Page 30 of A Wedding in a Week

I can’t stop staring at the rope as she and Marc talk some more—at how it winds around us in rainbow strands while Marc makes our plans sound convincingly real and full of potential. He’s practising for his presentation, I guess. By the time he’s done, I also believe we’ll be ready to host Love-Land weddings, if not in a week, then someday.

Or at least I want to believe it. I want it so much that I quiz him on my least favourite subject when we head back to the car. “Talk to me about finance. Those grants you mentioned? I didn’t find any online, not now we’re out of Europe. What’s the catch?”

“There isn’t one. They’re just hard to find, which is why the enterprise network exists. Finding a pot of money for one project? Not easy. Group several projects together, and tie them into a whole county’s regeneration or job creation? Those are lending buzzwords. There are government targets for it, so more doors open. You just need to know which ones to knock on.” He stops by the car where a cherry tree scatters petals, some landing in his hair.

I don’t tell him or brush them away, not when those petals look so much like confetti. It fits a mental image I’ve had once already. “I’ll help you find some start-up money, Stef,” he promises, “whether or not I get the job. I’d still help you even if I end up back in London.”

I nod rather than answer. I also sit still once in the car as he adjusts my seat belt. It’s that or kiss him again, and I’m pretty sure it would feel too desperate if I did that. That’s how I feel at the thought of him going back. I can’t help it, and I don’t know why I feel so much after so long of feeling not much of anything at all.

He can’t notice. He’s full of conversation, so much so that he gets us back to the farm without me hyperventilating.

I only realise we’re almost there when he slows on the lane leading to the farm to let John past in his car, off to his cottage for the evening. Marc gives him a wave and then keeps driving. He pulls up at the side of the barn where the view shows the same background as his business card, only hazy with sea mist.

It’s so much more than a familiar view. It’s different each time I see it. Marc is too, every single time I pay attention, like now.

He slides closer along the bench seat to release my seat belt, another small act of care that comes with his colour heightened again. He makes sure the seat belt releases smoothly, his eyes sparkling like the sea does way beyond the windscreen, and I’ve never been this close to a living, breathing, petal-dusted version of perfection.

“Thanks,” I manage to get out.

“For what?”

Marc doesn’t slide away yet. If anything, he’s closer—so close I imagine the heat of his body, and I want that so much I have to keep up my side of the conversation to stop him from moving away. “For coming to the fair with me.” I tap the folder on my lap. It holds more than cards or leaflets. Now I have a list of local contacts so much longer than when I’d researched on my own. “Thank you,” I repeat because I can’t say it enough times. “For making me think of other options.” His case study has turned out to be useful for both of us. I hope to God it’s good enough to help him.

He must want that success as badly as me. “No, Stef. Thank you. The farm is an established business. That opened so many doors. Now I’ve got all these contacts to weave into my presentation, I’m much closer to making moving down here likely. Can’t wait to get a place of my own, get Noah down to visit, you know. Show him there’s more to life—” He stops himself from gushing. “Thanks,” he repeats, patting the folder on my lap. “For playing along about us being real partners.”

His hand lands on my thigh, and according to my brother, I’m slow to think at the best of times, but fuck knows what crosses my face at Marc using words I’ve thought so often today.

We could be real partners.

He has to spot something. “For the presentation,” he clarifies as if I’d have a problem with us being partners for any other reason.

He has to know I wouldn’t, not after we’ve kissed three times already.

I thought that number was lucky for me. Maybe it isn’t.

He slides away when I really want him closer. There’s more distance between us, not the less I need to find out for sure, so I do exactly what my brother warned me not to—I shrug out of that fucking sling and reach along the bench seat to stop Marc before he can get out of the Land Rover.

He turns, looking down at my hand first, huge around a wiry forearm I wish I could feel, his gaze landing next on the sling I’ve abandoned. He seems about to argue until I promise, “I don’t need it, Marc.” I need him. “I’m so much better.”

“Your arm is?”

Yes, but that’s not what I mean. I try again because the real world will only kick in the moment he sets foot in the yard. Here, inside a vehicle I once prayed I’d make it out of alive, I give him my whole truth. “I’m better with you.”

I don’t let go of his arm, and it feels so good to fully extend mine but not as good as getting to see a slow shift in his expression. If I didn’t know better, I’d put it down to that view of my land hemmed by moor and water—the view that makes every scrap of work here worth it—but that isn’t what his eyes fix on.

They land on me.

“You feel better with me, Stef?”

I nod, and forget what I said about threes, this fourth kiss is the best yet because I have both hands free to hold him.

It means I get to pull him exactly as close as I first wanted, and I was right, he is hot to touch—so hot—only that isn’t solely due to the flush burning under my palm when I cup his jaw. His chest is also hot against mine as soon as he scrambles closer, kicking the gear stick in his hurry and swearing. He curses again as his folder falls and wedding-fair leaflets scatter, knocked from my lap as he crowds me. Business cards must also fall into the footwell as I shift so I’m half on the passenger seat and half on the central jump seat. I can’t care, not when that gives him room to clamber onto my lap.

All I care about is that he kisses me as though I just told him something he needed to hear—something unexpected—and I don’t know why when it’s only the truth. He has made me better by telling stranger after stranger today that I’ve got this, that I’ll make the farm the perfect wedding venue, that they can trust me.

I’ve had hours of hearing him say that.

Hours.

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