Paper Roses (Confetti Hitched #3)

Chapter 1

one

. . .

jed

I sit in a chair by my bedroom window. The soft summer morning light burnishes the naked body of the man in my bed, highlighting his beauty. I rub my lips idly while observing him. He’s stunning, with thick, dark hair and a long, angular body. He sleeps peacefully, the tiny smile playing on his full lips hinting at sweet dreams.

I regard him some more, and then I lean forwards and poke him. Hard .

He wakes up with a jerk. “What?” he mumbles, knuckling at his eyes.

I smile sweetly at him. “Time to go.”

He lowers his hands. “Are you serious ?”

“Always.”

“Your bedside manner could do with some refining.” He directs a glare at me.

I take a moment to consider his statement and then shrug. “I think it’s just fine, thank you.” I hand him his clothes. I’d picked them up from my bedroom floor earlier and folded them neatly. “Bye.”

He grunts and kicks the covers off, muttering, “Gave you a world-class shag and not even the offer of a fucking coffee.” He stands and dons his clothes in sharp, irritated jerks.

The sex had been barely above subpar in Chelsea, let alone the world, but I dismiss the impulse to tell him. “I can do coffee,” I say amiably. I stand up and stretch, feeling the pleasant soreness in my body. “I’ve got a to-go cup.”

“Wanker.” He stalks into the bathroom and slams the door.

“Does that mean yes or no to coffee?” I call, but he’s banging around in there and doesn’t reply.

I search for a feeling of guilt but don’t find it. I didn’t make him any promises. In fact, I distinctly remember telling him that I didn’t like spending the night with anyone. He’d seemed okay with it at the time. This is what comes from falling asleep before I can show my bedmate the door.

From the photo frame on the bedside table, my husband stares at me, his blond hair perfectly styled as it was so rarely in life. His eyes are very blue, a result of contacts and not the superior family genes he used to tell me about. A wicked smile tugs at his lips.

“You’d be laughing your head off right about now,” I inform him. “And telling me I’ve made a rookie error with my conversation this morning. You’d have sandwiched those comments with particularly salacious stories of things you’d done in the past.” I shake my head. “I’m ninety percent sure those stories were made up, but it’s the ten percent that still concerns me.”

His image continues to silently stare at me. The room’s mocking quiet is suddenly broken by the blare of “Rock ‘n’ Roll Star” by Oasis. I grimace at the speaker. I’ve always fucking hated that song. It had been Mick’s choice for an alarm, and ten years after his death, I’m still waking up to it. My sentimentality is ridiculous and something Mick never really understood. He protected it but wasn’t averse to constantly taking the piss out of me for it.

“Enough,” I inform Liam Gallagher, but he keeps on singing valiantly. Keeping my ear cocked for what the stranger is doing in my bathroom, I say, “Alexa, set my alarm song to be—” I rack my brains. What song is so fucking super special that I want to wake up to it every morning?

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand your instruction.”

“Me neither.” I sigh. “Alexa, just set my alarm sound as alarm.”

She doesn’t respond, either attempting to understand me or completely stunned by my boring nature.

After stripping the bed, I bundle the linen together and stuff it into the laundry basket. Then I grab some fresh sheets from the cupboard and make up the bed quickly. The sheets smell of cedar, and Mick used to ask why we were sleeping in a bed that smelt of his grandmother’s wardrobe, but I’ve always loved it.

And, apparently, today is going to be one of those days when my dead husband haunts me, because the sheets immediately remind me of those first weeks after he was gone. The wild, unhinged sadness that made it so I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and wouldn’t dream of fresh sheets on the bed. The scent of him had been one of my only comforts.

I rub at my chest as I stare down at the neatly made bed, reminding myself that I’ve come a long way from those days. Grief is a funny old thing. It’s much more of a gentle melancholy now, but I’m not sure my current existence is much of an improvement over those rollercoaster days of deep mourning, where a sudden switchback could steal my breath—like finding a note he’d tucked in a book for me or hearing his favourite song on the radio.

