Paper Roses (Confetti Hitched #3)

Chapter 12

twelve

. . .

jed

I’m stringing white bistro lights along the roof of the cavernous barn, and as I reach out to hook the last strand, I feel the ladder wobble.

“Be careful ,” Artie hisses.

I look down at where he has a death grip on my ladder. “It’ll be fine.”

“You’re being rather cavalier with your safety.”

“I’m safeguarding the future well-being of my eardrums. Our bride will be hysterical if her fantasy farm wedding isn’t perfect.”

He grimaces. “Oh my god, please don’t do air quotes when you’re ten feet up a ladder.”

“I can’t help it. That sentence deserves as many air quotes as possible.” I step down the ladder.

Artie says, “She is rather more attached to a bucolic fantasy than the reality of a farm and the animals.”

I too was bemused when the bride, who’d screeched like she’d seen Armageddon on the horizon when she got a mark on her skirt, announced she wanted to get married on a farm where there is rather a lot of animal shit lying around. Then I discovered the attraction wasn’t the sheep, but the supermodel who owns the farm.

Sighing, Artie adds, “Grant is still out there scooping up the sheep poo.”

“Good,” I say with relish.

He shakes his head. “That’s your nephew.”

“This will get him back for the evening when he threw up in my lap while I was babysitting him.”

“One more shovelful, and he might recreate that night.”

I start to laugh, and his fond look makes my belly warm.

“I love it when you laugh,” he says.

I reach out to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. The brown waves are getting long now, and I love it. I particularly love grabbing it when I’m fucking him and making his back arch until he comes, untouched.

A faint flush shades his sharp cheekbones, and I’m hit with my usual wave of lust for him. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times we have sex—and we have a lot—but I’ll start to feel desperate if I’m not inside him. He’s only had one partner, but he’s the sexiest man I’ve ever been with—intense, passionate, and eager to try everything.

But what catches me the most is the tender way he treats me, as if I’m somehow special. I feel it in every touch he bestows on me. Last night, we’d lain in bed, and I’d rested my head on his chest. I’d fallen asleep to the feel of his fingers gently stroking my hair. I know I’ll want to both cling to and push away that memory. I don’t want to address what it might mean.

I also don’t want to address how I’d felt last night when he was out with Ben. The man has got to be an idiot. Who in their right mind would leave Artie after having the pleasure of being with him?

I swallow hard. I’ll be the one who’s out of my mind in a few weeks. The end of our arrangement is nearing, and it’s becoming harder to push away the panic whenever I try to envisage a world where I don’t have him. All his smiles and the light he brings to my life will be gone, and I’ll be alone again.

But of course, I can’t be with him. I’d barely survived losing Mick, but I know that if I had a real relationship with Artie, but then lost him, it would be a thousand times?—

I stop that disloyal thought in its tracks. Artie’s watching me anxiously, so I bend and kiss him. I’d only meant it to be an affectionate peck on the lips, but as usual, one touch of those bee-stung lips, and I’m lost, grabbing his arse and bringing him close so I can grind against him.

He moans gratifyingly loudly, but we quickly break apart when a cough sounds from behind us.

I spin around and find a man grinning at us. He’s quite possibly one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen, with a slim, tall body and long, chocolate-brown hair that frames a sharp face. He looks as out of place here as an orchid in a vegetable patch.

His grin is wicked and seductive and… does absolutely nothing for me.

Hmm. I don’t want to know what that means.

“Are you the happy couple?” he says brightly. Then he blinks. “No, you can’t be. One half of the partnership is a lady called Claire who is rather demanding.”

I grimace. “Rather? That’s a bit of an understatement.”

He throws his head back, laughing, and there’s something unconsciously studied about him. I realise this must be Claire’s mystical supermodel.

“You must be Mal Booth,” I say.

He takes my hand and shakes it. His eyes are very wicked. “Must I? I suppose there’s only me that could possibly be that.”

I put my arm over Artie’s shoulders and draw him forward. “My husband, Artie.”

I can feel Artie’s startled pleasure at the title.

Mal’s eyes sharpen. “Goodness, you are pretty, Artie.” I can’t help my instant frown, but Mal catches my gaze and rolls his eyes. “Oh, not for me. I meant for potential modelling. He’s pretty enough for that, and he has beautiful bone structure.” He winks at me. “I’ve got a farmer in my bed who keeps me very busy. You know the saying, ‘Once you’ve gone Cornish, you never go back to Dawlish’.”

I blink. “I don’t think that is the saying.”

