Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(61)

Fifteen minutes later, we tread down the stairs. “It’s very quiet,” I observe. The place lacks any of the usual bustle of a hotel in the morning.

Lachlan nods and I sneak a look at him. He’s wearing an old pair of jeans and a black turtleneck jumper. I’ve always loved him in casual clothes. He fills a suit out like a dream but somehow in jeans and a jumper he seems more on my level.

I frown. My level? What the hell does that mean?

Lachlan pauses on the step below me. “You okay? Is it your head?” he asks, a frown of concern on his handsome face that shouldn’t please me as much as it does.

“Oh, fine,” I say quickly. “Just hungry.”

“Where is everyone?” Lachlan says. He wanders into the dining room and then pops his head back out. “There’s no one in there. The tables aren’t laid up for breakfast yet, and there’s no sign of anyone about.”

“Odd. Try the kitchen. Maybe Dougal is in there.”

After crossing the dining room, we enter the kitchen through swinging doors. The room is pristine, the stainless steel worksurfaces gleaming, so someone obviously did their job clearing up, but there’s no sign of any breakfast preparations.

“Are we early?” I wonder. “I didn’t see a time for breakfast, but there’s usually something being served by eight.”

We both turn as the door swings open and Cameron the waiter appears, closely followed by his girlfriend, Isla. They both look tired.

“Morning,” I say. “Sorry we’re back here, but we couldn’t find anyone about.”

“Dougal is ill,” Isla says. She’s a beautiful woman with a head of bright-red, long hair and very blue eyes.

“You look so much like Dougal. Was he a young uncle?” I ask.

Lachlan shakes his head. “You are the source of all nosiness.”

She smiles at me. “Yes, he’s much younger than my mum. I popped my head into his flat, and he’s feeling really poorly and sorry for himself. It’s the cold that’s going around.”

“Oh dear.” I look between her and Cameron, who appears to be a man of few words. “So, are you two going to be cooking? I think the wedding party will be drifting down soon.”

Isla holds her hands up in seeming horror. “I don’t cook,” she says. “And I’m thinking it’s best I don’t start with yonder wedding party. Especially if Madame Frances is around.”

I bite my lip to hold in a smile and turn to Cameron. “How about you?” I ask hopefully.

He clears his throat, looking a little panicked that he’s being asked to contribute. “Nah, I don’t cook.”

“Well, you do a nice Pot Noodle,” Isla says with commendable loyalty.

“Ah alas, I don’t think they’re going to want that for breakfast. Shame,” I say kindly. “I bet it’s lovely too.”

Lachlan coughs and leans against the worktable, his arms crossed and looking as relaxed as if he’s at home. In fact, scratch that—he never looked this relaxed at our home. “So, what do we do, Joe?” he asks with suspicious docility.

I look around the kitchen warily. “Well, I suppose that just leaves me.”

“Oh, sweet baby Jesus, say it isn’t so,” Lachlan drawls and Isla giggles.

I put my hands on my hips. “And just what do you mean by that?”

“Joe, you can’t cook. You’d only be any use in this kitchen if Dougal needs a new filing system.”

“I’m sure it’s not too hard.”

“Really? You’re going to rustle up porridge and bacon and eggs for a party of twenty? Can you remember when you said you’d cook me breakfast on the morning we got back to London after getting married?”

I roll my eyes. “I still say your toaster was defective.”

“It was a lovely breakfast of pop tarts. Very memorable. Especially with that nuclear level of filling. I think I only just got the feeling back in my lips last week.”

“And yet it doesn’t appear to have stopped you talking,” I observe.

Cameron and Isla are watching us like spectators at Wimbledon. Not that I’d know about that. I’ve only been once, and I spent most of the time with my binoculars trained on the celebrities in the crowd until Lachlan confiscated them.

Lachlan straightens. “I’ll do it.”

“Oh my god, really? You’re the absolute best,” I say fervently.

He rolls his eyes. “You knew I would.”

“Let’s just say I hoped with a strong degree of certainty that if I threatened to cook, you’d step in.”

He smiles at our audience of two. “Can you get the dining room set up for breakfast and get the fires started? It’s warm anyway, but that’ll look more cheerful. I’ll get on with starting breakfast.”

“Good point,” Isla says. “It’s warm enough now, but if the power goes out then it’s going to get cold pretty quickly.”

“Is that likely to happen?” I say, dismayed.

She shrugs. “It happens every year. There’s a generator, but it’s a draughty, old building, so you’re best to keep the fires going.”

“Well, let’s hope for very accelerated global warming, because Madame Frances is not going to be happy.”