Page 18 of A Wedding in a Week

If it means keeping Marc here for longer, I’ll put together a wedding in a week single-handed.

7

Marc arrives in my kitchen the next morning looking harried. Something’s on his mind but he’s still observant. “No sling?”

I bend my arm and flex it. “No need. Lukas cleared me for work. It’s better.” Or at least yesterday’s aching has settled to a dull throb I can ignore, and so what if I still can’t make a fist? I can ignore that too, but I can’t ignore that he’s tense. Guessing why is easy. “You sent your proposal email?”

He nods. “Got it in just before the deadline.” He puffs out a breath before pressing his lips together in what couldn’t be a clearer signal that he wants to say more.

Yesterday, pushing out a chair and waiting worked. This morning I sit down and repeat that action and once again, Marc joins me and spills his worries.

“There’s so much to do, and only six days left. I won’t even know if I made it through to the third stage until lunchtime.”

“Assume that you will.”

He nods, but his knee bounces.

“Assume you will, Marc,” I tell him again. “Assume you’ll smash it.” I don’t know how long he looks at me like I’ve said something special. Eventually I repeat it. “You’ll smash it. Now tell me, what does the next stage involve?”

“In-depth financial analysis. If I get through, I’d need to create accounts and come up with forecasts by close of play today. They’re really cranking up the pressure. It’s more than a day’s work to start from scratch.”

I can solve that problem.

“Those sound like the figures from my last loan application.”

I know I already agreed to give him access to my finances, but I can’t say I like the idea of baring this part of my soul. Part of me wants to slink out of this kitchen like Jess might, my tail between my legs at the thought of him discovering how close to the financial edge the farm skates with my hand on its tiller.

“Use them,” I make myself say. “Do it while I square away the morning yard work.” He eyes my arm, which I bend and flex again, ignoring how it twinges. I also try to sound casual. “It would actually do me good to ease back into it.”

“Yeah?” He’s still dubious. “You’d really take it easy?”

“Definitely.” I’m not sure he’s convinced, so I push my laptop his way. “And it would be even better to get away from emails from the bank too. They come every single morning to start my day on a downer.”

“Why don’t you filter them?”

“What?”

He sets one up, every email from the bank neatly corralled where I only have to look if I want to. “There. You run your business, not them, so you get to decide what goes in your inbox, right?”

“Thanks.”

He smiles, and that’s better—his shoulders lose their tension, his jaw too, so I slide a mug of tea next to him and take my own out to the yard, shutting the kitchen door behind me. I do take a last look before the door closes—Marc’s already absorbed by my business, and I don’t know why that means I cross the yard grinning when that also means he’ll see my missteps, but Jess trots beside me, her tail swinging, so maybe it’s a morning for being happy.

I can’t help wondering what he’ll think once he strips my plans back to profit and loss instead of emotion, because that’s what they’re packed with—my heart and soul wrapped up like a wedding present that the bank keeps rejecting.

I wonder if he will too. By lunchtime, it’s my turn to have the jitters, only not about loans or the next stage of Marc’s interview—I only care about his opinion.

Keeping busy is a good distraction. I shift those steel bins back into the feed store and heft the last bales of hay into the loft. Those chores stave off my second-guessing. They also make my arm ache, so I return to the kitchen to find him still focussed.

He mutters, “Thanks,” when I reheat pasties for lunch. He also tells me he made it through to the third stage.

“Smashed it, see?” I’m not sure he hears me, already engrossed again, so I get back to working. Eventually, I have to give in, my arm screaming, and I head back to the farmhouse. He looks up as I open the door, and then checks the time. “Fuck. I had no idea.” He stands.

“Don’t feel like you have to go on my account.”

“No, I need to.” He shuts the laptop lid first before stopping my heart. “I’ve got a date.” My heart stutters back to life as soon as he continues. “With John. I promised to take a look at his pension forecasts.” He gets up, pausing at the kitchen door. “They’re good, Stef.”

“John’s pension forecasts?” I’m not ready to think about my right-hand man retiring.

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