Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(89)

Our house. When we got back from Scotland, Lachlan’s first move was to sell his house. Well, not quite his first move. That had been tumbling me into bed and keeping me there for the week. I’d informed him that chafing was not popular for a good reason, but my gasps and groans had rather let me down.

His place had sold quickly. Finding a house together had taken a while, but I never complained about staying in a hotel for the duration. After all, they picked up after me and cooked our meals. I’d suggested staying in my flat, but after considering that in horrified silence Lachlan had stated he was more than happy to embrace hotel life.

We’d finally found this place in St John’s Wood. It’s a big, old Edwardian three-storey house tucked away on a small, cobbled street, and I adore it. It’s truly home in the way that Lachlan is. When I see it, my heart lifts and my chest warms, or maybe that’s because Lachlan lives here too.

It had needed a lot of work, and we’d done that together, taking our time because Lachlan insisted that we carry on getting to know each other. He’d taken me on dates, and we’d snuck weekends away when I wasn’t working. I’d been stunned to find the old workaholic Lachlan had long gone and in his place was my Lachlan—still focused and business-oriented, but also quick to laugh, my partner in crime, and my knight in corporate armour.

He's fiercely protective of me, as I am of him, and there is no one I want to be with more. Even just lying on the sofa reading or watching TV is better, because it’s with him.

And I’ve learnt some lessons from our split too. I’m trying to curb my impulsiveness. No matter how much he says it’s part of my charm, I can never forget that it was what cost us time together. And we’ll never get those few months back. Lachlan assured me that he wouldn’t change anything, and that it was what he needed to get his head and heart in gear, but part of our relationship is teamwork and that means accepting when I’m wrong and doing my part. So now I think before I act—usually—and even though we row occasionally, I may leave the room, but I’ll never leave him. He’s everything to me.

I fumble in my bag for my house keys and walk up the path to our shiny painted navy door. The streetlight captures the charms on my keyring, and I pause to smile. There is a platinum heart and a gold one—gifts from Lachlan when we signed for the house. He informed me solemnly that they were to remind me of him whenever we’re apart. Now, wherever I go, I’m carrying my own precious version of our confetti hearts.

I let myself into the hall. Lights gleam in the lounge and the smell of baking is on the air, which hopefully means Lachlan has made mince pies. He’s been trying to teach me to cook, but we invariably end up in fits of laughter and fall into bed. The cosy smell mingles with the scent of pine from the huge Christmas tree in our lounge that’s awash with warm white lights.

“I’m home,” I shout. “Lachie?”

“In the lounge,” he shouts back.

I throw my bag down and then nudge it under the hall table, so he doesn’t spot it lying on the floor. I walk into the lounge and stop dead before starting to laugh.

“What the fuck?”

My husband is standing in front of the fire, and he glistens like a diamond, mainly because of the rhinestones covering every inch of his outfit. He’s wearing a white jumpsuit covered in rhinestones and with flares wider than my shoulders. It’s slashed to the waist, showing off his toned, hairy chest. His hair is slicked into a quiff, and he’s wearing sunglasses. Humphrey is perched on the sofa staring adoringly at him like he’s a paid-up member of Elvis’s fan club.

“Earl, is that you? I knew you felt the same for me. But you must think of Lorna. Our love is the kind that cannot speak its name,” I quaver.

He shakes his head before pointing the remote at the stereo.

“Blue Christmas” starts to play while I struggle to get my laughter under control.

“What is happening right now?” I ask.

“Well, hello there, young man,” he says in a terrible Elvis impersonation. “And who do we have here?”

“It’s—” I snort. “It’s Joe, Elvis.”

“Well, now. I’ve heard all about you.”

“Have you? Was it terribly naughty?”

He lowers his sunglasses. His eyes are alight with laughter and love. “You’re just a burning hunk of love.”

“Well, it has been said.”

“I think I read it on a toilet wall somewhere, but don’t worry, young man. The burning will soon clear up with antibiotics.”

“Elvis, I’m wounded.”

“Care to dance, sugar?”

I start to laugh as he draws me into his arms and starts a loose two-step.

“You are such a prat,” I inform him and then hug him. “But you’re my prat so that makes all the difference.”

“Hush,” he instructs and starts to croon the words to the song.

I shake with laughter. “Oh, please stop,” I finally beg. “My secret lover Earl did it so much better.” I drag his head down to mine and kiss him, loving his lips against mine, the width of his shoulders under my fingers, and the brawny strength of his body. “Mine,” I say with relish when he pulls back.

He smiles. “Always.”

We dance for a while, and then I say, “You know I appreciate a bit of Elvis role play as much as the next man.”