I have a successful business now, a gorgeous home, more money than I can spend, and a loving if nosy family. Yet, I drift through it all like a stick floating atop moving water. And I have no desire for a relationship beyond an orgasm that doesn’t come from my right hand.

“Bet you never factored in a complete disinterest in life, did you, Mr Know it All?” I say into the air. “So, what do I do next? You tell me, Mick.”

In mocking answer, a face immediately swims into my mind—thin and high-boned, with shiny dark hair tumbling around it. It’s a beautiful face that reflects the sweet nature of its owner. I know the man quite well. He’s my assistant.

The bathroom door opens, thankfully pulling me from those ridiculous thoughts. My former bedmate appears, pulling on his T-shirt.

“You never said if you wanted coffee?” I say.

He rolls his eyes. “I’d better not. You might self-combust if I spend longer than another minute in your flat.”

I repress a smile. “You have at least five minutes until that happens and I’d rather avoid any combusting, because it’s my cleaner’s day off.”

He huffs and leaves the room. I follow him down the stairs to my front door. My flat is conveniently located above my wedding-planning business, Confetti Hitched. But on mornings like this, I regret the shared entrance. I groan when I see there’s someone loitering in reception.

“Good morning, Rafferty,” I say with resignation.

My top wedding planner stares at me, glee written all over his expressive features. Glee, and the potent promise of excessive piss-taking. “Good morning, Jed,” he says, his Irish accent softening the words. “And what a particularly beautiful morning it is. Birds are singing, bees are buzzing, and it looks like love is in the air.” I roll my eyes, but it doesn’t stop the fool. “Please introduce me to your charming companion.”

My disgruntled ex-bed partner grunts and slings his jacket over his shoulder. “Don’t bother. I doubt he even knows my name.”

“Good heavens, that is awful ,” Rafferty proclaims, putting his hand to his chest dramatically. “Surely that can’t be true. Jed, you must know his name. Restore my faith in humanity, please.”

“I wasn’t aware your faith in humanity had been tested lately.”

He shrugs. “Yeah well, Stan told me I was an idiot this morning. It might be true, but it hardly wins him any awards in the silver-tongued charmers’ category.”

“Oh, poor you. That is terrible. And truthful. Very, very truthful.”

He cocks his head. “I worry sometimes that your caring nature is too much for this world.”

“I feel the same way about your sarcasm.”

“Yeah, you definitely don’t need to worry about him being too caring,” my bedmate interjects.

“Thank you so much,” I say gravely. I suddenly remember his name. “Craig,” I say in triumph.

He eyes me disapprovingly and then marches out the door, a cross witness to the fact that when men say they don’t want you to spend the night, they actually bloody well mean it.

A silence falls that is positively vibrating with Rafferty’s desire to laugh. “So?” he finally says.

I turn to him. “Do you remember what you and Stan were doing when I caught you in the stationery cupboard on Tuesday night?”

He winks. “I told you he was keeping me company while I was counting the pens.”

“I sincerely hope you weren’t looking for pens in the area where your attention was focused.”

He chuckles merrily. “Such is the story of my life. Always doubted and rarely appreciated in the way my personality truly deserves.”

“Anyway, I will never mention the counting-pen incident again. Just as I trust you will say no more about this.” I gesture towards the door where Craig has thankfully disappeared.

“I have to confess those optimistic thoughts will probably be disappointed. I tell Stan everything.” He pauses. “And Joe and Ingrid. I’m afraid my open nature is a curse.”

“This is why I mentioned your stocktaking activities from Tuesday. Because if I hear one word about this, you’ll be counting pens all day.” I pause before adding with relish, “As well as tidying the wedding brochures and alphabetising the vendors’ business-card drawer.”

He blanches. “My lips are sealed,” he says, making an unnecessary zipper noise as he rubs his mouth to emphasise his point.

“Unfortunately for the world, that just isn’t true.”

