Page 48 of A Wedding in a Week

No. I need them for Marc. I want that so much that I get honest. “Hayden offered to loan me a tent last night.”

I touch the screen of my phone. It’s filled with creamy canvas. With strings of fairy lights like I’d imagined. With stars above, and a glowing campfire. Another shot offers a peek inside a tent that’s exactly how Hayden described it—a little bohemian, a lot luxurious, complete with a canopied bed big enough for happy endings. And that’s what I want most for Marc, a happy ending of his own, whatever it costs me.

“This one,” I tell him, aware I’m gruff and unable to help it.

“Fucking fabulous.” Marc straightens, and forget what I said about liquid sunshine. Now he’s too bright to look at, especially when I have to make this confession.

“I turned him down.”

“You did?” Marc’s gaze shifts from the screen, landing on me, and I expect confusion. Or anger, maybe, because I know how much he wants this.

I don’t see either.

I mean, there’s no avoiding that it isn’t happy. Or sleepy. Not anymore. Something else surfaces, and I’m a farmer not a mind reader, but Jesus, he’s so concerned for me that my heart squeezes.

I could look into his eyes forever.

I think I’ve called them hazel this week. I’m almost sure I’ve described them as liquid as well. Today they put those website photos to shame, glittering with more than strings of fairy lights or a sky full of stars. They sparkle, reminding me of Lukas on the cusp of laughing. They’re also velvet soft again, and how can I see my mother in someone who, thank fuck, is no blood relation to me?

Something drifts closer like Marc does now, not quite a memory, more a truth I must have soaked up like he’s absorbed aspects of my family.

Land can only give back what you put in.

Maybe Dad said it, or John. All I know for sure is that Marc’s gaze gives back the best parts of everyone I’ve got left, and I don’t know how that happened. I don’t have any answers. Not for that, and not for his next question.

“Why’d you turn him down, Stef?” He also comes to his own conclusion, but that’s Marc through and through, isn’t it? He’s always been quick on the uptake. Now he’s quick to smile again when maybe he shouldn’t, not after I’ve all but admitted to being—

“Jealous.” He leans in, and I must retreat just as quickly because I feel that word more than hear it. The pillows I sink into are as soft as that word gusting over my ear. It tickles as he takes the phone from my hand. “You were jealous.”

I don’t know where my phone ends up, and I don’t care, not when he makes his own confession.

“I didn’t recognise Hayden last night. Not right away. Do you know who I saw from where I was sitting?”

I don’t look away from him then. He’s got my whole attention, and I’m a big guy, but with Marc leaning over me, his biceps bunched and his shoulders squaring, I’m shielded by him again like in the Land Rover last night. It isn’t what I ever expected, not from him, but if he’s got part of Lukas and Mum, it stands to reason he’s absorbed this Luxton trait too.

He’s quiet for a long moment, and how often did Dad pause the same way, teaching us how to listen?

Now Marc makes me wait too, but he also makes direct eye contact so there’s nothing hidden. “I saw someone muscling in on what I wanted.” He touches my jaw, tilting me his way, and fuck knows what he sees. All I know is that he dips down, his kiss quick and close-mouthed. He also murmurs, “Did you really think I’d ever stand by and let that happen?” He chuffs, then kisses me again. It’s just as brief, but he also closes the last fraction of space between us, and my morning wood might have dissipated, but his hasn’t. Not one bit. He’s hard against me even as his voice softens.

No. Soften doesn’t describe what I hear.

It roughens.

“Never gonna happen, Stef. No fucking way. Not after it took so long to get you.”

He’s always had me.

I’d tell him that if he didn’t dip down for a third time, and if I’ve learned anything this week, it’s to make the most of my lucky number. This time I kiss him back, not letting him pull away again, and that’s it—his lips part and I can only hope I taste of relief instead of the sour guilt I woke up with.

I don’t get to worry for long. Marc lets out another of last night’s greedy noises, a loud-and-clear signal that he’s into it—into me—however he can have me.

Just like that, we’re back to yesterday’s button-pinging desperation. He scrambles between my legs, and I don’t feel any need to be top dog even though having Marc under me again is up there with all of my life’s best moments, and hasn’t he featured in so many past high points? In my lowest of low points too, but having him home means they’ve faded, or at least lost their jagged edges.

Everything is easier with him.

I’ve got to keep him.

He seems just as determined, or at least he’s determined to get me off. We’re partners in bed the same way we’ve been since agreeing to work together. Now he’s my equal in rocking between my legs while kissing, deep and wet, and it’s so erotic there’s new dampness between us. It’s joined by more when he groans, in tune with my excitement. Even our touching matches—he braces on one hand, squeezing my pecs with the other, and I have to break our kiss to see him.

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