Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(88)

“What do you want?” My heart begins to race at the look of excitement and joy in his eyes.

“I want to buy a house we both like. I want to fill it with the things we want. I want to adopt a dog and watch you fail to train it. I want to go along with your wild schemes, and I want to grow old with you.”

“They sound like wedding vows,” I say idly.

“Let’s do that, then,” he says, striding back over to the bed. He slides under the covers and pulls me into his arms as if we’ve been apart for hours.

I cock my head to look at him. “Do what?”

“Let’s say our own wedding vows.”

“We already did that to the tune of ‘A Pocketful of Rainbows’.”

“Let’s do our own. We can look at it as our contract.”

“You’re so sexy when you talk business.”

“You are a twat.”

“That’s Joe Twat Roger Moore to you.”

He grins, his eyes sparkling. “Fuck, that sounds good.” He holds up his hand. “Okay, hear me out. I see a lot of contracts, and I know how to make them watertight.”

I nod. “Go on. I’m not sure where you’re going with this but proceed.”

“Thank you, Your Highness. I think we should say our own vows, and then each year we should assess them and make new ones as they come up. That way we’re fully functional.” I bite my lip to stop myself laughing and he groans. “That could have been more romantic,” he admits.

I break into a peal of laughter. “You think?”

He rolls onto his back and throws his hand over his eyes. “Ignore me. I’m just giddy I’ve got you back.”

“Giddy?” I nod. “I like that word.” I tap his hand until he lowers it, revealing a rueful expression. “I like the idea, but we should always do it naked.”

“My husband has the best ideas.” He eyes me. “So, we’re naked right now. What are your vows?”

“I vow to be less impulsive.”

His brow furrows. “But I like you impulsive. It’s a big part of your charm. I’m surrounded by certainties. I like your brand of cheerful wilfulness.”

I smile, hopelessly gone on him. “Okay, then I promise never to walk away like that again. I will stand and fight for us.”

He cups my face, his expression suddenly serious. “I like that one. Okay, I swear that I will put you first.”

“Work is important to both of us.”

“Of course, but you’re more so. I’ve been without you for months. I don’t ever want to be in that position again. I’ll still work hard, but I’ll never put you second. I’ll try and come home early.”

“For our dates?”

He nods. “I want to travel with you, see plays and—” He’s obviously unable to conjure activities that didn’t feature in his previous fuck-it-and-fuck-off life.

I hide a smile. “We’ll work that out.” I hesitate. “And I’d like for it to be just you and me.”

He blinks. “Where on earth did you get the idea in all this that I was still going to fuck around?”

“I just want it in the contract.”

He nods quickly. “Of course. Put it at number one,” he instructs in a lordly manner that makes me chuckle.

“Okay, sir.”

“Maybe we should add that to the contract. I quite fancy a lifetime of being called that.”

“Dream on.”

Laughing and snuggling, we fall to planning out our future while DABBA plays. Snow piles up on the balcony, covering the view that he’d stared at while he sat alone and despairing. The snow is fresh and bright, like our new start.

Later he sleeps, and I lie curled next to him, listening to the fire crack and pop. The party has stopped now, and everything is quiet. A fierce gust of wind blows, and sparks fly up the chimney, illuminating the room and casting glinting light over the confetti scattered everywhere. The little hearts seem to glow, and I reach out and grab an intrepid one that’s made its way onto our sheets. Folding my hand around it carefully, I nestle back into my sleeping man and drift off to sleep, secure in the arms of the man I love.





Epilogue





One Year Later



Joe



“So have you been anywhere nice?” the taxi driver asks me.

I shrug. “Venice for a wedding.”

“Phew. That’s a nice place for a wedding.”

“It depends very much on the party,” I inform him gravely. “And this particular party made a Christmas edition of EastEnders look well adjusted.”

“Weren’t you in the party, then?”

“No. I just organised it.” The taxi driver pulls to a stop, and I sigh in happiness. Home. “Thanks, mate,” I say, handing over the cash and a tip. “Merry Christmas.”

“And to you, sir.”

Grabbing my bag, I step out onto the street. It’s getting dark, and the Christmas lights are neon-bright against the gathering gloom. It’s unusually cold, and the bookies slashed the odds of a white Christmas yesterday. Still, a few snowflakes twirl down and the streetlight comes on, shedding its golden glow over our house.