Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(70)

“Really?” He looks pleased.

“That’s not a good thing according to Jackie.”

“Didn’t they just ban all laughter, flirting, and joy?”

I snort. “Okay fair point. But according to Cathy and Claire—who write this column—you can only really maintain a successful relationship if you subsume all elements of your personality into the task of keeping your man happy.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Well, Brian from DABBA needs to do the same. When I came through reception, they were dressed in their blue satin outfits and arguing about his desire to crowd surf.” I roll my eyes. “That could be dangerous for his health. Their audiences aren’t that big. He’s liable to hit the floor before he makes contact with a fan.”

He laughs. “How are they bearing up over being stranded?”

“They’re planning their set list for tonight,” I say gloomily.

He stands up, stretching and I watch as the muscles in his back work, his wide shoulders towering over me. “Where are you going?” I ask through a suddenly dry mouth.

“I’m going to chop some wood.”

“That sounds rather macho.” I stand up. “I’ll come too.”

“Joe, you complained about the cold when we’d been outside for sixty seconds earlier.”

“I’m hardy now. I’ve done the twins’ bathroom.”

He chuckles. “Okay then but go upstairs and get some proper outdoor clothes on this time.” I hesitate and he grins. “Silly me. Go upstairs and get whatever fashionable garment that you possess and then put one of my jumpers on over the top of it.”

“Jackie approves of wearing a man’s clothes,” I point out. “It makes you look fragile and desirable.”

“I was under the impression they approved of nothing outside an Amish rulebook. Glad you’ve proved me wrong.”

For a moment, I stand still, caught by the glory of his smile. He raises an eyebrow, and I race out of the room, my cheeks red at being caught staring at him. Ten minutes later I come down the stairs. I’m wearing my spare pair of jeans with a T-shirt and his navy sweater over the top. It’s huge on me and I’ve had to roll the sleeves up several times, but it smells of him, so it’s worth it.

There’s a skip in my step, because I’m excited. Not at being outside. I’m too honest with myself to peddle that bullshit. My excitement is about being with him.

He's waiting in the foyer and my pulse speeds up at seeing him in old jeans that cling to his long legs. He’s pulled his coat on and added a navy beanie that draws attention to the sharp bones of his face.

His entire face lights up at the sight of me. It makes my heart behave very peculiarly.

“Ready?” he says affectionately.

“If by that, do you mean am I wearing clothes I ordinarily wouldn’t be seen dead in, then yes.”

“I think that’s the point,” he says wryly. He holds up the olive parka from earlier and I pout.

“Really?”

“Absolutely, you tease. And get those boots off and put these wellies on instead.”

I look down at my Alexander McQueen suede desert boots. “Okay,” I say mournfully.

He watches me do as he says, and I give him credit for concealing his satisfaction at my obeying him. Probably because he knows it won’t last long.

I finish putting on the horrific green wellies, and he rubs his hands together. “Come on. I need to chop something.”

I shudder. “Wonderful,” I say breathily.

I’m still breathy twenty minutes later but not because of the sight of Lachlan cutting wood.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. It’s very riveting. When we got to the wood store, he installed me on an old garden chair and handed me a blanket he was carrying. He then proceeded to be dreadfully energetic as he found the axe and started to chop wood. Things got even more interesting when he got too hot and took his jumper off, leaving him in a thin T-shirt that soon became rather see-through when he sweated.

I’d love to pay more attention to the strength of his body and the movement of his muscles, but my asthma begins to play up and I start coughing. He looks over and I take a breath, hastily lowering my hand.

“So, you said you grew up in Norway?” I say quickly.

He’s distracted, thankfully, because if he focuses on just how much I’m coughing he’d send me inside and I’d have to give up being with him. “You have a memory like an elephant.”

“It helps in my job. Although an elephant would pray to forget some of the sights I’ve seen at wedding receptions. So, Norway?”

“My father worked for the foreign office and was stationed there.”

“How lovely.”

He pauses, resting his arm on the axe handle. He’s flushed and that damn lock of hair has fallen over his face again. It makes my fingers itch to push it back.

“It was okay,” he says. “We moved around a lot, as you might guess.”

“Oh dear, did that fracture familial relationships and leave an emotional chasm between you as a family?”

“No, to whatever that bunch of words meant.”

“Surely it had an effect on you all.”

He grins at me, his eyes bright. “Not at all. We were a close family. We had to be because we moved so much.”