Page 36 of A Wedding in a Week

That could easily be a double entendre—I can picture his eyebrow waggle—but somehow it isn’t. His tone changes, and Jesus, for all that it sounds as if I have caught Lukas at the gym and he’s winded, he’s always been mentally faster than me. Today though? Today his mood is mercurial, switching from spirited to almost sombre, giving me aural whiplash.

Here’s a prime example. “You need more people in your life,” he says out of nowhere.

“I’ve got plenty of people.”

“No, I don’t mean Mum or John.” He clears his throat. “Or me. I want you to have someone like—”

“Your latest leggy, blonde victim?” My brother has a type. It turns out I do too, although I’m more into redheads. I keep that to myself. “Anyway, when are you going to bring her home?”

“Her?”

“Destiny? I can’t wait to show her your baby pictures.”

That would usually prompt more sparring, or a chase across the top floor ending in a headlock, if my brother was still here. Today it provokes neither.

“Lukas?”

Again his mood shifts. “You should try being a lot more polite to the man who just scored you a table at the Anchor.” That’s the fine-dining pub down in Porthperrin. One that usually needs booking months ahead. “They just emailed me back. They can seat you early.”

“Wow, but why early?”

“Two reasons. Because the whole pub is booked out for a big party later in the evening, and because even on light duties, I bet you’ve still been up at the crack of dawn, haven’t you, beavering away on your laptop? Can’t have you falling asleep in your dinner when you’re meant to be impressing my brother-in-law-to-be.”

There must be a quality to my silence that Lukas picks up on. It’s due to me holding back what I want to tell him. And I do. I want to tell him, only face-to-face, not on the phone like this. Lukas makes holding back hard by sounding rawer than usual. “I don’t like thinking about you being alone, Stef. So try hard tonight for me, will you? Go all out.”

He can’t know that I am trying already—that I’ve been trying for days now—but I reach into my brother’s wardrobe, taking a much brighter shirt than I’d ever choose on my own, and make him another promise.

“I will.”

13

Marc notices my borrowed clothing as soon as I get into the Land Rover that evening. “Wow, nice shirt.” He also has to notice that I’m self-conscious about its snug fit, but unlike my brother, Marc makes me feel better about it. “I remember when Lukas bought that shirt in Newquay.” He starts the engine. “Got to say, you wear it better.”

I stop worrying then about taking one deep breath too many that might send buttons pinging, and that’s good because I can’t help holding my breath when he stops at the end of the farm track.

Marc hesitates before flicking the indicator to turn in a direction that will take us the long way to our destination.

“No.” My held breath floods out. “Take the coast road.”

“You sure?” He eyes me from the driver’s seat as I gingerly inhale again, not only testing those shirt buttons but also assessing if my chest will lock like it did yesterday. Maybe it won’t if I focus on inhaling aftershave that’s warm and woody, hinting that Marc’s also made an extra effort this evening. He didn’t need to, but I take it as a signal that we’re on the same page—that we’re both picking up from where we left off before John interrupted.

At least I hope so.

I tune into him repeating his question. “You’re really sure, Stef? I don’t have to take the coast road. I can cut inland and then approach from the other direction. There isn’t as much of a view over the cliffs that way.”

The view isn’t the problem. Not really. What I had to face while hanging over those cliffs is. That’s what I still face right now—the fact that something in my life needs to change, so that’s what I’m doing, and if it takes me wearing a shirt that’s tighter than I’m used to and driving past where that accident happened to do that, so be it. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

He still eyes me, his gaze questioning. “And you’re sure you don’t need your sling?”

“Yes, to that, as well.” I chance a smile, even though the thought of him turning left along the coast road prompts unpleasant flutters. I stave them off by joking, “Maybe I want both hands free to grab my seat belt.” What I really want is to look halfway competent tonight by cutting up my own dinner. I also want to do this, and I cover his hand on the gearstick, and for once, I have full sensation. “I did miss you fastening it for me though.”

“Your seat belt?” He grins then, the fearlessness I’ve often glimpsed from him back for a split second. “Behave yourself and I might unfasten it for you when we get there.” Then he frowns. “What time is the table booked for?”

“For six.” I take a deep breath. “There’s plenty of time.”

Marc takes me at my word, driving slow and steady while I do exactly what I joked about, gripping my seat belt like a lifeline, only I’m not joking. I can’t let go as Marc drives past where I almost had a date of my own with destiny.

It’s where he also makes a quiet promise. “It’ll get easier, Stef.”

---