Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(69)

“Was there a right way?”

“Yes, if you deviated from it, the agony aunts of Jackie did not look kindly on you. Hmm. Let’s have a look. I could do with some dating advice.”

“Pardon?” he says in a dangerous voice.

I roll my eyes. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry. With this sort of advice, I’ll be single for the rest of my life.”

“You’re married.” I narrow my eyes, and he holds up a hand in defence. “Never mind. Tell me the advice from the sixties magazine. It might help me in the future,” he finishes silkily.

I swallow hard at the thought of him dating. It makes my stomach roil. I look up and find his eyebrow arched in a satisfied manner.

“Gotcha,” he says.

I stick up my middle finger, and he chuckles. “Let’s see,” I say sweetly. “Dating advice for the incompetent dater.” I tap the page and smirk. “The first instruction is no giggling.”

“What?”

I nod my head. “Absolutely none. According to the dictators who ran this magazine it’s off-putting and pointless.”

“So, no joyful merriness in the pursuit of love. Got it.”

“It makes men uncomfortable, Lachlan,” I say earnestly.

“Well, we can’t have that. What’s next?”

I stare at him, lost in the glory of his smile. It’s the real one that lights up his eyes.

“Joe?”

“Oh. Yes. Erm. Don’t kiss a man until he kisses you first. Men don’t like forward little minxes.” I shake my head. “What the hell? That’s one of my best moves.”

“Goodness, can I just say how thankful I am that they never got a chance to indoctrinate you before we met.”

I incline my head. “The world would truly have been a sadder place without my kisses.”

“I’m sure I read that on a bathroom wall somewhere.”

“If you did, I probably wrote it.”

He laughs, and I look down at the magazine, pinching another scone as I do.

“Jackie says don’t nag,” I say thickly through my mouthful of sugary goodness.

“Did that come before or after ‘Don’t talk with your mouth full’?”

“I do my very best work when my mouth is full.”

He licks his lip, his expression heated. “I remember,” he says softly.

I swallow hard. “Don’t flirt,” I blurt out.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, don’t flirt,” I say quickly, pretending to look through the article. “It’s heartless according to Jackie.”

“Did anyone actually have any fun in the sixties? I wouldn’t like to have lived then.”

“Surely you remember it,” I say sweetly.

“You’d have been a pariah in the Jackie office anyway. You’re the biggest flirt I’ve ever met.”

“I really am,” I say apologetically. “I can’t help it.” I look at him. “Did you mind?” I ask impulsively.

“Your flirting?”

I nod.

“Of course not. You’re an incorrigible and very charming flirt, but you’d have run a mile if anyone ever took you up on it. I used to watch you at weddings. You had everyone eating out of your hand. It made me rather proud,” he adds with a relish that makes my cheeks flush.

“I’m sure that Jackie forbids that somewhere in this article.”

“What else does the offshoot of Gilead forbid? Surely there can’t be much more.”

“You’re so sweet and na?ve.” I look down. “Don’t use the word I too much, Lachlan. Men won’t stay around long if you make it all about yourself. Men need to hear themselves talk once in a while.” I wink at him. “Tell that to your mate Rob.”

He groans. “He’s a friend of a friend, and you’re right. He never met a sentence he couldn’t improve by adding himself to it.”

I start to laugh. “I still remember the evening he tried to explain the inner workings of the lottery to me. I never knew it was possible to die behind my smile.”

He shakes his head. “Not all my friends are like that.”

“They weren’t particularly friendly to me,” I say idly. I hide a wince. I’ve never said that to him.

“No, and I told them off about that.”

“You did? When?”

“After the skiing trip. I told them if they wanted to maintain my friendship, they had to treat you with respect.” He stares into space. “I think if we’d still been together, you would have seen a different side of them. They found you very memorable.” He looks back at me and his expression turns wicked. “After all, it’s hard to forget your friend’s unconscious husband being hoisted by a ski lift by his ski trousers.”

“It wasn’t the tear across my behind that bothered me so much as the fact that it tried to lift off carrying me by my arse,” I say sourly, trying not to smile at his laughter. “Still, it’s nice that they might be more kind if I see them again,” I say almost regretfully. Arsehole behaviour aside, they were an interesting crew—witty and intelligent.

“Any more advice for the lovelorn?” he asks.

I look down at the magazine. “Don’t fall for a wolf.” I snort. “Hardly likely. You are one.”