Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(76)

“Fuck,” he gasps, and as if he can’t stand to be away from my lips for even that brief second, he falls on me again, sucking on my tongue and starting a grind that makes my eyes cross.

“Lachie,” I breathe, and then unfortunately I inhale and cough. “Wait,” I say as he stiffens and stops kissing me. “It wasn’t the asthma. Oh no. Where are you going?”

He falls to his back, pressing his hand against his cock to calm himself, which has the direct opposite effect on mine.

“Come back,” I say in a plaintive voice.

“Fuck,” he groans. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“Well, forget again.”

He looks over at me and gives me a half-hearted smile. “We can’t do this.”

I draw back, suddenly chilled. “Of course not.”

“Don’t look like that,” he groans. “You know I fucking want you. I always want you.”

“So why?”

“Because this is what we do every single time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sex is so good between us. I’ve never been with anyone like you.”

“I’m the same,” I whisper.

“But it’s when we climb out of the sheets that we hit problems. And I don’t want our marriage to be Groundhog Day, Joe.”

“Our marriage is over,” I whisper.

“Is it?” he says sharply.

My heart pounds. “What do you mean?”

Before he can say anything, there’s a soft knock on the door.

Isla says, “Mr Moore, we were just wondering what you were doing about dinner.”

“Fuck,” he mutters. “I’ll be out in a minute,” he calls. He turns to me, his expression heated but rueful. “I must insist the next time we get snowed in that it be with a herd of feral yetis. They’d probably be less trouble than this lot.”

“What were you going to say?”

He hesitates and then shakes his head. “Not now. I refuse to have this conversation with someone outside wondering when I’ll put the chilli on.” He cups my face, his expression fierce and yet somehow the gentlest I’ve ever seen. “Later.”

I nod. “It’s a date.”

I wait for his old customary denial, but instead, his smile fills his face. “It’s definitely a date.”





Chapter

Seventeen





Joe



He disappears downstairs but his kiss remains warm on my lips.

Was he hinting that he wants to get back together? I press a fingertip to my tingling mouth, my pulse racing. Could we do this? Is there any hope of a second-chance romance actually working? I try to think of anyone in my circle of friends who’s got drunk-married in Vegas, split up after false accusations of cheating, and then got back together while snowed in with an ABBA tribute band and Frances, but I give up because I’m pretty sure we’re niche in that respect.

A battle plays out in my head. My cautious side—which, let’s face it, doesn’t come out very often—mumbles that it’s stupid to get involved with him again. It went wrong the first time, so what would stop it happening again? My not-so-cautious side points out that this feels completely different from before. This time I’m not in awe of him. This time I feel closer to him, beyond the limits of the bedroom.

Fearing that I’ll be re-enacting Joanne Woodward’s turn in The Three Faces of Eve I get out of bed to shower.

I take time to shave and make sure my hair is behaving properly. It’s not an accident that I put on the jeans that make my arse look scrumptious and the bold, patterned, black-and-white shirt that clings to my torso like a second skin. I’m just thankful that I packed them, because otherwise I’d be heading downstairs in a pair of board shorts and a T-shirt sporting the fetching moniker, All the good boys love a sailor but it’s the bad ones who know what to do with him—my Christmas present from Rafferty.

I undo a couple of the shirt buttons and look at myself in the mirror, resisting the urge to wink in case it looks douchey. Then I leave the room humming. When I realise the tune is “A Pocketful of Rainbows” I quickly change it to Rage Against the Machine’s “Killing in the Name”.

The lights flicker as I reach the foyer, and I look around warily. Isla emerges from the office behind reception.

“Aye, that’s bad,” she says in reply to my querying look. “I reckon the electricity will go down soon. The lights have been flickering for a bit.”

“I didn’t notice. How’s Dougal?”

“He’s a lot better.” She shouts me a concerned look. “How are you? Lachlan said you weren’t well.”

“Oh, it was just an asthma attack. I’m fine, thank you. Where is he?” I say in a hopefully casual voice, but the wry arch of her eyebrow says I’m not very successful.

“He’s bringing out the chilli. We thought it’d be nicer to serve the food in the taproom. It’s a slightly smaller room, so it’ll be cosy, and it’s easier to keep warm if the heating goes off.”

“And closer to the alcohol,” I mutter as Frances appears.

“Joe,” she greets me icily. “Nice to see that you’ve finally pulled yourself from your bed.”