Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
LEXI
I hadn’t expected to get emotional during the ceremony.
I’ve been to a constant stream of weddings over the last few years for old college friends, work colleagues, and a couple of cousins, and none of them has moved me much.
So when the makeup artist insisted I squeeze some tissues inside the tiny little tan purse with the gold clasp that the stylist said set off my outfit “a treat,” I took them from her only to be polite.
But when Sofia and Jeremy said their vows—the traditional Scottish churchy vows—I found a lump unexpectedly rising in my throat and moisture pooling in my eyes. I tried to soak it up before any tears fell, but some sneaked out anyway and rolled down my cheek.
Dammit. What’s wrong with me? Why am I emotional for two people I barely know?
Is my period due? It did cross my mind earlier that it would be nice if there was a chocolate dessert at the reception, so maybe?
It’s certainly a preferable explanation to the one scaring the shit out of me. The one where a part of me wonders what it would be like to be sitting next to Oliver, holding his hand, and thinking that one day we might be the ones up there exchanging vows.
Not that I would ever want to get married as part of some sort of society event with guests there because of who they are rather than what they mean to me.
I definitely wouldn’t want an official press photographer wandering around, and although these hundreds of flowers are beautiful, they’re not very me—and they are definitely not very Oliver.
I’ve been watching the back of his head more than I’ve been watching the ceremony. At one point it looked like he borrowed a pen from a woman sitting behind him and wrote something down.
But all that catching glimpses of him over the sea of people between us does is heighten the reality of the unbridgeable gulf between our two lives.
Seeing him speak with the queen, his grandmother, it was obvious from their first interaction that they have a warm relationship that’s a thousand times closer than he has with his mother. It was a privilege to witness it—like a little secret glimpse behind the curtain.
Also, I’m in the same room as the king and queen, for fuck’s sake.
A little over two weeks ago, I was sitting in the Dead Skunk with Becca, discussing whether we should order just the mixed bar snacks or go wild with the mozzarella sticks as well. And now here I am, at a royal wedding in Scotland.
The chill of the church suddenly hits me hard, prompting a full body shiver, as if to wake me up to the reality of where I am and what I’m doing. If Oliver were here beside me, I’m sure he’d put his arm around me to warm me up. Or even lend me his Prince Charlie.
My lips curl into a smile. I will never be able to hear that phrase without thinking it sounds like a smutty euphemism.
It’s only when the organ strikes up and everyone around me stands that I realize the whole thing is over.
The tension in my stomach fades and is replaced by a tremble of anticipation—I’m about to see Oliver walk toward me.
Goddamn that tremble.
I really have to shut this shit down. He can never be more than a fun guy to hang out with for a few weeks while we have amazing sex. Feelings were not part of the deal. They cannot be part of the deal.
I’ve made good progress on the first rough draft of the book.
Needing to “do some work” has been a good excuse to get away from dinner each evening and not have to sit there like an excruciatingly unwanted spare part.
And I’m much more of an early riser than Oliver, so I’ve been getting more than an hour's work done each day before he wakes and inevitably pulls me back under the covers for a bit of what he calls “morning delight.” I squeeze my thighs together at the memory of how that felt this morning.
Between that and a good writing session after lunch every day, the pre-Christmas submission deadline for the first draft is starting to feel more possible and less panic-inducing.
And here they are, the happy couple heading toward us down the aisle, smiling and waving to friends and family, followed by their parents, then Jeremy’s sister escorted by Oliver.
His eyes find me immediately and sparkle when he smiles.
There it is again, the same effect his eyes have on me as they did the moment we met. It’s like an arrow to my heart, a firecracker to my core, and a warm hug of belonging to my soul.
As he approaches, he reaches an arm toward me, nodding at his outstretched clenched fist.
Puzzled, I hold out my hand, and he releases something into it without missing a step and continues on his way past.
It’s a piece of paper folded into a small square.
Unable to wait, I open it to find a handwritten note.
“After the family photos, meet me behind the blue door in the back left corner. x”
I look over my shoulder to find him gazing back at me as the wedding procession turns to head out.
He flicks his eyebrows and tips his head toward the wall behind me.
