” I say out loud and feel the touch of Mick’s approval.

sixteen

. . .

artie

Berlin is lit up for Christmas. Everywhere I turn there are festive decorations and lights burning bright against the cold winter darkness. Cafés are illuminated sanctuaries full of laughing people, and the city seems alive with jollity.

Today, however, I have no eyes for any of that. All my attention is on my husband.

I see him as I walk up the street. As he sits waiting for me at a café, he watches people walk past and seems a study in stillness, a thing that’s so unusual for him it makes me pause. In London, he’s a hive of activity even while sitting. His phone is always in his hand, and his attention is on ten things at once. He’s the one person in the office to whom everyone wants to speak and to whom all the problems come.

Here in Berlin, he’s different. I’ve privately christened his visits as the Magic Hour. During our shared sixty minutes, he focuses only on our conversations, and he seems at peace in a way that really suits him. I’d love it if he spent more time at peace, but that’s not up to me. Maybe, as his friend, I can persuade him. Of course, I still want more than friendship, but I’ve spent the last six weeks training myself not to think about it, breathing through the pain until the feeling dissipates.

Jed might have rejected my love, but he’s too big a part of my heart to cut out of my life completely. I’ll take whatever minutes he’s comfortable with giving me. Maybe one day, he’ll settle down and introduce me to the man who’s shown him it’s okay to be brave and love again. It won’t be me, and I’ve accepted it.

I rub my arm absently, glad it’s not burdened by the bulky cast anymore. Jed hasn’t spotted me yet, so I enjoy my chance to gaze at him uninterrupted. He’s wearing jeans and a black sweater, which I know is cashmere, without even seeing the label. He has an addiction to the soft wool, and I’ll always remember the feel of it on my face when I rested my head against his chest. His hair is a bit longer than usual and flopping over his forehead. Usually, he’d sweep it back impatiently, but today, he’s concentrated on something.

I follow his gaze towards a small child with a red balloon. The little boy is laughing, pure joy is in every line of his little body, and a smile plays over Jed’s mouth. It’s gentle, and not for the first time, I wonder what he’d be like as a father. I think he’d be brilliant because he’s gentle, kind, and firm. You’d feel safe with him. I always have.

He shifts position, tapping his finger on a book that’s facing down on the table. His hands are big and laced with veins, and I have a flash of them holding me down while he sucked my cock, pulling off and licking, teasing me and laughing until I begged him to let me come.

I push down a pang of longing with the ease of practice. I’ve missed him so much since I left, but I know being on my own has been good for me. I needed to get out of his shadow for a while, and the job has been interesting. Karl, my boss, has actually been nice despite Jed’s opinion of him. He and his family have spoilt me by having me over for dinner a few times, and the people at the office are friendly too. They’ve taken me out with them to explore the city, and to eat and drink in bars and restaurants.

Still, I miss all my Confetti Hitched people. Obviously, I miss Jed most of all. Some nights my longing is a visceral ache, and I’ll fall asleep with my hands clutching a pillow to my chest. I’m homesick, not for my house, but for him.

As I get closer, Jed looks up and spots me, his whole face lighting up immediately. My heart flutters, wanting to break free and fly towards him. I take a deep breath and smile at him.

“What are you reading?” I ask as I come up next to him.

He flips the book over, and I gasp as I see the cover of a political thriller that’s been in the charts for ages.

“Oh, I recommended that last week,” I say, delighted. “Are you enjoying it?”

“Yes, but I need to discuss the plot twist you didn’t warn me about. I wasn’t expecting that at all.”

I grin. We seem to be running our own book club lately, and I adore discussing them with him. He’s fiercely intelligent and loves a debate, and under his guidance, I’ve grown to love it too. I don’t shrink from offering my opinions anymore, because he seems to revel in them.

He stands up and holds out his arms, and I slide into them for a hug. It’s how he’s greeted me every week, and it’s probably my imagination, but he seems to hold me tighter than he ever did before, and he always gives a big sigh before he lets me go, as if everything is right with his world. It’s a gorgeous thought, but I can’t dwell on it.

He squeezes me now and inhales deeply. Before I can ask, he steps away, pulls out a chair for me, and says, “First thing.”

After we sit, he slides the familiar box across the table to me. I open it, gasping in delight when I see a red paper rose nestled in tissue paper. The folds and lines are delicate and beautiful. He’s got so good at this.

“A rose?” I ask. “That’s a change from a peony and a sunflower.”

He shifts position, and I’d think he was nervous if I didn’t know better. “It seemed right for the moment,” he says hoarsely.

“What moment?” I ask.

“Not here,” he mutters, glancing towards the busy café.

“Not here what?”

He closes his book carefully and doesn’t answer.

I raise my eyebrows and take the opportunity to bring up something I’ve been wanting to discuss. “I settled up with the builders this week. Somehow, I have more money in my account than when they began their work. It’s almost like my money has magical abilities. I’m trying to keep it quiet in case Rumpelstiltskin comes calling.”

He taps his ear. “Sorry. My hearing is going.”

“So is your bank balance. I’ll be paying you back, of course.”

“I don’t think so. You can’t get into my bank account.” I open my mouth to argue, and he gives me his most charming smile. “How’s your week been?”

He waves the waiter over and orders me the hot chocolate he knows I love. It’s laced with brandy and cream, and it’s delicious.

I subside for now, but I’ll repay that money whether he likes it or not. He forgets that I’ve been his assistant for years and know a lot more about his personal affairs than he ever remembers. When I’d discovered he’d been paying the builders, I’d tried to be annoyed, but had been charmed and almost amused, instead. Crafty caring is such a Jed thing to do.

I carefully set the flower back in its box. I’ll put it with the others he’s made for me. He brings something every week, and my bedside table is full of them. I like to lie in bed and look at them before I sleep.

