Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(67)

He stops and turns around. “You’re standing right there.”

“Well, I’m not much use. But I’m still staying here. Go, Team Moore.”

He shakes his head and continues walking. “I grew up in Norway, Joe. This is nothing.”

“What? You grew up in Norway? How did I not know this?”

He stops again. “Could we possibly talk about this when we’re back inside in front of a fire?”

“Of course.” I wave a hand. “Carry on.” He gets two steps down and I call out, “It’s just that this really is something I should have known about my own husband. If someone at a party had asked if anyone had ever lived in Norway, I should have been able to answer with confidence, ‘Why yes. My husband, the international man of mystery actually lived there’.”

“Does that come up at many of your dinner parties?”

“Who knows?” I say gloomily. “I’m usually blitzed or working.”

“You are a creature of extremes, my love.”

I wait nervously as he staggers on. The snow is up to his knees now and it’s very slow going.

“Be careful,” I call.

“Call me Lachie again, and I will.”

“Oh my god, that’s fucking blackmail.”

“I never said I played fair.” He stops and teeters on the edge of the road. “Oh, I’m going over the edge! I’ll fall and only a cute nickname will save me.”

“You are going to get such a spanking when you come back. Stop it!” I shout. “Lachlan.”

He puts a hand to his ear and does a rather spectacular dip and sway.

“Oh, Lachie, don’t,” I call but his moment of triumph is unfortunately short lived as he loses his balance, teeters, spins, and lands headfirst in a drift.

“Oh, bad luck,” I call over-insincerely. “Poor you.”

He sits up, spitting snow out. “I think we can safely say we’re stuck here,” he shouts.

“I called that one myself, and look at me. I’m dry and warm.” I shake my head. “Idiot.”

“I’m your idiot,” he calls.

“And I’m sure that’s a proposition to make any boy’s knees weak, Lachlan Roger Moore.”

“That is not my middle name.”

“Callum is so boring. Lachlan Roger Moore is much better.”





Chapter

Fifteen





Joe



Despite the laughter, I fuss over him as we come into the hotel. “You’re soaked,” I chide, brushing the snow off his coat. He has two hectic spots of colour on his cheeks and I put my hand on his forehead worriedly. The old sweet charge goes through me, but I ignore it. “Get upstairs and into a hot shower and then put some warm clothes on.”

“Thank you, Daddy.”

I tap his nose. “Never call me that when I might pop a hard on.” Damn. I’m flirting again. “Sorry…”

“Save it, Circe.”

“That’s Captain Circe to you as your boss in this disastrous enterprise,” I shout after him and laugh when he raises his middle finger at me.

As I take off the parka and hang it up, my mind wanders to thoughts of friendship. Laughing with him this morning has been easy, fun. What would it take to make those feelings last? Is it the magic of the snow and being stuck in Scotland that’s turned Lachlan into a friendly, mostly cooperative beast? London, and going back to his office for endless hours, might very well turn him cold in all the wrong ways again.

I shake my head. “Enough,” I say and head off to shed my coat and clean the bedrooms. That should bring me down to earth with a squidgy mop.





Three hours later, I bang into the kitchen through the swinging door. “That was terrible,” I say, collapsing at the table. “I didn’t need a duster. I should have had a hazmat suit.”

Lachlan turns from the stove where he’s been stirring something. “Was it that bad?” he says, his mouth twitching.

“I’ve seen things,” I say in a tone of doom. “Things that no man should ever see.”

“Suck it up, buttercup.”

“Oh, okay.” I look at the table and do a double take. “Ooh scones. How lovely.” I reach out and touch one. “They’re warm,” I say in surprise.

“Thank you for fathoming that out, Einstein.”

“Did you… Did you make them?”

He arches an eyebrow. “Yes. You sound surprised.”

“I guess I am. I never really saw you as a cook.” I grimace. “You had the harridan Mrs Ward in charge of all that.”

His smile falls away. “Another thing I have to be sorry about.”

“Why?”

“Well, I gathered from a few of your later comments that she wasn’t nice to you.” He grimaces. “Another clue was her celebratory attitude after you left.”

To my astonishment I feel myself smile. “Happy, was she?”

“On a scale only seen before by a royalist at a jubilee.” I start to laugh, and he sighs. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

I stop laughing. “Of course, you didn’t. Which makes me ask again—why are you sorry?”