Page 39 of Short Stack 3

He stares. “What the hell?”

I grin at him. “Breakfast, sir.”

He stumbles to the table and slumps into the chair next to me. “Where? How?”

I pat the camping table on which is set a feast. “Coffee?” I say, passing him the cup.

He takes it, inhaling the smell with a moan of happiness. “Henry, how?”

I wink at him. “I called a taxi, went to the Chatsworth farm shop, and got us breakfast.” I pause. “And a picnic kit with cutlery and plates because Seb has obviously never eaten in the van either. He must fill his time with alcohol.”

“People in glass pubs shouldn’t throw stones.” I snort. “Iloveyou,” he says fervently, taking a sip of his coffee, his eyes closed in happiness.

“Are you talking to me or the coffee?”

“Can’t it be both?”

“There’s some fresh croissants and jam here and yoghurt and homemade muesli too.”

“Made by you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He chuckles. “Eat something,” I instruct, handing the croissants to him. “We hardly ate yesterday and drank all afternoon. It was a bit silly. No wonder you had a bad dream. You had a stomach full of alcohol and were in a strange place.” I shudder when I think of that bed. “Averystrange place.”

I still as he grabs my hand. “I love you,” he says, his eyes warm and a little wild. I look at him affectionately. We’ve come so far. A few years ago, he would have filled the air with apologies. Now, he knows with an ocean-deep certainty that they’re not needed.

“I love you too,” I say steadily, raising his hand to my mouth and dropping a kiss on his fingers. “Now eat, and then we can grab a shower with the rest of the campers and get over to the trials.”

An hour later, fed and showered, I follow Ivo through the gate. It’s still early, and the dew is fresh on the grass, the sun bright and warm. Ivo locks the gate behind us, hoisting his camera bag on his shoulder. He takes my hand, and we hit the path and start walking, with Bertie trotting along at the end of his lead. It’s not as aimless this morning, as Ivo is focused and ready for work. His face is set and concentrated, and his eyes are busy with thoughts as he focuses on the day.

“How long will you be with Ralph?” I ask.

“An hour for the posed photos.Vanity Fairhas set up a separate motorhome for that, and then they want a couple of photos with Poppet.”

“Is that Ralph’s partner’s nickname?’

He smirks. “No, it’s his horse, but Poppet is infinitely more important to Ralph than his legions of women.”

“When does the event open?”

“At ten. We should have plenty of time. I sent on all the kit a few days ago, and Rowan is there setting up so we can go straight into it.”

“And then what?”

“I’ll follow Ralph, taking photos while he jumps.” He pats his bag, obviously considering his lens choices. Then he shoots me a look. “I’m sorry, but I never considered you might be bored, Hen.”

“Why would I be bored? I like watching you work.”

He relaxes a little. “Still, I’m all yours once I’ve got the event photos done.”

“You’re that anyway. Where are you meeting Ralph?”

“At the side gate. He slept here last night.”

I eye Ivo affectionately. I love to see him in work mode. There are two sides to the man I love. When he has a camera in hand, he’s different from the painter who is usually dreamy. As a photographer, he’s harder — more focused and incredibly sexy.

We come up to a side gate with a figure leaning against it who’s instantly recognisable.

Ralph is very handsome, with olive skin, a head of dark curls, and a mischievous expression. No wonder he has so many groupies.

---