“It’s been good,” I finally answer his question. “Dieter took me to a gay club this week.” The smile he gives me looks forced. I eye him in concern. “You okay?”

“Absolutely fine,” he says firmly. “So, you’ve become good friends with Dieter, yes?”

I nod, sitting back as the waiter places my drink in front of me. I take a sip, relishing the chocolatey goodness, and Jed’s face softens as he watches me, pleasure at my pleasure written all over him.

He lifts his chin and straightens his shoulders. “So,” he says. “Friends?”

“Pardon?”

He fingers the neck of his jumper. The dark cashmere makes his eyes look very green. “You and Dieter?”

“Oh.” I shrug. “Yes, he’s nice.”

The wire of tension in his posture relaxes, and he grins at me. “A gay club?” His eyes suddenly widen with what looks like dread. “Did you get off with anyone?”

“No.”

He lets out a long breath. “Probably best, yes? Get your feet steady first.”

“Yes, you’re right,” I say slowly.

A few men had seemed interested in me at the club, but I didn’t encourage them. I’m hopelessly in love with the man sitting opposite me. Real love, not a fantasy. Jed’s dealt with builders, bricked-up doors, and malfunctioning boilers. He’s taught me to dance and how superb sex can be. We’ve sweated and groaned and climaxed together. My fantasy Jed became wonderfully real in the past few months, and my love for him has only deepened.

Now, as I sit at a respectable distance across from the man I’ve been so intimate with, I wonder what people see when they walk past. A couple of friends, or something else?

“How’s the office?” I ask, unable to hide my longing.

He brightens. “Fine. I put Raff and Joe on a wedding last week.”

“Together?” I ask incredulously.

He chuckles. “I must have had a senior moment.”

“Did it go well?”

“Oddly so, considering their usual disasters.” He pauses. “They all send their love. Everyone misses you.”

Do you? I think, but don’t say it.

His gaze shifts from me to the paper rose and back. “Everyone,” he says with emphasis, and I breath in sharply. “It isn’t the same without you.” He pauses. “But I said I wouldn’t do this now,” he adds firmly. “Tell me something.”

I grin at him. This is my favourite bit of our hour together. During our first meeting, Jed told me a story about his dad—something he’d never done before. Everything I’ve learned about his family has seemed accidental, but this bout of sharing was deliberate, and my heart had warmed from the gift of a piece of him no one else saw. After that first story, he’d asked me to share something as well. We christened the exchanges Tell Me Something, and while we’re apart in the week, I store up things I can tell him.

Today, I tell him more about the gay club and how Dieter split his trousers.

When he laughs, I savour the sound. His eyes twinkle, and his expression makes my heart thud. Then he sits back in his chair and waves a hand at the scene around us. “We have half an hour left. Why choose this café to meet?”

I sit up eagerly. “Ah, we need to walk a block or two, and I’ll show you.”

He nods, signalling for the bill. After he’s paid, he stands and pulls on his black peacoat. He holds out his hand, and I stare at him.

He waggles his fingers. “Hold my hand?” he asks, his voice slightly hoarse.

I stand up and slide my hand into his. It’s so smooth and easy, and I’m painfully aware that lovers hold hands like this. Not friends.

He squeezes my hand as if sensing I might pull away. “Lead on.”

I meet his gaze for a moment and then tug him away from the café. Down the street, we cross the road and begin walking up a slope.

“You have me intrigued,” he says, looking around curiously.

Drawing my attention away from his big fingers curling possessively around my hand, I focus on his comment. “I know you like Berlin, so I thought we could do more exploring.”

“No.” He tugs me to a stop. “Berlin is a beautiful city, but the reason I like exploring it, is because I’m with you. It’s you who intrigues me.”

I scan his features. His eyes are tired, his face very pale, and his whole body looks weary. He coughs, and realisation suddenly dawns. “Oh my god. Have you taken cold medicine again?” I demand.

“What?”

I gesture with my free hand. “Cold medicine makes you loopy. Do you remember when you took it before the Simpson-Brocklehurst wedding and thought the flower arrangements were moving? I had to do some quick talking when you attacked one with a rolled-up copy of the wedding service.”

“I’m sure they were moving. It was like Jumanji without the rhinos.”

I pat his chest. “I’m sorry you’re poorly.” I realise I’m caressing his chest and go bright red. “Sorry,” I mumble.

He grabs my hand, and I look at him in surprise when he holds it to his chest. “No, stay,” he commands. “I don’t have a cold, Artie.” He pauses, shakes his head, and laughs grimly. “Fuck, this isn’t the way I⁠—”

A man bumps into us, and we break apart. He offers profuse apologies, giving Jed an admiring glance. Jed waves him off kindly, unperturbed. He’s in a strange mood today.

He smiles at me, and it’s the smile he reserves only for me—warm, soft, and genuine, his eyes twinkling. “Well, where are we going, mystery man?”

Thinking up fun places to take him is one of the things that keeps me going since we’ve been apart. Sometimes our adventures take us over the allotted hour, but we’re both careful not to mention it.

I check the number of the building beside us and draw him closer. “We’re here.”

He narrows his eyes at the building, and I can’t blame him. It’s a very nondescript structure painted a dreary grey. The front door is set between an osteopath and a tattoo parlour.

“This is Hauptstrasse 155, but fans keep removing the house number to take away as a memento.”

He looks intrigued, and I relish his attention. “Why?”

“Because this is where David Bowie lived in the seventies.”

“No,” he gasps. “Really?”

I smile and nod, pleased by his reaction. Jed has every record Bowie ever made and regularly proclaims him to be the greatest musician England has ever produced.

He gazes up at the building again with wide eyes. “I’d read about the place, but I’ve never been here before. It’s not what I’d have imagined.”