I walk through the planners’ office. It’s a big room with a tall ceiling and navy-coloured wallpaper that’s made bright by the large Georgian barred windows and the colourful boards behind each planner’s desk that are full of pinned samples. Chairs are pushed under the desks neatly, and the only sound is the low hum of the air conditioning, but soon it will be a hive of activity with phones going and happy couples coming in and out.

It’s my world, and I love it. It wasn’t always so, though. I was a copper when I met Mick. He was the original owner of Confetti Hitched, and the world of weddings and love were so far from my experiences they might as well have been on Mars. He’d persuaded me to leave the force and join him in the business, saying he wanted to spend more time with me rather than the snatched hours we were managing around my shifts. I’d been feeling jaded working as a copper, and spending more time with Mick had been hugely appealing. So I’d agreed to become business partners with him, not expecting to like it that much. It had come as a surprise to find I did.

I love being involved in weddings and the minutiae of details that don’t seem important to anyone else but that are crucial to the people concerned. I love the satisfaction I get when a couple’s day is as special as they’d hoped when they’d first walked into our offices.

“Morning, Jed.”

I turn to see Ingrid my receptionist at the door taking her jacket off. She’s wearing a plum-coloured shift dress, and her long, dark hair has been coiled into a neat chignon. She looks demure, which is the perfect camouflage for her wicked nature.

“Morning.” I smile at her. “How was the theatre last night?”

She rolls her eyes. “People emoting loudly about their problems. I might as well have stayed at work.”

I chuckle, and she gives me her wide, gamine grin. It’s full of charm and explains how she knows more gossip than any reporter who works at The Sun . “Coffee?” she asks.

“Please.” I turn to walk into my office and stop dead. “Where’s Artie?”

He’s usually here, a quiet presence at his desk managing the emotions of the office like a puppeteer pulling strings.

“Oh, he’ll be in later.” Ingrid looks at her phone. “He said he tried to get hold of you, but your phone was off.”

“Shit. I forgot to charge it.”

She raises her eyebrow. Knowing Ingrid, she’s guessing exactly what I got up to last night. “Well, he said he has something urgent to do and he’ll be in later.”

She goes to walk away but stops when I say urgently, “What’s the matter with him?”

Both of her eyebrows rise. “I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

“How did he sound?”

Her head tilts as she scans my features slowly, perhaps looking for signs I’ve lost my mind. She wouldn’t be far wrong.

“Erm, fine. A bit rushed, but he sounded okay.”

I bite my lip and attempt to shrug back into my normal persona. It’s harder than usual. “Okay then, that’s great. Isn’t that great ?”

“What is?” She continues to stare at me.

I hesitate. “That everything is okay?”

“Hmm.” She finally gives up. “I’ll get you a coffee.”

“Thank you,” I say with feeling and scurry into my office.

The large space has big windows that look out over the back, narrow garden. It had been the original house’s kitchen. After Mick inherited the property, he’d converted the ground floor into the Confetti Hitched offices, and put his flat on the upper two storeys.

This room is one of my favourite places in the building. It has two walls of floor-to-ceiling bookcases painted a blue green that echoes the oriental wallpaper. A cavernous fireplace is on another wall. It’s currently filled with a flower arrangement that lends a delicate scent to the room.

The huge oak desk belonged to Mick’s great-great-grandad who’d accrued a fortune in shipping and cashiered that into a title from a grateful monarch to whom he’d loaned money. The wood is scratched in places, and sometimes when I’m thinking, I find myself tracing the marks and marvelling at the family history. The old guy was by all accounts a huge snob, so he’s probably rolling in his grave at the idea of a commoner like me sitting at his desk.

I sit down, swinging the chair slightly so I can see the edge of Artie’s desk. My assistant came to work for me when he was eighteen, but even at that age, he had the calm wisdom of an owl. I’d quickly grown to trust his inner compass, as he’d demonstrated time and again that he’d known the right thing to do. He’s the sweet centre of the business and anticipates my moods and makes everything calm in my head.

