Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(38)

“And then kissed the bottom of a vodka bottle considering the way you looked that night,” Rafferty says.

Ingrid shakes her hair back with a practised sweep. “What about Lachlan?” she asks tentatively.

“What about him? He’s probably dick deep in all the men he has hanging over him. As long as they don’t interfere with his spreadsheets.”

“He wouldn’t be happy with you falling over men in clubs,” Rafferty observes.

I glare at him. “Why? Would I get in the way of him doing the same? What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,” I intone.

He narrows his eyes. “And which one are you?”

Ingrid shifts on the desk. “Well, he rang again yesterday. Four times.”

I groan. “That’s probably about the bloody divorce papers. I sent them again. He must want to talk about them.”

“I’m not sure talk is what he wants to do,” Rafferty says. “Didn’t he sign the last lot as Tinky-Winky the Teletubby?”

“Yes, and the solicitor did not find that funny,” I say primly.

Ingrid laughs and then immediately sobers. “He really needs to talk to you. He sounded desperate.”

“That’s about the last word I’d associate with Lachlan. Don’t worry about him.” I point a finger at her. “And don’t be giving him any encouragement. You’re my friend, not his.”

“I know,” she says indignantly. She offers me an apologetic look. “I just hate to hear him so unhappy.”

“He’s not unhappy at all,” I say, mystified. “He was probably in a rush with work.”

She exchanges a look with Rafferty she doesn’t think I see. “Okay,” she says peaceably. “I’m just sad that you’re not together anymore. You and he were perfect for each other, and I’ve never had a man look at me the way Lachlan looked at you.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know when you went and got so romantic. I would have thought working in a wedding-planning office would have got rid of that for you,” I say disapprovingly. “You sound horribly like my mum.”

“You love your mum,” Arthur says, coming back into the office. His cheeks are flushed from close contact with Jed.

“I do not love her current alliance with my ex-husband.”

“It’s not an ex until the ink dries,” Rafferty says distractedly. He retrieves his mouse out of the bin. “Shit. Who put this cake in my bin?”

“You,” Arthur says patiently. “When Maureen dropped off those samples, you said if you ate any more, we’d have to widen the doors.”

“We’ll have to do it anyway for his mouth,” I say sweetly.

Ingrid stands up. “Have you made any plans for your week off other than sulking in your flat?”

“I do not sulk. I sit thinking about serious and world-shatteringly important things.” Rafferty snorts and I shoot him the finger. “Anyway. I’m going to Thailand to sit on a beach and ogle men in skimpy swimsuits.” The Thailand notion was just a throwaway comment said to get my mum off my back, but now I think about it, it’s an inspired idea. I can get away from all the daily reminders about my failed marriage.

Rafferty, Ingrid, and Arthur observe me disapprovingly.

“What?” I groan.

“You’re going away on your own?” Arthur says. “What about Lachlan?”

“What about him? Traditionally, you do not take your ex-husband on a holiday.”

“He’s not your ex-husband yet,” Rafferty says.

“Only because of his predilection for signing his name as a Teletubby.” I open my laptop and start searching for holidays in Thailand.

My friends continue to scrutinize me. I suppose I can’t blame them. I’ve never told them what happened to end my marriage. At first it was because I was so devastated I literally couldn’t talk about it. I don’t know what’s still keeping me silent on the subject—maybe embarrassment or an utterly misguided sense of loyalty to the cheating bastard. “The whole relationship was a mistake from the beginning anyway,” I say firmly to shut the conversation down. “We were a hook-up that shouldn’t have lasted. He never felt he was married, and he never really loved me. We were drunk when he proposed and even drunker when he put a ring on it. Nothing good ever comes of being drunk.”

“Unless you’re Oliver Reed,” Rafferty says thoughtfully.





Chapter

Nine





Loch Lomond

Scotland



Joe



I shoulder my bag as I come out of the bed and breakfast and immediately reel back. “Fuck.” The curse is heartfelt.

There’s a chuckle behind me. “It’s a bit brisk this morning,” the bed and breakfast’s owner observes as she joins me.

“Brisk? It passed that about ten degrees ago.”

Her eyes crease in amusement. “This isn’t particularly cold. It gets a lot worse than this.”

“Hopefully, that will happen when I’m on the plane to Thailand tomorrow. You can sit around chuckling about the adverse weather conditions on your own.”

She laughs and then casts a seasoned eye at the sky. “There’s a lot of snow on the way,” she observes. “Are you driving up to the hotel?”