“When he came here, he was finished in the music world because drugs were destroying him. The city built him back up.” I grin at him. “Guess the name of his flatmate and collaborator when he lived here?”

I’m pretty sure that he already knows the answer, but he just smiles, his eyes eating me up. “Tell me, wise one.”

“Iggy Pop.”

“You’re joking!”

I shove him gently. “You can’t fool me. You already knew that.”

“Maybe. I like the Berlin material.”

“Me too.”

He looks startled and yet pleased. “You’ve been listening to him?”

I nod. I started it as a way to still feel close to Jed, but I’ve come to love the man’s music.

He looks around. “So, did they go to that café?” he asks, pointing to a café farther down the street. Chairs and tables are set up outside it, but they’re empty on this wintry afternoon.

“Yes. I think that was the first openly gay and lesbian café in modern Berlin, and they came here for breakfast most mornings. Bowie recorded ‘Heroes’ in the city. This was his second chance, and I like that he took it.”

Jed’s gone very still, and I look at him curiously.

“I wonder if I can do the same,” he says softly.

I narrow my eyes. Am I finally going to hear about why he’s been acting so oddly?

“Artie, I need to tell you something.” He takes a deep breath. “My feelings have changed, and you need to know about my heart.” The words are quiet yet loaded with so much feeling.

My thoughts of Bowie disappear like dandelion seeds blown away on the wind. “Pardon?” I say hoarsely. A terrible thought blasts through my brain like a lightning bolt, and I gasp out loud.

He frowns. “What is it? Artie, are you okay?”

Has he found someone else? Is he screwing up the courage to tell me? I swallow hard. “Who is he?” I demand.

“Who’s what?” he asks, staring at me.

My heart is thumping so hard, I can’t find words. I take a heaving breath.

“Shall we finish early?” he asks carefully. “We can finish this conversation another time. You don’t look well.” His hands are on my shoulders, kneading gently.

I knock them away and he startles. “Artie?”

“Your feelings have changed?” I accuse. If he’s admitting this, then he’s obviously found someone to love again.

He flinches, his face pale in the winter light. I’m right. I know it. Pain rips through me. Suddenly, I realise how badly I’ve been fooling myself. I can’t be his friend and watch him be happy with another man. I just can’t.

Despair twists in my chest, leaving me breathless. Will life never give me what I need and want?

“Yes,” he whispers. “And what do you think about that?”

I give his green eyes a final glance and then turn and walk away. I can’t be here, so I won’t. It’s as simple as that.

“I need to go,” I call over my shoulder. “I just remembered that I have an appointment.”

“Artie?”

I hear his hurried footsteps behind me, but I still startle when he grabs my arm and spins me around to face him. His face is white, the lines around his mouth drawn, but his eyes burn with emotion.

“Hang on,” he says hoarsely. “Please don’t go.”

“Let go of me.”

He swallows hard. “Do you still love me?” he blurts out. “I have to know.”

I’m suddenly furious. “How dare you? You didn’t want to know that six weeks ago!”

“Artie, please.”

“No! Don’t interrupt me. You didn’t want my love then, and now you’re asking me about it because you’ve found another man, and you’re ready to be happy with him. I didn’t know you could be so cruel, Jed.”

There’s a startled silence, and then he shakes his head as if clearing it. His grip is too hard on my shoulders, but I can’t tear myself away, the painful feelings a reflection of the turbulence roiling between us.

“I don’t understand,” he says, gazing into my eyes. I try to step away from his hold, but he stays me. “No,” he says sharply. “We’re having this out now.”

Rain has started to fall, misting our faces, and making everything blurry. It’s so fucking apt that I want to laugh. Cold and dreary could describe my entire relationship history.

Raindrops clump his eyelashes, and the green of his irises has become almost grey in this stormy light. We’re alone on the street now, as everyone sensible has headed indoors.

“You’ve met someone,” I snap. “Well, I don’t want to know about him. Stop talking.”

“Believe me, I haven’t even started yet,” he says grimly. He shakes his head, drops spraying from his hair. “But I have to insist you explain yourself first, as me meeting someone is complete fucking news to me.” The incomprehension in his face would be comical in any other situation.

I raise my chin and try to keep the awful hurt from my voice. “Now your fake husband is out of the way you’ve taken up with someone else.”

“Out of the way? I didn’t bury you in a field. And I haven’t taken up with anyone else. I’m bloody married. What the fuck?” He draws in a bolstering breath. “I don’t know where this fictional person even came from, Artie.”

“You were trying to tell me about… him.” I quickly play back our conversation, and suddenly what seemed so sure doesn’t anymore. I shift awkwardly. “I mean, weren’t you?”

His eyes flare with emotion. “No, I fucking wasn’t.”

“Oh.” I stare at him and say quickly, “Then let’s forget what I just said and not discuss it anymore.”

“No, let’s.” He scrutinises my face.

I raise my hands in confusion. “So, what were you trying to say, then? You’re being very odd today.”

“I was trying to tell you that I’m in love with you.” The words come out loud enough to be a shout.

I feel like I’ve just been hit on the head with something heavy. “What?”

“I’m so fucking in love with you,” he repeats, still loud but not as shouty. “I tried to ignore it and call it something else, but the truth is that you’re everything to me. You’re bright and bold, and you warm me all the way through to the cold bits no one has ever touched. And if I’ve lost you because I was stupid, then you can rest assured that it will be the biggest regret of my whole fucking life.” He sucks in air, his eyes panicked. “Shit, I’m so sorry.”

“Why?” I say faintly.

“I had a whole lovely speech planned. This is not the way I wanted to tell you.”

“How did you want to tell me, then?” I whisper.

“With flowers and a big speech. Not on a side street in the middle of a rainstorm while we’re shouting at each other.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Shit,” he says again with feeling.

