Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(63)

“Wait on tables?”

“Well, that certainly. I was a deputy manager of a hotel.”

“Really? How did you end up as a wedding planner, then?”

“I was poached. I met my current boss when he arranged a wedding at my hotel and offered me a lot of money to come and work for him. He said I had the temperament for it.”

“I can see that.”

“I don’t think he meant it as a compliment.”

“Hmm.”

I bite my lip to stop myself laughing.

“So, are there a lot of people like Lady Frances, then?”

“You have no idea.” I pause. “She isn’t aristocracy, you know.”

“No? She certainly seems to think so.”

I chuckle and she comes to stand near me.

“She’s a proper nightmare, that one. She told Dougal that he needed to do another course on hotel management. He was really put out. Said there was no course on this earth that could prepare its students for her.”

I start to laugh but the merriment freezes in my veins as we hear an icy voice behind us.

“And who would that be?”

I spin around. “Good morning, Frances,” I say heartily. “We were just discussing a nightmare customer of the hotel.”

“I’m not surprised to find you gossiping. It seems to be your default setting,” she says sourly.

“Thank you so much.” She blinks and I wave at the huge, mullioned window that looks over the loch. Snow clings to it like it’s part of a setting from a Dickens novel. “What a beautiful morning.”

“If you’re a penguin, I suppose it is.”

“Such cheerful little creatures. Bless them.” I gesture her to a seat. “I’m afraid we have a problem, Frances.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised. They seem to surround you.”

Isla hisses in a breath and vanishes into the kitchen. I almost expect a dust cloud to billow up such is the speed of her exit.

“Well, I’m happy to say this is one not of my own making. The hotel manager is ill and in bed. That leaves us with a skeleton staff and no way for the other staff to get in, as the lane leading up to the hotel is completely snowed in. So, we’re going to have to make do.”

The door opens and Lachlan appears. He’s wound a blue and white checked apron around his lean waist that makes me repress a smile. He observes us and I’d lay odds Isla told him what was happening, and he’s ridden to my rescue. Like a knight in shining gingham.

“Good morning,” he says.

Frances immediately melts. “Oh Lachlan. How wonderful to see you.” I’m pretty sure I can feel a breeze from her eyelashes fluttering. “I somehow feel that things will be alright around you. You have such a wonderful air of calm.”

“That’s the vodka,” I offer.

Lachlan’s eyes twinkle. “It does help,” he says gravely. He turns to Frances. “I presume Joe told you the situation. He’s being so good about stepping into the breach.”

I roll my eyes. He makes it sound like I’m at the battle of the Somme. Frances grimaces but I can see the exact moment she remembers that he’s married to me.

“Oh, oh, yes,” she flutes, giving me a puzzled look, as if confused why Lachlan has shackled himself to me. I shrug. I can’t help her with that one. “He’s being very… good,” she finally says in the most doubtful tone of voice I’ve ever heard.

Lachlan’s mouth twitches. “Ah, but you’re so lucky, Frances, because his worst is far better than anyone else’s best.” He nods politely at her and exits, leaving her to stew on that one.

“So,” I say cheerfully. “Lachlan and I are going to help the staff, and your wedding party should hopefully be taken care of.”

There’s a loud scream, and her grandchildren Tristram and Rupert barrel into the room. We’d managed to keep them contained during the ceremony, although how we did that without the use of a pentangle I’ll never know.

“Grandma,” Tristram shrieks and throws himself at Frances, who pats his head in a way I once saw someone use in the circus with a tiger.

“Lovely,” she says faintly.

“I want bacon,” his brother orders, throwing himself under the table and making choking noises.

I shake my head and wander over to grab the orange juice. “You want firm boundaries,” I mutter but very low, so no one hears me.

The wedding party drifts down to breakfast slowly. Erica and Ryan opt for a tray in their room which Cameron nips up to them. Isla and I bustle about serving everyone else the perfectly cooked food, and the room fills with the sound of happy chatter, the clink of cutlery, and the sound of Mumford & Sons singing “Winter Winds”, which seems appropriate for the current arctic conditions.

Finally, Isla and I edge into the kitchen with the last of the pots.

“Ah, there you are,” Lachlan says as if we’ve been somewhere we shouldn’t. “Sit down,” he orders, pointing at the table with the wooden spoon in his hand. “They’ve all eaten. Now it’s our turn.”

“Should I just ask Frances if she wants anything else?” I ask.

He puts his hands on his hips. “Do you care about the answer?”