He’s never steered me wrong. And in all the years I’ve known him, there’s never been anything urgent that’s stopped him from being here. Even when he broke his arm outside the office one morning, he still came into work that afternoon.

Ingrid sails into the office, carrying my coffee. “You alright?”

“Of course. Why?”

She sets my cup down. “No reason.” She follows the direction of my gaze towards Artie’s desk.

“Oh, I’m just thinking of redecorating,” I say quickly, feeling my face flush. “Time for a new broom, you know.”

“Not really. I don’t use the old broom at home.” Her lip twitches. “And you’re starting your plans with Artie’s desk. How interesting .”

“Go away, Ingrid,” I say firmly, hearing her snort with laughter.

“As you wish.”

“And please don’t Princess Bride me on the way out.”

After she’s gone, I look at Artie’s empty desk again thoughtfully. For someone so quiet, he leaves a big hole when he isn’t here. It’s a dangerous thought. But not nearly as dangerous as the moment six months ago when I realised that my assistant made my heart pound and my palms damp like a teenager.

Pulling my diary towards me, I bury my head in work.

I shift in my seat at the bar. The wedding is done and the reception almost finished. All that remains is a decimated buffet table, a bored-looking DJ, and a few guests slow dancing to ‘Careless Whisper’ by George Michael. I can never work out why it’s played at weddings when it’s about cheating.

I take a sip of my drink. I’ve grown used to Artie being at these functions with me, and it seems almost lonely without him today.

“Jed, you’re needed.”

I look up to find the barman hovering. “Sorry. Did you want me?” I say quickly.

“Not me. Him .” He gestures behind me, and I turn to see one of the waiters waving at me urgently. “Either that or he’s pretending to be a windmill.”

I set my glass down and stride over to the beckoning waiter. “Is something the matter, Ricco?” I ask.

The man nods frantically. “You’d better go to the ladies’ bathroom, Jed.”

I blink. “Not usually one of my duties. Why? What’s the matter?”

“Your bride is talking to her mother-in-law.”

“Is that not a good thing?”

He grimaces. “Not when she’s apparently holding her head over a toilet and threatening to pull the chain.”

“Oh shit !”

It’s a little too loud and several heads turn my way, including the groom’s. “Everything okay, Jed?” he calls.

“Absolutely fine, Lee,” I call back. “Couldn’t be better. Are you okay?”

He nods enthusiastically. “I don’t think this day could have been any more perfect, and that’s entirely down to you.”

I’m almost positive that his new bride being carted away in a police car for attempting to murder his mother might put a crimp in his bright cheerfulness, so I offer him a wan smile and, straightening my tie, I hustle to the ladies’ bathroom.

I find two of the bridesmaids huddled in listening poses by the door. As I get close, I can hear a muted scream and then words being shouted. I groan. Perfect .

“Ladies,” I say briskly, and they jump and turn to me. Thank god, most of the guests have gone by now or we’d have an audience size more suited to the Royal Variety Show. “Everything okay?”

They look at each other and then back at me. “We might have a teeny problem,” Heather the chief bridesmaid says.

At that moment there’s a thump and more shouting.

“Just the one?” I ask.

“Esme is a bit peeved with Lee’s mother.”

We listen to more indistinguishable shouting. “Peeved or certifiably homicidal?” I ask.

Heather shrugs. “Maybe a bit of both. It’s the?—”

“Dress?” I say grimly and she nods.

“What’s going on?” a familiar voice enquires.

I spin around and my heart lifts at the sight of the pretty face in front of me. “Artie,” I gasp.

He’s wearing a dark grey suit that clings to his narrow shoulders. There’s a quizzical look on his gorgeous face, which is heart-shaped with high cheekbones and a full, bee-stung mouth. His hair is wavy and dark and his eyes a very pale blue like the sky on a summer morning.

He gives his usual gentle smile. “Sorry I wasn’t here to help you with the wedding.”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “You know you can take time off whenever you like.”