Suddenly, I want to laugh. Emotion is filling me up like helium in a balloon. So much of it that if his hands weren’t tethering me to the ground, I would float away to the moon.

The rain is thundering down now, bouncing on the pavement and running in rivers down the street. He lets me go and starts to pace, forcing his hand through his hair and muttering about being an idiot. His hair is sopping wet, clinging like a seal’s pelt to his skull.

“Well, I think it was absolutely perfect,” I say loudly, cutting through his emotional rant about being the stupidest person in the world.

“What?” he snaps.

I smile at him. “I said that I think it was perfect.”

He stops mid-pace. “You do?” he asks cautiously. He bites his lip and this wild-looking man is so far from the buttoned-up perfect man I first loved that I want to laugh and kiss him.

I know so well now that he is not perfect. Yet, in the end, it turns out he’s absolutely perfect for me.

“I have a confession,” I say softly, coming closer.

He swallows hard. “Tell me.”

“When we got married, I lied to you.”

His shoulders tense under his sopping jumper and coat. “Why?”

“I was in love with you then,” I say steadily. “I think I’ve been in love with you since I walked into your office, and you smiled at me and took my jacket. And I never stopped. I can’t. It would be like stopping breathing.”

He gasps, his face transforming before me, jubilation and happiness chasing away the heartbreak.

“And,” I continue, “I should have told you that before I made you fake-marry me.”

“I wasn’t ready to hear that you loved me,” he says. We’re two feet away from each other, but it feels like we’re already in each other’s arms. His eyes are brimming with emotion. “I wasn’t ready when you told me, and I’m so sorry for that.”

“I’m not,” I say, suddenly both serene and very certain. “You had to come to it in your own time.”

“Well, I’m sorry it took so long. I’ve been blind. I even kidded myself that these hours we’ve been spending together are just about being friends, when, in reality, the moment you left, my whole world turned grey, and I needed to experience full colour again even if only once a week. Will you forgive me?”

“Of course I do,” I say steadily. “And I’d rather like you to kiss me again.”

And then I’m in his arms. Rain pours down on us as he kisses me. His lips are warm in the cold, and water slicks us, but we don’t care as we kiss on the street, taking our second chance in the same street where David Bowie found his.

seventeen

. . .

artie

We burst into the flat, kissing furiously. Shoes are kicked off, and wet clothes fall to the floor with a splat as hands move, caressing rain-chilled skin.

“I like your flat,” he gasps between kisses as he fumbles with the button on my jeans.

“Name one feature of it.” I moan as he takes my cock in his hand and strokes, the coldness of his hand rapidly heating from my hot flesh.

“You’re naked and in it.”

I laugh, but it fades to a moan as he kisses me and cups my arse, lifting me in one swift move. I wrap my legs around him, rubbing my cock against his as he carries me into the bedroom. He tumbles me onto the bed and follows me down.

It’s fast and furious and full of laughter and groans, but when he’s finally inside me, he slows, stirring his hips as he gazes down at me.

“You,” he says, a wealth of wonder in his voice that makes my throat tighten. “Hello, my love.”

I sniff and brush his hair back, my fingers caressing the stark beauty of his face. “Welcome home, Jed.”

I come awake slowly. I’m warm and feel wonderfully sore inside, like I’ve been used well. I stretch and force my eyes open. I’m lying pressed into Jed’s side. One of his arms is around me, my head is cushioned on his shoulder, and his hand is carding absentmindedly through my hair. The other hand is holding a book that he’s looking at intently.

“What are you reading?” I say hoarsely.

He turns, and his smile is tender and so full of love. “You slept well, sweetheart,” he says, kissing my nose.

“That’s because you were here.”

He looks almost shyly pleased, and I lift up for a proper kiss, and he obliges. When he pulls away, my head is bleary, and my dick is hard. I stretch, pulling him down to me, his book tumbling away, forgotten.

He chuckles, and the next few minutes are spent in lazy, sated kisses that soon grow more heated. I groan as he pulls away. “No, stay. I want you.”

He smiles, and it’s a glorious sight. He’s in my bed naked and looking rumpled and so sexy and all mine. “I want to do something.”

“Is it sexual?” I ask hopefully, and he laughs.

“Not yet, and hopefully, it won’t turn sexual as quickly as it usually does between the two of us. I don’t fancy serving a sentence in a German prison for lewd behaviour.”

“Well, now my cock is hard, and I’m curious. It’s an uncomfortable dichotomy.”

He bursts out laughing and kisses me again. “Get up,” he says, bounding out of bed.

I admire his muscular arse, and when he turns, his hair-roughened chest and spectacular abs.

He winks and begins a sexy strut across the floor. “I feel like I should be wearing something you could stuff money into.”

I start to laugh. “Come closer. I’m sure I can find somewhere to put the notes.”

He claps a hand to his cheek. “You’ll make me blush.”

I roll my eyes. “I sincerely doubt that. You’ve done too much in your life to be shy.”

I gasp as he jumps onto the bed, tumbles me onto my back, and drops kisses over my face.

“Stop,” I shout, trying not to giggle and failing.

He pulls back, looking suddenly serious. “I may have done a lot, but this between you and me is something completely new to me.”

“Not even with Mick?” I clap a hand over my mouth, horrified I’ve brought his name into this exchange.

But he only smiles at me and kisses my fingers. “I loved Mick, but what we had was different from you and me, and I’m so glad of that fact.” He hesitates. “I have things I want to tell you about him and me, but I don’t want to get into it at the moment.”

“Of course. Whenever you’re ready is fine,” I say steadily.

“It’s not because I can’t bear to talk about him. I don’t feel that now,” he says quickly. “It’s because I don’t want that discussion to intrude on the start of us.”

I smile at him, feeling tears in my eyes at his earnest confession. “Is this really the start?”