“Really? What a silly flibbertigibbet I am. Well, it should be the saying.”

He looks around, taking in the barn, which looks beautiful in the autumn sunshine. A temporary wooden floor is down, and tables are covered in immaculate white linen. The flower arrangements add a delicate fragrance to the air and the glassware gleams. The numerous hay bales festooned with fairy lights aren’t to my taste, but each to their own.

“Goodness, the barn does look nice. It’s actually tidier than our house. Maybe Cadan and I should move in here after the wedding and let the sheep have our room.”

“Well, I’ve moved the fucking sheep.” A Cornish-accented voice sounds irately from the doorway. An equally stunning man appears—tall and broad-shouldered, with brown-blond shaggy hair. “They’re now in a field that’s so far away from the farm they might as well be part of our neighbour’s stock.”

“I do hope not,” Mal says. “Jowan will never let them wear leg warmers.”

“And neither should we.” A grin lights up his face, and he strides towards Mal. “You’re home,” he says, giving him a kiss that lasts a very long time.

I waggle my eyebrows at Artie, who snorts. The sound breaks the couple apart.

I smile at the man and introduce myself and Artie. Then I say, “You must be the famous Cadan I’ve heard so much about this morning.”

Mal grins. “Oh dear. That never presages good things.” He considers that. “Apart from the time he found me at a party and shagged me in a cupboard.”

Cadan shakes his head and reaches out to shake my hand. “Sorry, I wasn’t here to greet you. I was moving all our livestock to Timbuktu.”

I grimace. “Yes, I feel like I should be saying sorry.”

“I’d say if you started, you’d never finish. The bride is rather intense. She’s already collared me three times and asked more prying questions than my mother did when I was twelve and started locking my bedroom door.”

Mal stirs. “Have you really moved all the sheep? Even Robbie, Gary, Mark, Harold, and Jason?”

Cadan rolls his eyes. “Yes, because they are actually part of my flock.”

“Makes you sound like Jesus,” Mal says fondly.

I stare at them. “You named your sheep after Take That?”

“Pre-split,” Mal offers. “They’re very close.”

“Not that close,” Cadan mutters. “Gary kicked Robbie in the head this morning.”

Mal sighs. “Oh dear, life imitating art.”

Artie laughs.

“It’s very warm in here,” Cadan says, looking around.

I grimace. “That’ll be the heaters. They’re everywhere. Global warming hasn’t ever occurred to these people. She’s done more to melt the icebergs than if she’d stood over them with a hairdryer.”

“We do need the heaters, though,” Artie murmurs, ever kind. “It’s cold out there.”

A hysterical screech makes us all jump. Claire, the bride, is standing in the doorway. “Oh my god, Jed and Artie. We have to do something about the cows.”

I make a mental note to cancel my ear-syringing appointment. It’s not necessary anymore. I observe Claire, who’s dressed in a thin silk gown. Her head is full of rollers and she’s wearing a green face pack, so she looks rather like a hysterical alien who’s landed on Earth to bother humans with her unreasonable demands.

“Do what with the cows?” Cadan asks warily. He turns to Mal and whispers, “I’m telling you now, this wedding business is the worst idea you’ve had since you decided to deliver meals to tourists’ doorsteps.”

“That could have worked if we’d given it a chance.”

“Only if either of us could cook.”

Artie steps towards the alien bride. “Oh dear, Claire,” he says gently. “Whatever is the problem?”

She immediately calms—such is Artie’s effect on overwrought wedding people. We call him the wedding whisperer and send him into the trenches whenever there’s a problem. It was one of the reasons I started having him do weddings with me. Then, I quickly got used to having him there. I look at him affectionately as he calms Claire.

“It’s the cows,” she’s hissing at him. “They’re not right.”

I scratch my head. “Not right for what?”

She paces, ignoring Cadan and Mal, her whole being intent on importing more news of doom. “They’re too loud.”

“Am I going to have to ball gag the cows?” Cadan says, sotto voce.

“I have never found you more attractive,” Mal says seriously.

Cadan laughs, his whole face lighting up.

“I can’t have cows at my fantasy farm wedding,” Claire continues. “It completely spoils the vibe I’m looking for.”

“Is that IKEA does farming?” Cadan mutters.

Mal stirs. “What would you like? Dragons? They’d be more problematic than cows with all that fire blowing, although you probably wouldn’t have needed the five thousand patio heaters.”

She looks over at Mal and straightens as if she’s been tasered. “ Oh ,” she says, patting her rollers. “Mal Booth.”

