Page 64 of Short Stack 3

I come awake to the knowledge that I don’t have to work today. Once upon a time, that would have been a cause for concern, but that was before Joe. Now, I stretch in the warm tumble of covers, inhaling the scents of wash powder and sex. My dick stiffens, and I send out an exploratory hand to find my husband. When my fingers brush cold sheets instead of warm skin, I open my eyes, squinting in the bright sunshine.

The bed is empty.

“Joe?” I croak, but there’s no answer — just the faint sound of birdsong and a radio playing downstairs.

I slide out of bed and pad to the bedroom door. I poke my head out and call him again. There’s still no answer, but I can hear voices, and when I lean over the banister in the hallway, Ican make out my husband’s tones. It sounds like he’s talking to our cleaner. A door opens downstairs, and their voices become clearer. It is our cleaner. She’s saying something, and Joe’s voice sounds loudly.

“Well, I can really recommend the Bluebell Lodge for a wedding venue. The reception room has just been decorated, and they had the bedrooms redone last year. The food’s good too, and the gardens are stunning for photographs. Give me a shout if you need anything else.”

I roll my eyes. I’ve learned that a wedding planner is never at rest. Wherever we are, people gravitate towards Joe as if he’s a marital beacon broadcasting his job. He’s like confetti in human form.

I consider going downstairs but then pad back to bed instead, climbing into the still-warm sheets with a sigh of contentment. I used to pack my hours fuller than Samuel Pepys’s diary. Now, I know the joy of a real day off with my husband. We tend to sleep in and start the day with a fuck and a lazy breakfast and then get on with whatever activity we plan.

After a few minutes of pleasant idleness, I feel the mattress depress slightly, and I smile. “Hello, Humphrey.”

The cat stalks up the bed before curling into the crook of my legs. I reach out and pet his ear, and he nudges his cold nose into my fingers. Then I lie back and doze with my feline companion.

I’ve been lying there for a while, snug and comfortable, when the door creaks.

“Has she gone?” I mutter. “Or do you need to pop out and have the first dance with her?”

“I thought you were asleep, you naughty little eavesdropper.” Joe’s voice is rich with laughter.

I smile. “It’s not eavesdropping when you’re talking loudly enough for the dead to hear.”

“Hope they can’t, or Jed will send them Confetti Hitched promotional literature too.”

I hear clothing being discarded, and then my husband’s warm body embraces me from behind. “Good morning,” he says.

I stretch, feeling his hairy legs against mine. “It is now.”

“You old smoothie.”

Humphrey utters an indignant noise and stalks out of the room in search of a quieter spot. His back is rigid with displeasure, as if he’s blaming us for bringing him to the feline equivalent of King’s Cross station.

“Why are you up so early?” I ask.

“Ah, I went to sort out breakfast.”

I go still. “Please say you’re not cooking it.”

“Pshaw! Of course not. I ordered in.”

“Thank you, Baby Jesus.”

“He had nothing to do with it. That wasallme.” He pushes up behind me, and I feel the stiff length of his cock.

“Is your phone poking me?”

He snorts. “You’ll wish it was the phone when I get through with you.”

“Big words from someone expecting a food delivery any minute.”

He slaps my arse. “We’ve got twenty minutes before the croissants and bacon arrive. Let’s do it.”

“Cole Porter must be rolling in his grave.”

“Did he used to run the Red Lion on the high street?”

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