I turn to see a blue door in the corner.
When I look back, he and the rest of both families are stepping out between the police officers stationed on either side of the porch and into the early fall sunshine.
What the hell is behind that blue door?
I hang back, pretending to admire the stained glass windows that line the walls, until all the guests are milling outside the church. The windows are definitely impressive. And some have dates on them going back to the late eighteen hundreds.
As soon as the coast is clear, I head to the mysterious blue door in the corner.
Could someone be in there?
Should I knock?
I try the handle gently first. It clicks, and the door opens with a conspicuous squeak that echoes around the now-empty space.
Shit.
My heart races and blood rushes to my cheeks as I’m taken back to being the kid who doesn’t belong in the private school. The kid who’s about to be ridiculed by her classmates for not knowing the right thing to do in some particular circumstance regular folks never find themselves in.
Thankfully, everyone is focused on the chatter and fun going on outside. I can just about make out a photographer shouting instructions for where people should stand.
Easing the door open, I struggle to adjust to the darkness, but it’s obvious the room is small and windowless, and the sound is deadened compared to the large echoey stone space behind me.
I fumble around on the wall and find a light switch.
Ah, this is the robe room. Is it called a robe room? Or did I get that from one of the many magical fantasy books I read when I was a kid?
Whatever it’s called, it’s lined on three sides by open wooden closets with rails jammed full of the robe things vicars wear when they’re conducting services. Some are black, some white. A green one and a red one with some embroidery on it stand out from the pack.
Against the fourth wall is a dresser with an armchair in front of it.
I step inside, pulling the door closed behind me, jumping again at the squeak—my nerves jangled by doing something I’m pretty certain I should not be doing.
It’s kind of cozy in here. And much warmer. It smells dusty, but in a welcoming way, like a secondhand bookstore on a rainy day.
“Well, hello.” The voice behind me makes me jump so hard at least one of my feet leaves the floor.
Thank God it’s Oliver.
“How did you open the door without it making that awful sound?” I can barely hear my own voice over the thump of my shocked heart.
“Special technique finely honed over many hours of playing hide-and-seek in this church with my sister when we were kids.”
“It squeaked back then too? It hasn’t been oiled for thirty years?”
“Possibly more like a hundred and thirty.”
“Are you done with the photos already?” I dust some confetti off his shoulder.
“I was only needed for a couple. Sofia wants more candid shots than posed ones. But my mother disagrees and is making them take about four thousand more. Anyway, my duty is done and I’m now superfluous to requirements, so…
” He clicks the door closed behind him and turns off the light, plunging the room into darkness.
And I am instantly turned on.
Well, I can’t deny that my panties have been damp since he jogged up the castle stairs toward me wearing that kilt, but now they’re next-level soaked.
“Do you have a tissue in that tiny bag?” His whispered voice has moved closer, quickening my heart.
“Yes.” I barely get the word out over the sound of blood rushing through my head.
“Wipe off that sexy pink lipstick.”
Without giving it a second thought, I do exactly as he asks, a tremor in my hands as my pulse races.
“Now take your knickers off.”
My breath hitches at his words, which he might as well have said right on my clit for how they make it throb.
Holy shit, this is hot.
I reach under my dress and pull down my panties. All my nerve endings are so heightened that the brush of the fabric down my legs makes my whole body tingle.
I stumble a little as I hook them over my heels but manage to gather my balance and straighten.
“Done?” He’s now close enough for his breath to brush my face and for the hint of fresh sweat on his skin to fill my nostrils.
“Yes.” I shove my underwear and the tissue into my purse, but the stupid tiny thing won’t close.
“Excellent.” His voice is deep and has the sexiest gravel to it. “Because I can’t bear the thought of us wasting a single second of the short time we have together.”
“I was thinking that too.”
Then his lips press against mine. Firm. Needy.
I toss my purse toward the dresser, but the thunk onto the floor means I missed.
Whatever. My hands are free to wrap around Oliver’s neck, and that’s all that matters.
He bends his knees a little to dip his hand under the hem of my dress.
Before he’s even made contact with my skin, my lungs release a heavy breath into his mouth.