He brushes my hair back. “It’s the start of the best part.”

“I like that.” I squeak as he rolls me over and slaps my arse.

“Get this beautiful bum up and showered and dressed. I have something to show you.”

I sit up as he leaves the bed. “It’s probably better for the planet if we save water and shower together.”

He rolls his eyes but can’t conceal the way his cock is stiffening. “Have I ever told you that I find ecological concerns very sexy?”

“I’m a member of Friends of the Earth.”

“Oh my god, you are the sexiest man alive,” he says fervently.

I shout with laughter as I hurry into the bathroom with him hot on my heels.

It takes an hour before we manage to separate, and the sheets are damp when he pulls away. “Dress,” he says, pointing at me. “No more of your sexual wiles.” He pauses. “Do you have some paper and a marker pen?”

“Why?”

He flushes and scratches the back of his head awkwardly. He looks adorable, considering that he’s stark naked.

“No reason. Do you have some?”

“In the drawer in the kitchen.”

He hurries out of the room with a speed that rouses my curiosity. I put on some jeans and an old jumper of his that I pinched and that demands rolling up the sleeves.

In the lounge he’s waiting with my coat. He helps me on with it and bustles me out of the door. We walk for a few blocks, exchanging smiles often, and then he hails a cab. He gives the driver quiet instructions and then helps me into the back seat.

“Where are we going?” I ask as he immediately pulls me across the leather seat and wraps his arms around me. I nestle into him with a happy sigh as we watch the world go by. Christmas lights gleam red and gold, and people are heading to dinner, the bars and restaurants shining brightly in the twilight. The rain has stopped, and everywhere glistens in the streetlights. It’s cold, but here with him I’m warm and safe.

“You’ll see. You asked me what I was reading earlier.”

I blink at the change of subject. “Yes, what was it?”

“I was looking for something,” he says mysteriously.

I take a surreptitious glance at the rucksack by his leg. When he sees me looking, he nudges it out of sight. His fingers are tapping on his jean-clad thigh, and I realise with a start that he’s nervous.

“You alright?” I ask.

“Yes, fine,” he says quickly. He looks up as the cab slows, and the driver announces that we’re here.

I get out and look around curiously while he pays the driver. There’s nothing unusual about the street, but my eyes immediately land on a nearby photo booth. It’s painted blue with stickers plastered to it. A black curtain hides its interior. Charmed, I walk closer.

“I’ve heard about these,” I say in delight as Jed takes my hand. “Fotoautomat. They’ve got a bit of a cult following in Berlin. You get several photos taken inside and end up with a souvenir strip of black-and-white shots. That’s cooler than colour, isn’t it?”

“It certainly makes you look younger, and I’ll take all the help I can get.”

I nudge him, looking admiringly at his tall body. “You don’t need any. You’re the sexiest man I’ve ever met, and I have a feeling you’ll only get better as the years pass.”

“Do you mind the big age gap between us?” he asks, hand clutching the mysterious rucksack. “I know I said I wouldn’t mention Mick, but I was a lot younger than him, and it created problems.”

“Did it?” I’m curious about that revelation, but I let my nosiness go. He’ll tell me at another time. I’m sure of that now. I step closer, wanting to ease his worries. I love the way he immediately pulls me against him. No hesitation now—just love and warmth in those sexy green eyes of his.

“No, I don’t care,” I say softly. “I think I was meant for you, and you were meant for me.”

He raises a wry eyebrow. “And it’s that simple?”

“At the centre of everything, yes.” I stare at him. “Does it worry you?”

“It should do.”

“But?” I prompt as he falls silent.

“But I don’t care.” He smiles hesitantly at me. “I’ve learnt that being without you is awful, and I want to spend my life with you as long as I’m given.”

“Oh, don’t talk like that,” I say, distressed.

He murmurs an inarticulate endearment and hugs me close. “I just want you to know that I choose you.”

“And I choose you,” I say. “I think I’m older than I should be, and you’re younger, and we meet in the middle, and it’s what I want, and that will never change.” The certainty in my voice seems to settle him, and he smiles at me and drops a kiss on my nose.

“You have to know that you would have been my downfall if you had stopped loving me,” he says solemnly.

“I don’t want that,” I immediately say, my throat tight at the thought that he remembered my words. It’s the way he always remembers things about me. He notices me and takes steps to protect my soft centre, and I now vow to do the same for him. “That won’t happen,” I say sternly. He nods and drops a soft kiss on my lips. When he pulls back, I look at the photo booth again curiously. “Are we here to have our pictures taken?”

“Yes.” He licks his lips. “I want a photo with you.”

I look at him askance. “We could have just taken one in bed and avoided having to get dressed.”

“Artie,” he groans reprovingly. “Don’t give me an inconvenient hard-on.”

I snort. “I won’t. I only want to give you convenient hard-ons from now on.”

We step closer to the booth, and when I read the notice on the side, I laugh. “It says to be quiet after eleven o’clock. What the hell do people do in these booths?” I shiver as the wind blows down the street, making my eyes water. “We’re lucky there’s no one waiting. Apparently, there’s usually a queue. The weather must have put people off. Shall we get a picture, then?”

He clutches the rucksack tight and gestures me into the booth. I shoot him a look but obey his urging. The interior is tiny and not meant for men his height, and we break into helpless laughter as we contort ourselves to fit on the small stool together. We finally settle with me in his lap. I slouch down so the camera angle gets both of us.

“Ready?” I ask as he gives me a coin to put in the slot next to me.

He stays my hands. “Wait.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to hold up some papers,” he says, ducking to reach into his bag. He pulls out a sheaf of papers and holds them close to his chest.

“Okay,” I say slowly, desperately wondering what’s written on them.

“And you mustn’t look. Promise me you’ll just smile and not try to read the message.”

