Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(28)
“Wow, that’s really something,” I say. “Have I gone blind or just got a bit of retinal damage?”
He snorts. “It was all they had in the jewellers shop at the hotel.”
“You mean these stones are real?” My voice is too loud and Earl stops speaking.
Lachlan winks. “Only the best for you, pretty baby.”
“Ah, spoken like the King himself,” Earl intones solemnly. “He would have approved of the ring. I now pronounce you husband and husband.” He leans close. “Remember—love him tender, and never have suspicious minds or you’ll end up in heartbreak hotel.”
Lachlan throws his arms around me, and we sway together as he lays a kiss on me that’s suitable only for a bedroom. Earl and Hudson cheer loudly, and Lorna throws confetti, sending tiny pastel hearts fluttering around us.
It’s only later when we’re in bed—Lachlan snoring softly, the room spinning gently around me, Las Vegas lights twinkling from the windows and shining on the blingiest ring ever—that I realise what was missing from the whole incredible night.
We never said, “I love you.” And I have a horrible feeling that love is what I’m feeling for the man I just married.
Chapter
Six
Four Months Later
Joe
My phone rings as I walk up the steps to Lachlan’s house. Our house, I remind myself for the thousandth time. Our house.
I fumble for the phone in my pocket. “What’s up, Raff?”
“I’m bored.”
I snort. “How can you possibly be bored at the wedding of the century?”
“Can you believe they put that on the invitations? It raised people’s expectations dangerously high. There’s been a lot of muttering around the buffet table.”
“With that wording I was expecting Austin Butler to be doing naked juggling.”
“More people would be in the wedding planning business if that was the case.”
“Why are you really calling, Raff?”
He hesitates. “You just looked a bit sad this afternoon. I wanted to check that you were okay.”
“I’m fine.”
“Really?”
I sit down on the step, and the cold marble chills me through the seat of my trousers. “I will be.”
“Why? Are you going to speak to Lachlan?”
“And say what?”
“That you’re lonely and don’t feel married.”
“And why would I say that?”
“Because it’s the truth, and I’m tired of pussyfooting around it.”
“I’m not unhappy. It’s just a bit like being married to…”
“To what? Big Foot? Boris Johnson?”
“A stranger. He’s away so much it’s like being married to Lord Lucan.”
“You didn’t really know him before he swept you off your feet.”
“Is that flowery expression anything to do with the Austen-themed wedding of last week?”
“Bloody thing. It’s entered my consciousness in a way few others have managed. Yesterday I looked for my riding boots before I remembered I can’t ride and don’t ever want to.”
I snort and then rub my eyes. “I’ll talk to him.” I brighten. “We’re away this weekend anyway.”
“Perfect timing.” His voice is soft when he speaks next. “I want to see you happy, and I haven’t seen that in a while, Joe.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I let myself into the house and immediately kick off my shoes. I take two steps before realising I’ve committed a major no-no. I guiltily shove them under the foyer console table and sigh. Guilt and worry should not be the first feelings I experience upon arriving home. And the ridiculous dance I do with my shoes every day is yet another reason for why this house doesn’t feel like home.
There’s no comfortable clutter. As I walk through the foyer, I’m not ensconced in cosiness. Where my flat felt like a warm, safe nest, this place feels like a huge mausoleum. A very tidy mausoleum.
The surfaces aren’t covered with empty mugs, or plates that have half-eaten pieces of toast on them. This is all thanks to Mrs Ward, Lachlan’s housekeeper, a woman who frequently sniffs at me as though I need to be scrubbed.
As if on cue, steady footsteps sound in the corridor. I look up and offer a half-hearted smile at my nemesis. “Good evening, Mrs Ward. How are you?”
“Your cat has regurgitated a hairball in the lounge.”
“Oh dear. I hope you left it for me to clean up.” Humphrey is fascinated with Lachlan’s housekeeper, but the sentiment is not returned, and he’s another blot on my copybook.
“Mr Moore is upstairs,” she says, ignoring my question. Her eyes narrow as she looks down and sees my shoes in a pile under the table.
“Oh sorry,” I say quickly. “I’m going to move them. I promise.” I give a nervous laugh and she sniffs disdainfully.
Her dislike was apparent from the first minute I met her. Granted, it wasn’t the best circumstances. She’d walked into Lachlan’s bedroom, probably expecting to find it in its usual polished and tranquil state, and she’d found me and Lachlan in bed, with our Vegas debauchery still clinging to us.