“That’s me. Famous and fabulous.”

She laughs a little too loudly. “Oh, I’d know you anywhere . My fiancé bought me a cardboard cut-out of your Calvin Klein advert. I keep it in my bathroom.”

Mal looks interested. “They have cardboard cut-outs of me?” He winks at Cadan. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Cadan’s mouth twitches. “Nothing surprises me about you anymore.”

“Maybe I should leave a cut-out behind to keep you company whenever I go away. You could have one in every room.”

“Yes, because that wouldn’t be creepy at all. If they follow in the footsteps of their human counterpart, they’ll probably set fire to something to cause maximum catastrophe.”

Claire smiles at Mal. “I booked my wedding here when I saw the spread on the farm in Marie Claire .”

Mal comes forward, a charming smile crossing his face. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you. You’re my first bride.”

“Maybe a little less Bluebeard,” Cadan mutters.

Claire ignores him, her smile glowing.

Francis the best man steps into the barn and approaches us. He’s very good-looking, but I think his arrogance spoils his looks. Claire greets him breathlessly. “ Francis ,” she says as if George Clooney has come down from on high to mingle with the livestock, and walks towards him to be swept into a hug that lasts a little too long.

Artie watches the two of them, his face creased with concern. He catches my eye and moves next to me.

“I want it on record that I expressed concern about this situation at least three weeks ago,” I whisper.

“I smell disaster.”

“In all honesty, that might be the cows.”

He chuckles, and I must agree with Mal about Artie’s prettiness. But Artie’s utterly real to me—not a model or a cut-out—and his smile makes my heart clench.

His smile fades as he watches Claire and Francis. He whispers, “Is it wrong to be concerned about getting her married and off our hands?”

I draw him close, my hand on his back. We’ll be going back to our hotel room to change into our suits later, but now he’s wearing an old grey jumper and jeans that are faded white in places and cling to his long legs and small, round arse.

“Not at all,” I say quietly. “Our job is the wedding. The cock-up of their lives is completely down to them.”

His smile is wide. “Oh, I do love—” Everything goes dark and silent in my head. I take a sharp breath and come back online just in time to hear him say, “—the way you make things so much better.” He frowns. “Are you okay? You’ve gone a bit pale.”

“Yes,” I say in a too-high voice. He didn’t say what I thought he was going to. Am I sad or happy about that? “Absolutely fine .”

“Are you sure?”

His concern is a constant. He might be quiet and doesn’t push himself forward in company, but he’s incredibly fierce on behalf of those he cares for. He’s also gently intractable, which amuses me and turns me on. To see his square chin lift and a stubborn look come into his eyes is very invigorating, and I provoke it far more than I should just to see it.

I hear Mal clear his throat and glance over at him. “And this must be the groom,” he says to Francis. “Well, you look perfect together. I can always tell. Everyone says I’m very psychically gifted when it comes to relationships.”

“Literally, no one has ever said that,” Cadan mutters to me.

Francis blanches. “Oh no, my friend is marrying her. I’m just the best man.”

Claire gives a nervous laugh. “ Exactly . Just the best man.” Mal blinks, and she turns back to me. I resist the urge to cower in a corner. “Can we do something about the cows, Jed? I can’t have all that mooing when I’m exchanging my vows.”

I notice she doesn’t mention her husband-to-be. This has been a common feature of the arrangements so far. He seems like an accessory to the whole ceremony rather than one of the stars.

“That’s sad,” Artie says.

I narrow my eyes. What’s he up to?

“What do you mean?” Claire says, echoing my thoughts, which immediately makes me want to bleach my brain.

“Well, farm animals are just so trendy at the moment.”

“Are they?” she says doubtfully.

“ Really ?” Cadan says, and Mal nudges him.

“They’re very smelly,” Claire offers.

Artie nods. “Yes, but they echo the bucolic splendour of the pre-French revolution era, and you know how popular that is now.”

I look at him with respect. Artie Walker, you are a fucking genius .

Claire turns to me in question. “He’s right,” I say solemnly. “I’m just amazed we haven’t installed a guillotine yet.”

She looks confused. “Did Marie Antoinette have a lot of farm weddings, then? I thought she invented the nuclear bomb.”

I blink. “You might be thinking of Marie Curie, who discovered radium.”

Artie heroically soldiers on. “Oh yes. Marie Antoinette had a small farm, the Petit Trianon, where she pretended to be a shepherdess.”

“ Really ?”