He frowns. “Not when it’s leaving you in the lurch.”

He looks his usual calm self, but on closer inspection there appears to be signs of strain around his lips. “You okay?” I ask, all my protective impulses rising to the fore. Something about him makes me want to look after him.

A flush rises on his cheeks, making his pale blue eyes even more distinctive. “I’m fine, thank you,” he says quietly.

As I become aware that the two bridesmaids are observing us as if we’re on centre court at Wimbledon, a muted scream sounds from the bathroom.

“What on earth ?” Artie gasps. “What is going on in there?”

“It’s the dress,” Heather says wearily.

“Does Esme not like her dress?” Artie pauses. “Is that the designer in there with her?” he asks in a high, alarmed voice.

I bite my lip to hide my smile. “No.” I wink at him. “That’s her new mother-in-law.”

“ What ?”

Heather huffs. “I’m going in,” she says in a tone I last heard in a black-and-white war film. Having met Esme’s mother-in-law on numerous occasions, I don’t think it’s too wide of the mark.

She hands Artie her small bouquet. “Hold this, please.”

He takes it obligingly and almost immediately sneezes.

I remove it from his hands and set it on a nearby table. “He’s allergic to flower pollen,” I tell Heather.

She takes a deep breath and opens the door an inch. “Esme, are you okay?” she calls.

“I’ve always thought you were a bitch,” comes a shout. “You’re not worthy of my son.”

Heather slams the door quickly. “I’m pretty sure that wasn’t aimed at me.” We all nod. “But I’m not going in there to find out.” She points at me. “When Esme asked me to be chief bridesmaid, she said my duties were organising the hen do and making a toast. Not Jake Gyllenhaaling the door of a bathroom in Road House while she threatens her mother-in-law.”

“Of course,” I say solemnly. “Jake could never withstand the rigours of bridesmaiding. Not even with all the muscles revealed by his open shirts.”

Artie snorts.

“Absolutely,” Heather says with a nod. “So you’re going to sort this out, and Polly and I are going to drink our own and several other people’s body weight in wedding cocktails before they close the bar. And then I’m probably going to shag the best man.”

I nod and hand her my card. “Please do call on me in case the shag turns marital.”

She grins and takes the card. “Polly,” she says, gesturing in the direction of the bar like an army commander in lilac lace. Her friend nods quickly and falls in behind her obediently, leaving me and Artie standing in sudden silence.

He leans close as he puts his ear to the door, and I suck in a breath at the feel of his arm against mine and the warm scent of his amber and patchouli cologne. His hand rests against the door, and I look at the long, slender fingers with their neat nails.

“It’s gone quiet.”

“Pardon?”

He looks at me curiously. “Are you okay? You seem a bit distracted.”

A bit ? He thankfully has no idea of the fact that he’s causing my distraction, and if I have my way, he never will.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve wished I’d never had that revelation six months ago. He’d leaned over me to correct something in a document, pressing his warm body against mine. Then I’d looked up at him, and my head had spun at the sight of not a boy, but a gorgeous young man. It was as if someone had ripped a blindfold off my eyes, and I’d finally noticed his full, soft lips and those pretty, pale eyes.

“Jed?”

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I’m just a bit tired.”

His face clouds in concern. “You need to get a good night’s sleep.”

I think of the hours I’d spent lying on the edge of my bed last night while my bedmate snored peacefully. It had felt rather rude to wake him at four in the morning. I’m reconsidering that decision now.

“You’re not wrong,” I say grimly.

He presses his ear against the door again. “It’s gone quiet. Is that good or bad?”

“Depends whether matricide is your thing or not.”

He snorts and then looks at me and back at the door. “On the count of three?—”

“This is not a BBC police drama. It’s just a bride and her mother-in-law. How bad could things get?”

“Quite bad,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “Have you forgotten the Rogers-White wedding?”

