Page 47 of A Wedding in a Week

Marc, on the other hand, is still out for the count, sleeping like a man who works the land for his living. Everything about him is relaxed and easy, from the slow rise and fall of his chest to that unhurried pulse at the base of his throat. It’s steady, unlike my heart rate as the sunlight creeping past my curtains brings more than Marc into focus.

It also shines a light on something I did last night that I’m not proud of.

I don’t mean the sex. I’ll never regret going hard, not when I can almost still feel Marc over me. Marc under me, as well, like we did sometime around three this morning. He might as well still be tight around my cock, his mouth open against mine, not even kissing, just breathing, or trying to, while half asleep and fucking.

It’s all still so real that my cock throbs, hard for him all over again, but accepting this truth is even harder.

Turning down Hayden’s offer was a mistake.

More than that, it was a dick move. I scrub a hand over my face, stubble rasping, but for a flickering moment, I’m not in my bed. I’m downstairs in the kitchen instead, replaying a conversation with John, who’s so much more than my right-hand man these days. Lately he’s also been a portal to this farm’s past.

Your dad thought he’d have to fight to keep her.

I didn’t get into a fight last night. Not with Hayden. But there also isn’t any hiding that I’ve shut down an option that might help me keep Marc.

I close my eyes and picture the bell tent I turned down flat with no discussion, and console myself that it might not be crucial. Maybe the financial data Marc’s gathered will swing his presentation. I’ve seen his forecasts, Excel bar charts predicting that Love-Land Weddings could be profitable. But there’s also no avoiding why his first slides got him this far in the selection process.

Because they could see what we have to offer. That’s why they asked for more photos.

I hate admitting that my brother was right—showing is so much better than telling, and now, as I remember John saying there hadn’t ever been a real need for Dad to fight for Mum, I can’t help thinking I’ve fucked up.

More than my cock throbs then. A heavy stone in my chest does too, and I’d turn back time again for Marc if I could, only this time I’d go back to last night and use both hands to grab the help Hayden offered.

But do I really want him to come here?

I watch Marc’s chest rise and fall, his breathing still slow and easy. I also see how he looks younger while sleeping, and something soul deep whispers a simple answer.

Fuck no.

I scrub a hand over my face again, knowing that’s pathetic. It echoes like the last thing John mentioned—Mum always knew who she wanted. Marc’s already made his choice too, hasn’t he? There’s proof in the still-open bottle of lube on my bedside table, and in the ripped condom wrappers beside it.

Fuck, he chose me years before last night. I know that. I do.

I also know I’ve got to get over myself, and fast, if I want him to have the best shot at staying.

I make a start by trying to reach for my phone without waking him up, and damn, if I ever doubted Lukas’ insistence on light duties, the ache in my elbow confirms he was right. Healing does involve more than my bruises fading. At this angle, my grip is barely strong enough to tug my trousers closer.

Marc stirs, and I go still, only continuing once he settles. Finally I get to wiggle my phone free from a pocket, and I’d cheer if that wouldn’t wake him.

I’d also have to explain why my first act of the morning involves messaging someone who wants to steal him. Or to wine and dine him, at least. I clench my jaw regardless and send a text that pops up under the website link Hayden sent me last night.

Stefan: Is that tent offer still open?

It’s early. I tell myself Hayden won’t be up yet, but of course he sends a quick answer that he can bring one tomorrow, and for all that I’ve been careful not to disturb Marc, his eyes shoot open the moment my phone pings. I’d regret that if it didn’t mean I get an up-close look at him realising he’s woken up in my bed.

Something like joy skims his surface. It’s naked like we both are—unguarded—no way to mistake it, and witnessing it makes all the difference. So does his grin. It’s sleepy, slow to spread, and liquid, splashing me with sunshine.

That’s what he does to me. What he’s always done for me.

Marc’s smile makes it so much easier to mention my competition, or at least someone I assumed was my competition. Now I’m not so sure, not while Marc’s smile still hovers. It lingers as he stretches and then settles back against his pillows—my pillows—and fuck, I really want to keep him.

That means I have to speak up.

“You know what Hayden does for a living?” He must do after their get-to-know-you text conversations.

Marc confirms it. “Hayden? Yeah.” He blinks, his eyelashes russet and sleep-dusted. “Something to do with woodland management. Forestry.” He rubs his eyes like he isn’t yet fully conscious. “And I think he runs some kind of nature courses.” He squints. “Wait. Why are we talking about him?”

He shifts position, up on one elbow, the movement making the mattress dip. It also brings him closer while, under the sheets, he hooks a leg over mine. I don’t know why that makes telling him this easier, or showing him, at least. I even find a smile as I click on the website link. Marc smiles too, if blearily, and his voice comes out husky. “What am I looking at?” He rubs his eyes one more time. “Wait. He’s got the tents you need?”

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