“Not that you’d want to go that far,” I add quickly.

She looks thoughtful, which makes me instantly nervous. “Would the sheep not like that?”

“They don’t take directions from random birds in long white dresses,” Cadan mutters, and then winces as Mal elbows him.

Claire stares at Artie as if he holds all the universe’s secrets. I can’t blame her. I often find myself doing the same. “You really think it’ll be okay?”

“Definitely,” he says. “Marie Antoinette is still a trendsetter.”

“And rarely gets a headache,” I offer. Artie bites his lips, his eyes twinkling.

“Well, okay then.” Claire begins to turn away.

Then, with his predictable lousy timing, my nephew appears in the doorway wielding a shovel. He’s wearing a suit and huge wellies. “What am I supposed to do with this shit?” he says, waving the shovel. His voice is edged by hysteria. “The bin you showed me is completely full now. They just keep shitting .” He shakes the shovel to emphasise his point.

As if in slow motion, a tiny bit flies off and spirals lazily through the air until, with the certainty of wedding drama, it lands on the blushing bride.

Her shriek is so loud it startles some birds in a nearby tree. Then she’s in motion, sprinting out of the barn with Francis in hot pursuit. My nephew blinks and then wanders off, having done his worst.

“This is what would happen if Satan was a wedding planner,” I say grimly.

Artie follows in a rush. “Claire, it’s okay,” he calls. “It’ll wash off, and you know it’s actually good luck.”

His voice fades into the distance, and we all stand still for a second. Then Mal stirs. “I’ll take your card if I can, Jed.”

I blink. “For the wedding or psychiatric services?”

He tuts. “The wedding, of course.” He strikes an elegant pose. “When I started out as a young model with cheekbones to die for and a face that made grown men weep?—”

“I’m sure I’ve shed a tear or two myself,” Cadan mutters.

“I said to myself,” Mal continues. “Malachi Booth, you should ignore Dior and Zegna, what you really want is a wedding planner with beautiful eyes and superior forearms.”

“Are you booking a wedding planner or flirting?” Cadan asks wryly.

Mal pouts. “Can’t I do both?”

He smiles affectionately at him. “Always.”

“Will you be wanting to get married on a farm too?” I ask.

“Maybe, but we do make vodka on this one, and my husband always shovels his own shit.”

“A glowing recommendation,” Cadan says sweetly. “I may need to add that to my CV.”

“Then count me in,” I say, handing him a card from my holder. “I must go and rescue my husband.”

“You go very well together,” Mal says. I look at him, and he raises his eyebrows. “I can always tell.”

“Yes, that’s been very ably demonstrated,” I say, and Cadan snorts.

There’s the sound of running footsteps, and I look up as my nephew appears again.

“What now ?” I groan. “Do you want to smear more faecal matter over the bride, or has an asteroid landed on the groom?”

“That’s not a common occurrence in Cornwall, but I’m holding out hope,” Mal muses.

Grant grimaces. “It’s worse than that, Jed.”

“Worse than the groom being flattened? What is it?”

“Does anyone own a black-and-white cow?”

Mal brightens. “Oh, that’s Coco Chanel. I raised her, you know. I’ve taught her everything she knows.”

“Words to strike fear in the hearts of man,” Cadan offers.

“She even opens doors. She’s very clever.”

Grant brightens. “That’s so cute. She should have her own Instagram account.”

“Well, now that you mention it, I?—”

“Grant,” I interrupt wearily. “What about the black-and-white cow?”

“Oh, it’s in the kitchen eating the wedding cake.”

I stir in my uncomfortable seat in the hospital waiting room. “I don’t think this has ever happened to me before,” I muse.

Artie leans into my side, and I sling my arm over his shoulder, enjoying how he immediately nestles close. “Really? I would have thought you’d have seen most things after the years you’ve been in the industry.”

“I’ve had my share of disasters, and before this, I’d have said the worst was the pirate wedding when the rum ran out and the sea got rough.” He starts to laugh, and I grin at him. “But this is the first time I’ve had a bride say the best man’s name at the altar rather than the groom’s.”

Artie purses his lips in thought. “Does that mean Claire’s legally married to Francis now?”

“Since we now know they’ve been sleeping together for two years, that might have been a better outcome.”

“Too bad about the outcome for the father of the groom.”

We both look towards the door where they’d steered the aforementioned father for an X-ray of his injured hand. We’d driven him here while his wife stayed behind to oversee the end of the party.

“I think it’s broken,” I say gloomily. “But at least he signed all the cheques before he punched Francis.”