I roll my eyes. “If anything was going to send me to therapy, it would have been them. The dry cleaners never managed to get my suit clean again.” I reach past him and open the door. Voices rise suddenly in shrill argument. “Ladies, we’re coming in,” I call.

There’s an ominous silence before they start shrieking again, and I exchange a look with Artie. Before my gaze can linger on those soft blue eyes, I walk into the bathroom. There’s a small waiting area in front of a closed door. Whatever is behind that door has got to be better than standing around lusting over my assistant.

I reconsider that statement when my feet crunch on the flowers strewn across the floor. A closer look identifies it as Esme’s bouquet.

“Hasn’t she even tossed the bouquet yet?” Artie whispers, standing close.

I shiver slightly at his breath on my ear. “No, she did that earlier. Her mother-in-law caught it.”

He frowns. “Why do you say it in such a tone of doom?”

I grimace. “It wasn’t so much her carrying her daughter-in-law’s bouquet around the reception like a chimpanzee on her hip, it was probably the outfit she was wearing that tipped the balance.”

“Why?” He brightens. “Was it tartan? I know Esme specified no tartan.”

“Not a whiff of a check anywhere, unfortunately.” I knock on the door. “I’ll let you see for yourself.”

“You’re such a fucking cow,” comes Esme’s shout. “And your Yorkshire puddings are terrible .”

There’s an outraged gasp. “Take that back, you…you Jezebel.”

I clear my throat. “Hello? It’s Jed. If it’s okay with you both, I’d like to come in. I’m with Artie, and we wanted to check on you.”

And find out whether I should warn Lee that his family Sunday dinners just got a whole lot more awkward, and his damage deposit has probably sailed away on a sea of in-law strife.

There’s a short silence and then Esme exclaims, “Artie’s here ?” in a manner I’d use to announce Taylor Swift on stage.

If I could bottle Artie’s gentle charm to give away, the world would be a better place. “Yes, he is,” I say. “And we need to make sure that everything is okay.”

Footsteps sound, the door swings open, and Esme the bride stands there. She’s a beautiful woman, but her face is cherry-red with rage, and her hair has fallen out of its previous neat chignon. Her tiara is crooked, giving her the look of a drunken princess.

“ Hey ,” she says in an excessively cheerful voice. “Did you enjoy the wedding?”

I stare at her. “Yes, it was exceptionally well organised.”

She slaps my arm. “Cheeky boy.”

I shift position. “Is everything okay, Esme?”

“Of course. Of course, of course, of course .”

“Hmm. Only the staff reported rather a lot of screaming coming from here. Is there something I can help you with?”

She swings the door in a cheery fashion. “Not really, Jed. I’m just having a chat with Cynthia.”

Footsteps sound and the woman in question appears behind Esme with her hair hanging out of her neat updo. I hear Artie say, “ Oh, ” in a tone of revelation, and I shoot him a wry look. Now he’s getting it.

“Evening, gentlemen,” Cynthia says, trying to pat her hair back into place. I wish her luck. She looks like she’s been in a wind tunnel.

“Evening,” we chorus like we’re at Sunday school.

I take a breath and gird my loins. “What’s the problem here?”

There’s a moment of beautiful silence, and then they both begin to talk over each other. The shouting is loud in the enclosed space and I wince.

“Can I just—?” I try.

“She said my cooking was terrible.”

“Well, she’s always hated me. She said I looked like a strumpet when Lee took me home and?—”

“ Ladies .” My voice is very loud, and they fall silent. “Thank you. Now apart from food and Esme’s individual dress sense—” I hear a soft snort from Artie. “—what is the problem?”

“She wore a wedding dress to my fucking wedding ,” Esme shrieks.

And there we have it.

She’s not wrong. Cynthia is wearing a long, white, lace dress which is undoubtedly a wedding dress.

“Hmm,” I say. “Well, it does appear so, yes.”

“ Appear so? If she got any closer to a bride, she’d be shagging the groom tonight.”

“How dare you? That’s disgusting ,” Cynthia says shrilly.

