Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(65)

“Bin bag, eh? The compliments are coming thick and fast today,” I observe, pulling the gloves on.

He meets my eyes, and he’s warm and rumpled and so handsome he makes my breath catch. I fiddle with the zip on my coat to distract myself. Then I tut as it gets stuck.

“Here. Let me,” he says roughly. Our fingers touch and my breath catches. He stills, as we’re standing far too close together.

“Joe.” There’s a wealth of emotion in his voice. He lowers his head, and I lift towards him, all thought suddenly and completely gone, eradicated by the desire to be close to him again.

One of the devil twins shrieks from inside the dining room, and we jump apart. His breathing is rushed and mine is no better.

“Not a good idea,” I say hoarsely, and he shrugs without saying anything.

A noise sounds from nearby, and we spin to find one of the twins watching us. I resist the urge to cross myself.

“I’m coming with you,” he announces shrilly. I think it’s Tristram.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s very wise,” I say far too weakly. “We’re not going out to play, you see.”

“I want to come.” His eyes narrow in a way that looks alarmingly like his grandma. “And I’m going to come.” He gives me an appraising look. “I might scream if you don’t let me. I’ll say you’ve been really nasty to me. Grandma won’t be happy with you.”

“Oh dear,” I start to say.

Lachlan obviously loses patience with diplomacy. “No. Fuck off,” he says briskly.

“Oh my god,” I breathe.

Tristram’s eyes widen to the size of dustbin lids. “Mummy!” he shrieks. “Mummy. A man told me to fuck off.”

“Oh my god,” I say again, grabbing Lachlan’s arm and tugging him quickly to the front door as Tristram runs away screaming. “You can’t say that to children.”

“Why?”

“Well, because it’s not the right thing to do.”

“And who is arbitrating that? Margaret Thatcher in there?”

I bite my lip to hold in a smile. “That was someone’s child. They’re going to be very cross.”

“That was Noah and Violet’s child, and they’re wetter than the British summertime. She’ll probably knit me a hemp bag to apologise.”

“So many stereotypes,” I marvel. I throw the door open and usher him through. “Out you go before you do something worse.”

His lip quirks. “Like what?”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure you’ll think of something,” I say darkly. I follow him out and stop dead. “Wow. Now this is what I call a winter scene.”

It’s like a Christmas card and eerily quiet and all I can see is snow. The trees are weighted down with it, and big drifts have accumulated against the hotel. The sky looks full of more to come, and it’s bitterly cold out here, so cold that it catches the back of my throat, and I cough and fumble for my inhaler in my jeans’ pocket. I take a puff as Lachlan eyes me, concerned.

“Okay?” he asks.

I’ve had bad asthma all my life and ended up in hospital quite a few times as a child. I detest being babied, but Lachlan has a way of looking after me that isn’t cloying. His concern is like a fresh wind blowing through a stuffy room, and it’s easier to be honest with him about my symptoms than with my family, who I brush off with blithe assurances.

“I’m fine,” I say. “It’s just the cold catching me.”

“Okay.” He looks around and whistles. “We must have had six inches in the night.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

He chuckles.

“They’ve forecast more too,” I say, frowning.

As we walk, I accidentally brush a branch, sending snow falling. It hits my face with icy pinches. “Good grief,” I gasp. “Does snow have to be so cold?”

“Come here,” he says. He pulls a pink, woollen pom-pom hat from his pocket and pushes it over my head.

“What the hell is this?” I splutter.

“I pinched it off a table in there. I think it’s Erica’s.” He steps back and boops me on the nose. “You look very cute.”

“That is not what I want to look like at all. Devastatingly handsome. Wickedly beautiful. Helen of Troy. They’ll all do.”

“If Odysseus had met those devil twins in there at Troy, he’d have burnt that horse and fucked off home. Well, come on, Helen. I want a look at the log store.”

“What about your hat?”

He waves a careless hand. “I don’t need one.”

“That’s rather a double standard.”

He smiles at me. “I know. I’m appalling,” he says unrepentantly. “Humour me.”

“With every atom of my body.”

He chuckles and then we both gasp as we step away from the shelter of the building and the wind hits us in all its icy glory.

“Jesus Christ,” I gasp. “Is this the steppes of Russia?”

“I wish it was. Frances is not there.”

We struggle around the building, heading for the back, our heads down against the wind. Snow crunches under our feet, coming up to our calves in places and soon the legs of my jeans are wet and cold. It’s very uncomfortable, and I follow along the path Lachlan makes after that.