Page 57 of A Wedding in a Week

“Yeah.” I touch my sling. “I don’t need it all the time.”

“I remember now.” Hayden’s gaze swings Marc’s way. “You mentioned covering for someone who couldn’t work. You know”—his gaze flicks back to me before returning to Marc—“when we were talking?”

He means on that app. He even touches a front pocket of his jeans, tapping his phone, I guess, although I don’t need the visual to remember seeing Marc out here, laughing at Hayden’s messages, the hose sprinkling him with diamonds.

Hayden tilts his head. “The way you described the situation, I assumed you meant you’d come to help out family. You know, an older relation?”

Marc laughs again. “We’re not related.” He catches my eye, not winking exactly, but I see humour along with relief. “Thank fuck,” he murmurs, his knuckles brushing the fabric of my sling. “But yeah, Stef’s my reason.”

That’s all he says. Not that I’m his reason for working on the farm. I’m his reason, full stop, and I like that so much I can’t keep a lid on a smile.

Marc’s eyes dart to my mouth before rising, and yes, they’re as bright as his laugh, but that softness of earlier? It’s still there, still a thread between us, tying us like that buttonhole twine I pictured.

Maybe Hayden sees some of that connection. He clears his throat, and Marc jerks, his hand dropping from my sling as he picks up from where he left off. “But Stef keeps overdoing it. Farmers, eh?” His headshake says a silent, “What can you do about it?” He also looks up at me, and now isn’t the time to get lost in a gaze that isn’t only soft, it’s also exasperated in a way I remember seeing between my parents.

It also isn’t the right time to respond to a ping from my own phone. I ignore it vibrating in my pocket—it’ll only be my brother finally getting back to me, adding to a message chain full of not-so-subtle warnings not to let Marc pick another loser. Lukas was honest about being worried about that outcome, so I make myself get honest as well. “Thanks for coming, Hayden.” I also do what Marc promised—I’m not done trying harder either, only with someone who’s arrived with a finishing touch that might help Marc to stay for longer.

I’m still tempted to edge between them.

Jess gets there first, circling Hayden like he’s one of her flock before settling on her belly, her muzzle across the toes of his boots. She only ever does that with family. With our friends. With people who aren’t about to poach one of our sheep from us.

I get the message. “Seriously, Hayden. Thank you. I do appreciate it.”

I hope that sounds grateful instead of gritty. It must do since Hayden’s response is an easy-going, “No problem.” He’s still watchful though and has to notice that Marc doesn’t need to stand as close as he does to me, or that my sling doesn’t need straightening. Marc goes ahead and adjusts it, and Hayden covers his mouth with his hand.

I don’t know if there’s a smile behind it. He crouches before I can see. “Sorry, girl.” He pets Jess before easing his foot out from under her muzzle. “I need to go and pitch a tent with Marc.” His glance darting my way suggests his phrasing is deliberate. I can’t tell if it’s designed to poke at me. Again, I don’t get a chance to find out because he adds, “And it needs to be soon. It’s been a busy day. I’ve already missed my lunch, no way I want to miss my dinner.”

Maybe that’s his way of letting me know that he won’t outstay his welcome. I’m grateful again then. “You can get off right away, if you want. I can manage the tent. Seriously, I’ll figure it out.”

Marc must tune into a different part of his statement. He faces Hayden. “You missed your lunch? It’s almost four. You haven’t eaten yet?”

Hayden smiles, and fuck, he really is all of my first impressions, good-looking and good-humoured, not whatever I let jealousy paint him. “It’s okay. I grabbed a bite at the petrol station.”

Marc flashes me a look I could get used to. It says we share a joke. Then he includes Hayden in it, and somehow that’s even better. “Not one of their pasties, I hope. You should taste one of Stef’s. You’ll never buy another one wrapped in plastic.”

My phone pings again, and Hayden eyes my arm as I wrestle it awkwardly out of my pocket. “Seriously,” I insist despite the evidence, “I can manage if you need to get off.” I cast a quick glance at my screen, and maybe I can’t. Manage, that is. Not once I absorb what I read. “Fuck.”

“Stef?” Marc’s gaze swings back to me and I forget about anything green-eyed then. I only see him—my own reason for getting what I never expected. I hold up the phone. “It’s the bank.”

“And they said…?”

“It isn’t a flat no.” I show him the screen. “The county business manager’s diary is rammed, but they’ve found half an hour for a quick chat.”

“You mean a half hour for us to make a brilliant pitch. Yes!” He clenches his fist, about to pump it in victory, maybe. Then he pays more attention. “What’s wrong?”

“You won’t be there to make the pitch.” There’s no way in the world I’d want him to. There’s also no way in the world I want an audience for this conversation, but Hayden watches like it’s a game of tennis, his gaze swinging my way just as I say, “I’ll do it alone.”

Hayden’s gaze swings to Marc next, and maybe he sees the same ripple of surprise, of confusion, of rejection I’ve put on his face once before.

I also get to see a repeat of Marc’s reaction.

He shutters, his hurt hidden, blank in a way I had three long years to remember and almost seven days to forget.

Lukas might be miles away in London, but I hear him as clearly as if he’s beside me. Don’t let him pick another dick who’ll reject him. Because that’s what Marc just heard from me, isn’t it? It’s why he backs away, taking a few stumbling steps before making a flat statement. “Of course. It’s your business, Stef, not mine.”

“No.” It really isn’t. I scramble for more words, hoping to God I find the right ones. “Not Love-Land Weddings. It’s ours.”

That hurt doesn’t exactly fade, but Marc stops backing away. I thrust my phone out one more time. “Look at when my half-hour slot is.”

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