Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(9)

“Hi,” I mutter. I feel stupidly shy and shift position, grimacing immediately at the squishy wetness underneath me. “This chaise is royally fucked.”

“It’s not the only one.”

“Well, I think we can safely say your damage deposit has walked so far into the sunset that it’s got tan lines.”

He shrugs. “Worth every penny.” He smirks and pats the chaise. “I think I might cover this in gold and keep it forever.”

“You old romantic, you.”





I wake slowly the next morning. As I stretch on the warm sheets, I wince at the ache in my arse. I’ll definitely be feeling him all day, but it was well worth it. I sigh, wondering if I’ve got time for another ten minutes sleep. As I roll to my side, my knee encounters a warm, hairy leg. I force my eyes open. Lying facing away from me is Lachlan. His big body is still in sleep, and I admire the olive skin stretched tight over his muscles.

Images of the night before fill my head. After our shag on the chaise, I’d made a move to put on my clothes, but he’d pulled me into the shower, saying the least he could do was wash me. Washing had become grinding and then another shag—that time in bed with him taking me from behind. It had been gentle, unrushed, and devastatingly good.

My early morning wood stiffens, but I resist the impulse to wake him. I have work to do this morning, and I know very well this was just a shag for him. My face warms. A good shag, though. Fantastic.

I slide out of bed and then move quietly around the room, gathering my clothes and putting them on. With my shoes in my hand, I sneak one last look at him. His hair has flopped over his brow and his face looks younger in sleep. One hand lies palm up, curiously innocent, and I resist the impulse to put my hand on his. I tiptoe over to the desk and, using the hotel stationery, I write him a quick note and prop it up against the lamp on the bedside table.

I think there’s more of the banker in you than you know. Please resist the impulse to steal any of the fixtures in this room.

I blow him a kiss and leave the room, the door clicking softly behind me.





Chapter

Two





Wedding Two



The Caribbean



Joe



Candles gutter on the tables, a tropical, flower-scented breeze blows through the open doors, and the band plays “My Heart Will Go On” while couples circulate on the dance floor.

I dodge the dancers, looking around until I find my quarry. The bride and groom are sitting at the bar entwined together. “Can I have a word?” I venture.

Louis the bridegroom croons the words to the song to Helena, making me slightly uneasy. Isn’t this actually a song about someone shoving their beloved off a wardrobe door and then watching them drown? I shrug. Not my business.

“Hello?” I try again. “Louis, we have a slight emergency.”

They reluctantly pull apart to look at me.

“What?” he snaps. He’s been a tosser throughout the entire proceedings, so his attitude doesn’t surprise me. “What the hell do you want now, Joe?”

“Louis,” Helena says chidingly. Her fond smile says she thinks he’s being unbearably charming.

I raise my eyebrow. “You have a teeny-tiny problem.”

“What is it now?” He grimaces. “Jesus, Joe, maybe I should go into wedding planning if I’m going to be doing all the work.”

My hold on my temper is slipping. Go to the Caribbean, Joe, they said. Come and see us married. We can’t do it without you, Joe. It’ll be fun. They lied.

“I honestly would love to see that,” I snap. “Future brides and grooms really need someone with your personality to oversee their precious day, Louis.” Someone behind me chuckles, but I don’t turn around. “Maybe you could practise by doing something about your own nuptials and, in particular, your ex-girlfriend.”

“Freya?”

“That’s the one,” I say grimly.

“What’s she done now?” Helena has stopped looking at Louis as if he’s the second coming and is now regarding him as something she should use as a model and stick pins into.

“Well, you remember me saying it’s not wise to have exes at weddings? How it never ends well?”

“I do,” she says, directing a gimlet glare at her beloved.

“Fucking hell,” Louis huffs. “Why the drama? The woman’s just having a good time.”

“She certainly is,” I say. “However, she’s having that wonderful time in your suite where she’s currently cutting up your clothes.”

“What the fuck?” His voice is very loud.

“Yep. And either that’s not enough of an outlet for her aggression towards you, or her hatred knows no bounds, because she is now tossing the tattered remains of your clothes over the balcony and into the pool on that side of the hotel. I’ll leave you with that, shall I? You can get some practice in the area of wedding planning. What did you say it was, Louis?” I tap my chin. “Money for old rope, wasn’t it? Whatever that charming little saying means.”

I smile sweetly at him and hear another chuckle behind me. Something about it sounds very familiar, and I can feel someone’s eyes on me. I valiantly resist turning around.