Chapter 43 #2
In an attempt to cool the flush creeping over my skin, I cast my eyes around the crowd.
Everyone’s standing up, cheering and clapping.
It’s absolutely fantastic and most un-British.
From what I can hear, it’s the sizeable and excitable Irish contingent that’s leading the revelry.
I suspect they’ll be first on the dance floor later, too.
But they’re whipping the more reserved Brits up with their infectious enthusiasm.
Theo’s mum looks like she’s about to climb up on her chair.
I spot Elle and Josh standing discreetly in one of the furthest-back rows. He has her arm around her, and he’s wiping his eyes with a hanky. Another man brought to his knees by the love of a good woman. I’d put good money on that being the next wedding Theo and I attend.
Unless—gulp—it’s our own.
The Oast House is transformed with greenery.
Vast garlands hang from the vaulted ceilings, and mature olive trees in huge pots punctuate the space.
They’ll be replanted at the farm after the wedding.
Just like with the Walled Garden, Miles and Saoirse have opted for an obscene budget and an organic, authentic end result, flawlessly executed.
Round tables groan under the weight of food and flowers.
Saoirse was keen to avoid the generic plated-up courses so often associated with weddings.
Instead, Zoe and her team of chefs have surpassed themselves with platter after platter of delicious food so the guests can indulge in family-style dining at each table.
We tuck into chicken quarters, crispy, golden skin intact, generous tranches of perfectly pink Sorrel Farm lamb, piles of crispy roast potatoes, and wilted greens so swimming in salt and butter that I even note some of the kids getting involved.
Miles left most of the food-related decisions to me and Saoirse, but he did weigh in on the wine, which means we’re drinking an incredibly silky Pauillac.
Suffice to say, as the wine levels drop, the noise level soars, helped by a live Irish band playing through dinner. Saoirse’s mum helped us source them and fly them over for the weekend. They’ll play at the barbecue tomorrow, too.
So, by the time it comes for speeches, we’re all in a party mood and I’ve relaxed enough to enjoy myself at the top table.
My mood is definitely helped by the fact that Theo’s hand has edged consistently higher up my thigh under the tablecloth.
His long fingers grip my skin as he nuzzles my neck in a way that’s totally inappropriate, yet remarkably effective at reminding me what that mouth is capable of.
I should shove him off. Theo’s mum, Laura, has already pulled me aside this evening and told me, in a voice full of emotion, that she could never have imagined seeing Theo so happy, and that they’re all so pleased he finally found himself such a lovely girl. The word appropriate is implied.
I really don’t want to disappoint her by moaning at her son’s ministrations under the tablecloth. She doesn’t need to know how inappropriate we get when we’re alone.
The speeches draw to a close. Miles managed to hold it together enough to deliver his, which I’m pretty sure was weighted far less towards gushing thank-yous and far more towards gushing over his bride.
But for me, the highlight was watching my sexy AF boyfriend hold the room with his smart jokes, the relentless piss-taking out of his brother, the groom, and his smouldering looks in my direction whenever he brushed on the topic of love.
By the time they wrap up, I’m desperate to get my hands on him. Properly. So once Miles and Saoirse have had their first dance, I drag him onto the dance floor.
I haven’t danced with him since Lotta’s party, and he’s considerably less drunk now than he was that night, but he’s still a fucking great dancer, and moving our bodies slickly together feels exactly like foreplay.
I don’t know why I’m surprised by his dance floor skills.
I’m well aware the guy has rhythm. In spades.
Despite the upbeat music, he pulls me into him and slows his moves down. His heat is like a drug, as is the unyielding hardness of his body through his shirt and trousers. I can’t get close enough. I can’t get enough, full stop.
‘Didn’t know the wedding planner was allowed to eclipse the bride,’ he murmurs in my ear as we sway, my hands looped lazily around his neck, his hand wandering dangerously close to my ass.
I snigger. ‘Come on.’
‘I’m serious. You are so. Fucking. Beautiful, Belle.’ His voice grows rougher in my ear as his hand slides over my ass, his fingers so close to the cleft of my cheeks that I can only hope the surrounding dancers are hiding us from view. ‘The things I’m going to do to you later.’
I shiver. I love love love when he makes his voice low and menacing and delivers words that should be threats but feel like the most decadent promises. He loves me, and he supports me, and he pushes me, in bed and out of it, and it’s the best dynamic ever.
It’s exactly what I needed.
Even if I didn’t know it.
Especially because I didn’t know it.