“There’s a message?”

He says nothing, pressing his lips together.

I smile. “You’re being very mysterious.” I pinch his cheek affectionately. “But okay.” I hold up the coin. “Ready?”

He swallows hard and nods.

I insert the coin and immediately sit back in his lap as he holds up a piece of paper in front of me aimed at the screen. The first flash still surprises us, and I’m pretty sure we both look startled, as everyone does in these booths.

I snort. “Shit, that’s bright.”

I sit back again as he holds up another sheet of paper, and this time, when the flash goes off, I manage a smile. I probably still look like a startled rabbit, and Jed will look as handsome as ever, but we pose for the rest of the shots, and I keep my promise not to peek.

He pokes his head out of the booth when our time is up. He smiles. “Nobody’s waiting. Let’s sit here while the photos develop. We’ve only got a minute.”

“We can snog,” I offer.

“You have the best ideas.” He pulls me close and takes my lips in a lush kiss. I run my hands over his shoulders and discover his body seems to be thrumming with nerves.

I pull back. “Are you really okay?” I ask.

He smiles at me and then sets me on my feet. “The photos will be ready.”

“Just so you know, you’re being sexily mysterious right now.”

He drops me a wink. “And just think. I’m not even trying.”

We step out. The street is still deserted, but the wind has died down. A string of nearby Christmas lights play over Jed’s face, giving his features a magical cast. There’s a whirring, and I watch as a strip of photos dispenses from the booth’s slot. Jed picks up the strip, hiding it from me as he looks at it. He swallows convulsively, and I step closer.

“Are they bad? I’m pretty sure I’m going to look like a serial killer, and I’m equally sure I’m going to frame it and keep it on my desk at Confetti Hitched.”

Without looking at me, he hands it to me. “See what you think,” he says almost brusquely.

I look down, and as my smile dies, my eyes widen in shock. The photos are actually lovely. My huge grin is alive with love and happiness, and Jed is watching me raptly as if I’m everything he’ll ever want or need. But it isn’t that which stuns me. I can now read the messages on the sheets of paper.

The first photo’s page has one word on it—Will. The second has You, the third has Marry, and the last one has Me.

Will you marry me?

My hand starts to shake. He’s watching me solemnly, his eyes big and dark.

“Will you?” His voice is hoarse.

“We already are married,” I whisper.

He steps close, bending his head to hear me. “Not like we should be. The first one was fake. This is real.”

“I think we were always real.”

He smiles. “You could be right.”

I gasp as he goes to his knees, looking up at me.

“The ground is wet,” I whisper.

“So?” He takes a breath and kisses my hand. “Arthur Campbell, will you take me in sickness and in health, in foolish decisions and in all my stupid stubbornness? Will you stand by my side when dealing with chaotic building apprentices and mad brides and grooms? Will you keep me, despite my complete failure to realise what I had until I lost you?” Emotion is written all over his face, as clear as day for anyone to read. “Will you marry me again?”

“I will,” I say solemnly, pulling him to his feet. And then he kisses me lushly on the empty street, the photos held tightly in my hand.

I’m definitely framing them, because this is the best moment of my life. For now, anyway. Jed Walker will give me many more.

epilogue

. . .

Six Months Later

artie

“Those are crooked, Raff.”

Jed scales the stepladder nimbly, grabbing the offending strand of fairy lights and winding it correctly around the old beam. I rush to grab the ladder’s base and stand admiring the sight of his tall body clad in faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and old Vans. His hair is longer than ever, and summer has woven golden threads in the silky strands like secret treasure.

Raff huffs. “You are the bossiest groom I’ve ever met.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t know how you can say that. Didn’t Martin demand a meeting with you at two in the morning to discuss the font on his wedding invitations?”

“He may have demanded it, but I didn’t give in,” he corrects me, giving a haughty sniff. “I’m no one’s bitch.”

“What time did you meet him?” Jed asks wryly as he comes down the ladder.

“At three a.m., but that’s not the point,” Raff insists as we all break into laughter.

Jed slings his arm over my shoulder as I look around with appreciation.

We’re back in Mal and Cadan’s barn, but that’s the only similarity from last year. Now it’s decorated with beautiful mismatched painted tables and chairs with bright seat cushions. Bunting in bright colours swings merrily in the breeze and the sunlight catches the glassware, making rainbow patterns on the wood floor. It’s quirky and warm and there are no hay bales in sight.

The most important difference is that the man I’m marrying, loves me back.

As if sensing my thoughts, he drops a kiss on my head. “Happy?” he asks.

“How can I be otherwise? Especially when you’ve gone to so much effort for me.”

He’d insisted that we renew our vows, and ever since that day he proposed to me outside the Berlin photo booth, he’s been planning our wedding. He booked Mal’s barn, bought new rings, and we’re going on a honeymoon to Positano tomorrow, because we’ve been reading a thriller set there, and I’d been raving about the descriptions. I know he’s trying to make things special for me, but as I’ve told him before many times, they’re already that. This is just some lovely marital icing.

“Yes, I don’t know how I ever managed to ignore your charming suggestion that we just exchange our vows while eating beans on toast,” he says wryly.

I snort. “I admit it’s not everyone’s idea of romance.”

“I wish it had been Martin’s,” Raff grumbles. “I swear I have grey hairs from his constant demands. He would make King Charles seem humble.”

“The grey will hide the ginger,” Jed observes.

Raff growls. “Strawberry blond.”

“And I’m Sly Stallone.”

Footsteps sound, and Joe appears. “Everything’s ready,” he announces. “The guests will get here in an hour.”

“My family?” Jed asks.

“On their way. They had to stop twice because your mum was convinced she’d left the oven on.”

Jed groans. “She did that once. We had to return home all the way back from Devon. The only bright side to having a fire in the extension was that we got to play on the fireman’s pole.”