Artie grimaces. “Well, look on the bright side. When Francis fell on top of the cake, it covered up the damage Coco Chanel had done.”

“I’m quite relieved about that,” I confide. “I wasn’t comfortable about anyone eating it after the cow had a nibble. I was going to hide it when the guests were all too half-cut to remember they even had a cake.”

“At least that’s been taken care of by now. Mal was opening bottles of their farm vodka and booking tours by the time we left.”

“That man,” I say admiringly.

“I liked him and Cadan,” he offers. “They were good fun, and Mal was very interesting.”

“Please don’t let him mentor you. You’ll have taken over the world by lunchtime.” I eye him. “Interested in the modelling offer? I saw him slip you his card.” I hold my breath, but release it in a rush when he immediately shakes his head.

“Not in a million years.”

“He’s right, though.” I examine his fine-drawn features in the bright hospital lights. This close, I can see the spray of freckles on his nose. The sight always makes me want to kiss them one by one. “You are beautiful.”

He flushes, and the pleasure in his eyes makes me want to beat my chest in satisfaction.

He shifts position, distracting me, and I note how his eyes are drawn tight.

“Is your back hurting, sweetheart?” I ask.

He directs a startled gaze at me, and I bite my lip. Endearments keep falling out of me lately. They join my brains that appear to be dribbling away at the same rate. “Just a bit,” he finally says in a low voice. “It’s been a long day.”

It has. We left home in the early hours and were at the farm for seven o’clock this morning, organising the florist and checking the arrangements, and we’ve barely stopped all day. I can feel the tiredness tug at my own bones, and they’re older than his.

“I’ll say.” I nudge him. “It’s nice that they had such a beautiful setting for the complete annihilation of their relationship, though.”

Ever soft-hearted, his brow furrows. “Do you think they’ll be okay? The groom must be brokenhearted.”

“They’ll be fine. Maybe not together, though. As we left for the hospital, I saw him disappear into the shrubbery with the head bridesmaid.”

“ Ouf , that’s not good.”

“I don’t think he was brokenhearted. His pride was damaged, and she’s probably done him a favour. No one likes to be second best in someone’s heart.”

“No. It’s not nice.”

His face is distracted, his attention a mile away, and I swallow, worry seizing me. This has happened a few times lately, and it’s like the sun going in, leaving me in a cold, shady place that I’m starting to realise was my life after Mick’s death. Since I’ve been with Artie, my life has been full of laughter and warmth, and I don’t want it to go away.

I suddenly wonder with a sinking feeling if he’s talking about feeling second best to Mick. I open my mouth to tell him that could never happen and that no one has ever had my attention like this. But then he stirs and winces again, and I shelve my thoughts. “Turn around.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to solve your little problem.”

“ Here ?” He directs a scandalised look at me that makes me smile.

“I’m going to massage your shoulders. Not whatever your dirty mind just conjured up, Arthur Walker. I’m actually scandalised .”

He flushes and then laughs, his eyes bright. “It would take more than that to scandalise you. And it’s your fault that my mind went to what we’ve done lately. It’s a comprehensive list.”

“Don’t rest on your laurels. I have loads more to add.”

“Good god, I’ll be dead of sexual satisfaction before I’m much older.”

I bite my lip to hold a smile in and reach down to rub at his shoulders. He gives a soft groan that goes straight to my cock. I look around, but we’re the only ones here, so I carry on until the tension has eased from his muscles. I move on to rub at the base of his back.

“God, that’s so good,” he slurs, and I lick my lips, my attention focused on the vulnerable nape of his neck. When I’m inside him, I like to lick and suck there, and I can see a faint bruise by his ear where I sucked a mark last night. The sight hardens me all the way, and I reluctantly pull back.

He turns his head and pouts adorably. “Why have you stopped?”

“Because I didn’t want to top off our peach of a day by getting arrested for lewd activities in an NHS waiting room.”

“Is that on your list?”

I chuckle. “You should be prepared.”

“Lucky I was a boy scout.”

“I bet you were adorable,” I say affectionately. “Was your uniform the neatest of anyone?”

“Yes, and I was very popular with the scout leader because I liked the cleaning up afterwards.”

I laugh, lean in, and whisper into his ear, “However, when we drop the groom’s father at the hotel, all bets are off. You’re all mine, and I warn you I’m going to take my time, and you definitely will need to clean up afterwards.”

His shudder moves his whole body this time, and I bite my lip, arousal racing through my body like a tsunami.