Page 37 of A Wedding in a Week

“It has to.” And it does as soon as he turns off the coast road. Marc steers us down into Porthperrin, the village at its prettiest this early in the summer, with colourful bunting strung between old, white-painted fishermen’s cottages. Even the steepness of the hill doesn’t bother me, not compared to the serpentine stretch of the road above it.

The car park he heads for is full, so Marc drives up and down streets almost too narrow for the Land Rover, finally finding a spot between two buildings shrouded for renovation where he parks in shadow.

I send up silent thanks to the firm of builders who’ve made this spot almost private. Dymond and Daughter Ltd get my gratitude because maybe those shadows are why Marc does what he promised. He unfastens his seat belt first and then slides across to release mine, only he doesn’t simply depress the belt release. He keeps hold of the belt clip, his arm stretching across my body as it retracts.

I’m caged by him then—by his arm and by what he asks me.

“This what you wanted, Stef?”

He’s joking. He also wets his lips, and everything Lukas told me about how to act tonight fades like sea mist burned back by hot sun. If I speak, I’ll have none of the chill Lukas mentioned. None of the restraint either, and not a single hope of sounding anything other than desperate, so I kiss Marc instead.

It’s soft and sweet. It’s also over all too briefly.

Marc slides away, but he smiles, and I’d pull him back to me if he wasn’t already out of the Land Rover. He looks back before closing the door, happiness brimming. It’s in his smile—in his eyes too—but deeper down, I see a different kind of pleasure, warm like the one I saw this morning over a too-strong cup of coffee and as bright as any beacon. He glows the same way all over again, and I don’t only want to keep him.

I want to keep making him this happy.

“Come on,” he says, “I’m starving.” But I’m the one who’s hungry for more of someone I once assumed Cornwall wouldn’t be enough for. Now I follow a very different person than the kid who used to visit. This is a man who doesn’t only support my plans, he’s also made recovery so much easier on me. My arm hardly aches when we walk side by side down an alley that leads to the harbour, his hand on the small of my back. That steering touch also makes following my brother’s dating instructions a challenge.

I don’t get to be a gentleman when we reach our destination because Marc takes the lead here again. He holds open the door to the Anchor’s main bar, then the one to the separate snug bar, where the private dining room is located. His hand lands on the small of my back again on the way to our table, and it doesn’t matter that I wanted to pull out all the stops for him this evening, he’s there before me yet again, pulling a chair out for me with that same warm smile as earlier. “Gotta take care of that arm.”

I’m pretty sure I could pull out my own chair, but Marc lingers to push mine in as well, and I don’t get a chance to feel awkward about being taken care of like this, not when he launches into conversation about a business plan he’s added so much to in only a few days that it belongs to us both now. Or at least, that’s how it feels as he details everything he’s found out about permits and permissions.

I know we order food. I also know our meals arrive, smelling fantastic, while he talks me through potential options. That registers because Marc breaks off to murmur, “Fucking delicious,” around a mouthful of sea bass. He talks with a server whose hair is almost as molten as his. It glints as she says, “I know exactly who you need to talk to. I’ll go grab Jude.” She does, bringing out her brother who sits with us and talks costings.

“So, yes,” Jude tells us. “We do plenty of outside catering like weddings. Everything from setting up mobile bars and beer tents on the big day to trialling sample tasting menus months beforehand. Cuts down on wastage if you know exactly what works for couples and what doesn’t. And if your parties aren’t keen on camping, we also have a boutique hotel in the village that you could book. Of course, locals get a discount.” He stands. “Leave room for dessert. My husband makes the best ones in Cornwall.”

I’m pretty sure I must eat. I can’t tune into anything other than Marc being so animated. He’s also pleased. I see it after Jude leaves us, and Marc wipes his plate clean with a crust of bread while backlit by this evening’s sunset. It halos him in gold, which means I’m slow to focus on what he pulls from his pocket.

He’s found time to do what the manager at the Penzance practice suggested—take more photos of where my land could host wedding parties. Marc shuffles his chair closer to show me, like he did at breakfast, his phone on the table between us, and it feels so natural to make space by resting an arm along the back of his chair. He shifts until it rests on his shoulders, and that’s perfect. So are these photos that show where I grew up from his perspective.

He must have taken these yesterday evening after we were interrupted, catching the headland at sunset. It’s shrouded in mist, gauzy strands turning the land ethereal. He touches them with the tip of a finger. “See how it makes the headland look like an island? All it needs is a focal point like that arch you mocked up.” He shows me another he’s found online costing thousands. “Yours is so much better.”

“Yeah?” I don’t know what button that praise presses, but it feels like he leaves a finger on it.

“Yeah. You’re so good with your hands, Stef.” He scrolls back to that shot of the headland where the mist unfurls in tendrils. They look smoky but I know they’re damp. His breath coasting the shell of my ear is damp too, pressing another button, and I like that so much I almost miss that this isn’t a misty sunset he’s captured with his phone.

“Wait,” I finally say as our dessert arrives. “This shot faces east.” It’s a sunrise he’s caught, not a sunset. “When did you take these?”

“Before work this morning.” He shows me what he must have rolled out of bed to take at dawn. “I couldn’t sleep,” he admits once the waitress leaves us. “Kept staring at the ceiling, thinking about you.”

“Me?”

A lick of pink climbs the column of his neck. Perhaps it’s hot enough to dry his throat, he sounds so raspy. “Yeah. I thought about you a lot.”

His glance is a reminder of the last time we were even closer than we are now. His pupils widen as I listen to him describe a different moment.

“I thought about what you’d said about all the spots on the farm that meant the most to you—the places that held the strongest emotion—so I got up before work and took these photos. And these too.”

He opens a different album while taking a mouthful of a dessert. It leads to a sound that’s close to sexual. “Oh my God. You have to taste this.” He holds his spoon to my lips.

Of course, I open my mouth because if Marc offers, I’m taking, and, yet again, trusting him proves right.

My mouth fills with what tastes like summer. Like clotted cream from my farm and like jam made from the freshest berries. Like being on Porthperrin’s harbour and in my kitchen at the same time. I’m eating a dessert made by Jude’s husband, but I taste my mother’s baking with a hint of something salty to balance all that sugar, and I have no idea how he did that.

Marc stares at my mouth, his eyes crinkling at the corners before rising to meet mine. “Good, right?”

He’s so much better than good.

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