He stops, realising what he just said, and Rafferty snorts. “You saucy little strumpet.”

“I was five.”

“Well, your arsonist parent is about twenty minutes away.” Joe grins at me. “Daisy and Paige are getting ready, and then they’ll help with the finishing touches.”

The woman who Daisy was keeping secret was actually her ex. They’d met at a party and reconnected, and they live together now. Daisy says they still have things they need to work on, but she’s happy and loved. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for her.

Raff offers us a rather salacious wink. “So, all you’ve got to do is go to the hotel and do your thang.”

“Please, no,” Jed says faintly as I laugh.

Raff sniffs. “I still think it’s weird that this is a vow-renewal ceremony, and your many guests are here to party but not hear your actual vows.”

Jed rolls his eyes. “I have no wish to express the innermost secrets of my heart with you gurning at me over Artie’s shoulder.”

“Gurning?” Raff says, outraged. “I do not gurn. My special empathetic smile lets my brides and grooms know I’m with them in the special bosom of their love.”

Jed grimaces. “I don’t want to be anywhere near your bosom, thank you very much.”

“Stan, tell them I don’t gurn,” Raff calls.

His husband stirs at the table next to us, where he’s sitting with his guide dog Hump at his knee. “I can’t see it, babe, but I know it’ll be a bit creepy. It’s in your voice.”

“Et tu brute?” Raff says crossly.

Stan shrugs, unconcerned. “I was just glad you didn’t do the voice at our wedding. It would have been like plighting my troth to the child snatcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”

“Come on,” Jed says and tugs me out of the barn, leaving them all taking the piss out of Raff.

The sun is hot in the sky, and as far as I can see, there are green fields and the sparkle of the sea. Seagulls call as they rise on the wind, and the trees rustle in the breeze.

“God, it’s lovely,” I say. Jed puts his arm around me and we look out at the sea. “It was an inspired choice to have it here.”

“I am full of them. Please put that on the agenda for the team meeting.”

“I don’t want to encourage you.”

He kisses my forehead. “I never get away with anything with you around anyway.”

“And you like that.”

“You know I do.” The humour in his voice makes me smile.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” I say quietly. “The last time we were here for that wedding, I didn’t think you loved me. It all felt helpless.”

He hugs me a little tighter. “I may have been a little slow on the uptake, but I can promise you that you will always be the love of my life.”

I kiss him, feeling the words of his love sweet on his tongue. Maybe that’s love. Perhaps it’s the honey from the farm. Whatever it is, I love it.

Then, arm in arm, we stroll down the dusty path. We have plans and friends to celebrate with, but at the heart of this day, it’s just him and me. And that’s a special kind of magic to me and always will be.

jed

Carrying our bags, I turn to watch Artie as we walk along the corridor to our suite.

The delight on his face is the reward for my secret plans.

“No,” he says. “The same suite?”

“The very same.” I lean closer and kiss him, taking his familiar scent into me. “And I have to warn you that I intend our night to end in exactly the same way.” The door opens, and I pause. “Should I carry you over the threshold?”

He rolls his eyes, the sassy side of him that I seem to have brought out making me want to kiss him. I do so, and when I pull back, his colour is high, but the sass is still there.

He says, “I have plans that require your back to be in working order, so no carrying me.”

I gesture for him to go in and then pause, holding my breath. There’s silence for a second, and then he says, “Oh, Jed.”

In his voice is a world of love, and I feel the same emotion rise in me to join his.

I follow him in and he gazes at me with tears in his pretty eyes. “Oh, they’re so beautiful,” he whispers. “Did you do this?”

He’s standing in a sea of paper flowers. They cover every surface and hang in garlands around the room and over the window in an explosion of bright colours.

“I did.” I drop the bags as he reaches me in two quick steps, flinging himself into my arms. “It’s a good job I’ve been planning this for a while because it’s taken that long to make them. Joe came over and arranged them while we were in the barn.”

My words fade as he kisses me fiercely, winding his arms around me. When he pulls back, I chase his mouth, but he puts his hand over my lips.

His eyes are shiny and filled with love and humour. “You must be very popular with the English origami industry.”

“I might try for chairman,” I say modestly, and he starts to laugh.

“I doubt you’re as popular with the trees.”

I snort, and then we both break into gales of laughter. I tuck his smaller body against mine, loving the feel of him. He may be a quiet man to everyone else, but to me, he’s larger than life. He seems the stronger of us, because he holds our relationship so easily in the palms of his hands. He’s intuitive, passionate, kind, and clever, and I respect him immensely. I also love him more than I have ever loved anyone, and my love gets stronger every day I spend with him.

My wedding vows are nothing compared to the quiet resolution I have inside to keep cherishing him. It’s thanks to him that I have all this—life, love, and my best friend.

“Let’s say our vows now,” he says.

I go still. “Not in our suits?”

He pulls a funny face. “That’s not us. Let’s do it on the hop. We make our best decisions like that.”

“Really?”

He winks. “I seem to remember a wedding proposal happening like that.”

“I seem to recall you spitting your drink in my face.”

He laughs, and the light in his expression makes me catch my breath because of how beautiful he is.

“Okay, I’ll go first.”

I grin. “I might have known.” I catch his hand, kissing the long fingers that hold my heart so easily. “That’s because you’re braver than me.”

He looks startled. “I am not.”

“Yes, you are. You have more courage than anyone I know.” I step back. “Like this?” I ask, and he immediately shakes his head and steps back into my arms.

“Like this. I might be brave, but right here is where my courage comes from.”

I kiss his nose. “Go on then.”

He takes in a breath, and the room seems to go still. It’s very quiet, and all I can hear is the wind in the trees, and the sound of my heartbeat.

