Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(26)

“See something you like?” he says, winking at me.

“I’m seeing incorrect wedding attire,” I say tartly. “Not a cravat in sight, and where is your tailcoat?”

“But you’re comfortable, aren’t you?” he asks.

I look down at my own outfit of jeans and a white T-shirt, and I have to admit he’s right.

He nods. “And what’s better than being comfortable when you’re getting married?”

His eyes are bright probably from the hipflask he produced in the limo, the contents of which we drained on the trip here. I sway a little and wonder if there’s a breeze.

He comes around the limo and smiles at the driver. “You’ll wait?”

He nods and produces a book. “It won’t take long, sir.”

“Come on, then,” Lachlan slurs and then staggers. He’s completely blitzed, which for some reason, strikes me as being very funny.

I laugh and he joins me until we’re hanging on to each other in the car park, our eyes wet with tears of laughter. “Wait,” I finally say, something occurring to me. “Don’t we need a tie?”

“I don’t.”

“Well, I think I should have one,” I say fretfully.

Lachlan shoots me a smile that would look almost adoring on someone else. “Okay, babe.” He turns to the chauffeur. “Five hundred for your tie, mate.”

“Lachlan,” I say, outraged.

The driver nods and quickly strips it off. “Here, sir.”

I fasten it around my neck. “What about flowers?” I fold my arms and then reconsider when I become even more unbalanced.

“You seem to have a lot of opinions for someone who was willing for me to do everything.” He turns to the rose bush in the parking lot and tears off one blossom with a great deal of cursing. Then he turns back to me and proffers the bloom with his hand raised. His smile is triumphant and boyish. “A flower for my flower.”

I snort. “You’re such a twat.”

I look down at my T-shirt with no buttonhole and settle for putting the rose behind my ear as he tugs me along after him.

“Come on,” he says enthusiastically.

Lachlan pulls open the glass door after several aborted tries at pushing it, and we stumble into the foyer laughing.

“Evening, folks.” A grey-haired lady is sitting behind the counter and Lachlan moves towards her.

“Good evening. We would like to get married.” Lachlan’s words are painstaking and very pronounced in an effort to appear sober. “I have the marriage license.”

“When did you get that?” I slur.

He shrugs and staggers slightly. “County clerk’s office.”

“At this time of night?” I sound as scandalised as a maiden aunt.

“They stay open late,” the old lady says, waiting patiently as Lachlan fumbles in his pocket for the paperwork.

“I believe that is all correct,” he says trying a wink that just makes him look demented. “So now we can get hitched.”

Good luck with that, I think dreamily. They’ll never marry us when we’re drunk. Maybe that’s why I’ve gone along with this.

“Of course, sir. How exciting,” the old lady says, peering rather myopically at us.

I spin around. “You’re going to actually marry us like this?” I say incredulously. “What about your civic—” I pause to hiccup. “Your civic charter?”

Lachlan snorts. “He says the most romantic things,” he confides to the old lady, resting his elbow on the counter. I’m not sure whether he’s trying for casual or attempting to stop himself falling over.

She smiles at him. “Ah, to be young and in love again.”

We both stare at her, and she smiles, unconcerned. “Would you like flowers?”

Lachlan nods. “As many as possible. All the flowers in the whole world,” he says in a grandiose manner.

She tots figures into a calculator, and I look at the dust on the till. I wonder how long it’s been since they did a wedding. I have a sudden fanciful notion of her being like Sleeping Beauty going to sleep for a hundred years, but instead of a bramble hedge, she’s been hemmed in by fat baby statues and out-of-control shrubbery.

I look around. The reception area is wood panelled and covered in photos of newlyweds and certificates. I look a bit closer at the pictures. Most of them appear to have been taken in the seventies and eighties.

“Earl,” the lady suddenly shouts, making us jump. “Earl. You there, honey?”

There’s a thump from behind a nearby door and muffled cursing. The door flies open, and a tall older man appears with thick grey hair and pouchy eyes. “Lorna?”

“These folks here want to get married, Earl. They’re Lachlan and Joe.”

Earl blinks, looking slightly surprised that he’s working in a wedding chapel.

“Well, that’s great, honey,” he says, rubbing his hands. He looks over at us. “And do you want the King to marry you?”

“King Charles?” I say blankly.

“No, the King. Elvis,” Earl says, looking as though Charles wouldn’t be allowed here even if he begged to move to Vegas and get a job.

“Oh yes,” I say, suddenly excited.