“It’s actually a compliment to wear a white dress,” I interject quickly. Both women turn to me, and I resist the urge to cower.

“Why?” Esme asks in a warning manner.

“Oh, maybe you hadn’t heard. It’s very much a ‘this season’ trend.”

Esme’s eyes narrow. She would happily follow a fashion trend off a cliff like a style-conscious lemming. “The mother-in-law wearing a wedding dress is a trend?” she asks.

“Oh, you didn’t know,” I say sadly. “It’s not a wedding dress per se. Just a white dress. I’m seeing it a lot at celebrity weddings,” I finish hopefully. Esme refers to Hello magazine more frequently than the Archbishop of Canterbury does the Bible. “Close relatives wear white to echo and enhance the beauty of the bride. Isn’t that right, Cynthia?” I say in a slightly steely voice as she opens her mouth to no doubt contradict me.

She hesitates and Artie steps forward.

“What a lovely gesture,” he says in his warm voice. The two women turn to him like sunflowers sensing the sun. “After all, the two of you are together now because you both love Lee.” They shift awkwardly, and he bestows another smile on them. I watch, hypnotised. “It would be so awful if the two most important people in his life can’t get along. I’ve seen cases where it’s happened.”

“Have you?” Esme asks.

He nods like a little wise owl in a grey suit. “The son usually chooses his bride’s side.”

Esme brightens but sags as he makes a sad face.

“But unfortunately,” Artie continues, “it then ruins his relationship with his mother. So, no one is happy.”

“Oh no,” Esme says, her eyes glistening. I don’t know whether she’s really sad or finally feeling the alcohol. “I don’t want that. Lee loves his mum.”

Cynthia sniffs. “I don’t want that either. I love both of you.”

I’d say that was highly debatable, but I wisely keep my mouth shut.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” Esme says. “And I lied. Your Yorkshire puddings are lovely .”

“And I’m sorry I wore a wedding—” Cynthia hesitates and shoots me a look. “—a white dress to echo and enhance your beauty.”

I nod approvingly as they hug, crying into each other’s necks.

“I’ll send Heather in with her makeup bag,” I announce, and Artie and I make a swift exit.

We both take a deep breath in the corridor. “Fucking hell. That was the closest I ever want to get to in-law drama,” I mutter and Artie snorts. “You may laugh, but I’ve seen things over the years.” I shudder as memories cross my mind. “I’ve seen things,” I say again in a tone more suited to someone on the set of House of Dragons .

He gives me his lovely smile that makes his eyes twinkle. “Well, they’re okay now. Isn’t that nice?”

“I’d say it’s a temporary affair, but what happens after the wedding is thankfully none of my business.” I give the closed door an assessing look. “Well, at least until their next weddings.” I look up and find him watching me affectionately.

“You’re very cynical,” he observes.

“More a realist. Well done, by the way.”

He raises an eyebrow in query.

“For that interjection,” I explain. “I’d covered Esme with my celebrity-wedding trend, but Cynthia was an unknown quantity.”

“I think they both wanted to make up. They just couldn’t work out how to do it.” He sighs. “Families can be very complicated.”

There’s something in his voice that makes me examine his face closely. His lips are tight, and his eyes look strained. Worry stirs. Artie is usually very content and calm.

“What’s the matter?” I say immediately.

He looks at me, startled, and I take his arm and lead him to a small table in the corner of the bar. I pull out a chair for him, and after he sits, I take the chair across from him, meeting his gaze.

“I know there’s something wrong,” I tell him.

“How?”

I shrug awkwardly. “We work very closely together. I sense things, as can you.”

And I watch you , I add silently. All the bloody time.

He shifts on the chair, and my stomach clenches at the sight of his shadowed eyes.

I lean forward. “Tell me,” I say, filled with the desire to make it right for him. To make everything right for him.

He licks his lips nervously. “I have to get married.”

My heart sinks like a lift plummeting thirty floors.