“Jed, I love you.” He pauses and chuckles. “That’s it really. I love you. I will always love you. I promise to guard your soft spot and keep it safe like I do your heart, because you’re the whole world to me.”

I swallow hard. “I promise to love you until the end of my life. I will look after you, and I will let you look after me, too. I want to keep laughing loudly with you and then talking in whispers in our bed at midnight. I promise to take your advice on wallpaper after the one I picked seared our retinas.”

“It gave me nightmares about it coming alive.”

“Ahem. Are these my vows or a chat about poor decision-making?”

“Can’t it be both?”

“I promise to always laugh at your jokes, and to always take you dancing.”

“Can I add that I want to always have our book club?”

I shake my head. “Nope. You had your chance. Now it’s my turn to be as romantic.”

“I promise you that I will always love going home with you,” he says simply. “Because you are my home.”

“Why do you always have the last word?”

“Because you love it.”

“Not as much as I love you.” I grab his face between my hands. “I will always give you paper roses.”

“Even though they’re not real and take more work?”

“You will always be worth any amount of work.” I look at the sea of colour—at the paper orchids, roses, daffodils, and violets. “I have a sneaking fondness for paper flowers,” I admit. “We started our married life like them—all perfect lines because we were on show, but as time went by, we grew comfortable and mellow, full of creases and imperfections that only we can see.”

“And what happens when our colours get pale?”

I kiss him again before answering. “Well, that won’t matter because the love and devotion will never fade.”

Do you want to read the rest of the Confetti Hitched series?

Joe Bagshaw doesn’t believe in love or marriage anymore, which is rather a hindrance for a wedding planner.

His own marriage was a whirlwind affair that ended before the ink could dry on the wedding certificate. Nevertheless, even with his divorce pending, he’s getting by. Or at least he was until he finds himself snowed in at a remote Scottish hotel with the wedding party from hell, a terrible ABBA tribute band, and his soon-to-be ex-husband.

Lachlan has missed Joe from the second his husband walked away. He wants Joe back and is prepared to do anything to get him. Being snowed in together seems to offer the chance Lachlan needs, but does he have what it takes to get Joe to trust in love and their marriage again?

From bestselling author Lily Morton, comes a romantic comedy about love, matrimony, and the best of second chances.

This is the first book in the Confetti Hitched series.

Stan has never let his blindness hold him back, but he’s beginning to realise his love life is keeping him from moving forward.

He can’t remember a time when he wasn’t in love with his best friend. Rafferty is everything to him—his partner in crime, his confidante, and the person who understands him best. But Rafferty is incapable of reciprocating Stan’s feelings.

As a successful wedding planner, Rafferty is passionately committed to helping newlyweds begin their happily-ever-afters, but after a rootless childhood he’s equally determined not to seek his own. How can he trust in love and marriage when so many of his brides and grooms are repeat customers?

Stan is the glue that keeps the pieces of Rafferty’s life together, and as such Rafferty has always kept Stan safely in the friend box where he can’t lose him. However, lately that conviction has wavered and now Rafferty is bursting with complicated feelings for his best friend. The timing couldn’t be worse because Rafferty has realised he’s in love with Stan just as Stan is moving on.

From bestselling author Lily Morton comes a friends-to-lovers story about realising you have the perfect man when you’re on the brink of losing him.

This is the second book in the bestselling Confetti Hitched series, but it can be read as a standalone.

Are you interested in Mal and Cadan? You’ll find their story in Spring Strings.

Malachi Booth is a supermodel. He’s used to moving about the world, sleeping with whoever takes his fancy and watching the money roll in.

The last place he expects to find himself is on a run-down farm in Cornwall, but a bad bout of bronchitis means that he’s stuck there. The only compensation for this dismal state of affairs is that the farmer is very good looking, even if he’s the grumpiest person that Malachi has ever met.

Cadan Landry’s farm has been in his family for hundreds of years but that doesn’t make it any easier to make ends meet. As a consequence, Cadan could be called grumpy.

Most men would consider a supermodel collapsing at their feet while dressed in the skimpiest pair of briefs ever made to be a sign of good fortune. Cadan just resents the fact that the young man is taking up space in his cow field.

These two men are from different worlds, but can they ever meet in the middle?

From bestselling author Lily Morton comes a novella about snarky models, misconceptions, and finding a home in the most unlikely of places.

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thank you

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To all the bloggers who spend their valuable time reading, reviewing, and promoting the books. Also, the readers who liven up my day with their messages and photos and book recommendations. I love being a part of this community, so thank you.

Lastly, thanks to you for taking a chance on this book. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I never knew until I wrote my first book how important reviews are. So, if you have time, please consider leaving a review on Amazon or Goodreads or any other review sites. I can promise you that I value all of them.

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also by lily morton

Mixed Messages Series

Rule Breaker

Deal Maker

Risk Taker

Vow Maker

The Finding Home Series

Oz

Milo

Gideon

The Close Proximity Series

Best Man

Charlie Sunshine

After Felix

The Model Agency Series

The Sunny Side

French Fancy

Confetti Hitched Series

Confetti Hearts

Something Borrowed

Paper Roses

Black & Blue Series

The Mysterious and Amazing Blue Billings

The Quiet House

Something Wicked

Arcana Books

The Sceptic

Holiday Books

On a Midnight Clear

The Wright Brothers

On Circus Lane

Merry Measure

Other Books

The Summer of Us

The Cuckoo’s Call

Beautifully Unexpected

Short Story Collections

Short Stack

Short Stack 2

Short Stories and Novellas

Playground Games

Spring Strings

The Stopping Place

My Darcy

The Player

Collections

The Complete Mixed Messages Series

The Complete Finding Home Series

The Complete Close Proximity Series

Newsletter Exclusive Short Stories

3 Dates

Best Love