Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(14)

What if he never rings back? a small voice in my head asks. I immediately connect the call.

I’m proud of how cool my voice sounds when I say, “Call me a silly noodle with dandelion seeds for brains, but I don’t actually recall giving you my number.”

“Well, that’ll be all the rum cocktails and blowjobs. They age a person’s brain.”

“What medical report was that in? I don’t recall reading that.”

“I’m sure it was in The Lancet. You must have missed it.”

“Probably. If it’s not in my copy of ‘How to Calm a Bride Down in Twenty Seconds’ I won’t pay attention.”

His laughter is rich and warm in my ear. I squirm, because the last time I’d heard his laugh, he’d just made me come. It was our second bout of sex at about five in the morning when I’d woken up to him rutting against me. I’d pushed back demandingly, and he’d gloved up and shoved into me, still on our sides. It had been devastatingly good.

“So how can I help you, Lachlan Moore? Are you getting married?”

“God forbid. I’d rather cover myself in marmite, staple myself to a telephone pole, and let the crows eat me.”

I chuckle. “Graphic but honest. So, what do you need a wedding planner for?”

“Well, it’s not just any wedding planner.”

“Oh really?”

“He must be dark-haired and devastatingly charming.”

I bite my lip. “That’s a really niche market. And if you find this mythical and extremely gorgeous-sounding being, what do you want with him?”

“I was thinking of doing something.”

My heartbeat picks up speed, but I keep my voice light. “I’m fairly sure I know this wedding planner and he’s a bit of a ho, so it’s likely that you’ve already done something.”

He chuckles. “And very memorable it was. No, I’m talking him, me, and a nice meal.”

I’m blindsided by the jubilation stealing through me. The emotion is far too intense for someone I’ve fucked a couple of times. The problem is he’s funny and wry and something about him makes me come alive. I’ve never felt that with a bloke before and it makes me slightly nervous.

The silence must have gone on too long because he says, “Joe?” and I catch a hint of worry in his voice, as if my answer is important to him.

It’s this that makes me respond before I can second-guess myself anymore. “Well, I’m sure I can pencil you in my diary somewhere.”

“Saturday? I’m in Zurich this week, but I’m back then.”

And there it is again—a sense of urgency, as if he needs to pin me down while he has me.

“I’ll look forward to it,” I say, the truth far too evident in my voice.





Chapter

Three





Joe



The doorbell rings and I jerk. Fuck, he’s here already.

I hesitate and then it rings again, and the thought that he might bugger off galvanises me. I race to the door, banging my shin on a cupboard.

Humphrey hisses at me. “Behave,” I whisper. “Do not bite, scratch, or maim Lachlan. I like this one.”

He gives me a malevolent glare, and I throw the door open.

Lachlan is standing there dressed in a navy-blue three-piece suit with a white shirt and no tie, suave and sophisticated. When he catches sight of my appearance, his expression registers astonishment and then mirth.

“Well, hello,” he drawls. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

“Ha ha. It’s a long story.”

“Any story that finishes with you covered by the contents of a cocktail cabinet should be interesting.” He sniffs the air. “Unless you’ve got a drinking problem that I’m unaware of.”

“I hardly know you. You wouldn’t be aware of anything other than how my arse feels around your dick.”

He bites his lip, his eyes brimming with humour. “Tight, hot, and like a warm vise,” he intones.

I grimace and adjust myself. “Thanks for that. It’s uncomfortable to get an erection in wet pants.”

“Not something I’d know anything about.”

“That’s because you’re not in the wedding-planning business.” I gesture. “Come on in while I get changed.”

He steps into the lounge and goes still. “Good god. Was there a home invasion?”

After shutting the door, I look around in bewilderment. “Pardon?”

He gestures at the room. Stacks of bridal magazines teeter on the coffee table, a box of party favour bags lies abandoned on one side, its contents strewn around the lounge, while the sofa is buried under dry-cleaning bags, a stack of cravats, and a couple of top hats.

“Oh, it’s usually like this.”

His eyes are bright with amusement. “Okay.” Then he freezes as Humphrey wanders into the room. “You have a cat?”

“Said in the tone of noticing I own a Bengal Tiger.” I give Humphrey an amused glance. “Although that’s not too far off the mark. Do not put your fingers, nose, or any appendages that you’re very fond of near him.”

“I’m rather fond of all of them.”