Page 44 of A Wedding in a Week

She looks over her shoulder. “We got here just in time, Jude.” Then she leans in once more, poking where I have a shirt button missing. “Does your brother know you’ve raided his wardrobe?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. She backs up instead, reaching for her pocket. “Maybe I should text him.”

“Mum, no!” I must look panicked. Marc’s head tilts, his frown asking a question, and I’d tell him that I want to be the one to break our news but Jude approaches with a grimace.

“Sorry,” he murmurs while passing food containers through the open window. “I thought I’d catch you before you left. These are for you.”

I take them. “Thanks.”

“It’s one of our wedding-tasting menus. Thought you could take some photos of the food where you planned to serve it. For your presentation.” He backs off, replaced by Carl Lawson. What he holds up takes a moment to register.

“Lobster pots,” Carl says. “Handmade by my Susan the old way from local willow. These days people put solar lamps inside them. Soak up the sun in the daytime and cast a pretty light all evening.” I don’t need more light to see his eyes dance between me and Marc before his gaze lands where my shirt gapes. “Marc told us you’re planning on setting up glamping tents full of local touches, so I thought you could use them. I’ll put them in the back.”

“I’ll get the doors,” Marc offers but someone else steps forward.

“I’ve got it.” Hayden says. He also comes to the open window when he’s finished loading the lobster pots. He can’t notice my missing button—he’s too busy wishing Marc good luck with a presentation that, after one evening in the local pub, is now common knowledge. Then his gaze does land on me, and he’s quieter. “My offer’s still open, Stefan. Let me know if you change your mind.” He backs off, replaced by Jude’s sister.

“Heard that you’re showcasing local talent. Got some artwork for you. Sale or return for your guests to take home as mementos, I popped the prices on the back of the canvases.”

And that’s how it continues—local after local bringing something they’ve made to help us, and I have to get out of the Land Rover to thank people who, for a second time, have shown up when I needed.

Mum hugs us both then, not teasing for once. Instead, she cups my elbow as if she can tell that a whole evening without my sling means it’s aching again. She also asks a question, only she aims it at Marc. “Are you taking good care of Stef for me?”

His gaze flicks in my direction. “I’m trying.”

Mum hums as if she knows that Marc’s done so much more than try. He’s made all the difference to me lately. She also issues a quiet order. “Then don’t stop.”

We head for the car, pausing when Mum calls out, “Oh, and Marc?”

He turns. We both do.

Mum’s gaze drops to where our hands brush, and I don’t have words for her expression. Maybe that’s down to the shadows. All I know is that her eyes shine and her next order comes out softly.

“Drive carefully.”

And Marc?

He does.

16

The dusk deepens by the time we get home, a velvet sky studded with the first stars of the evening. I’d point them out if I wasn’t more intent on keeping my balance. And not only because heeling out of my shoes at the farmhouse door while holding Marc’s hand isn’t easy.

It’s him taking the lead that’s got me off-balance.

He’s done what he promised my mother by getting me home safely, driving slow and steady. Now he takes the lead in asking direct questions. “What did Hayden hope you’ll change your mind about?” I’m not quick enough with an answer. He goes ahead and guesses. “He asked you out?”

“No.” I’d tell him more if he didn’t stop me, and I don’t know what has more impact—his quick, hard kiss or his answer.

“Good.”

And just like that we’re both on the same page, and both in a hurry.

He leads me inside through my kitchen, and maybe tonight’s a night for shadows because Marc doesn’t turn the light on. He doesn’t need to. He knows my home as well as I do.

Because he belongs here.

I also can’t help wondering if us doing what we’ve been building up to since he came home won’t ruin that.

We leave the kitchen behind, our steps quiet in socked feet—so quiet that the tick of the clock we pass seems louder than usual. Maybe that’s because this hallway isn’t only shadowed like the kitchen. It’s almost pitch-black, but somehow Marc must pick up on my hesitation. He reaches for the light switch.

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