Page 40 of A Very Happy Easter

“Next April. I’ll have Rosie send your invitation ASAP so the two of you can book somewhere nice to stay. Sorry, what’s your boyfriend’s name? I don’t think we’ve met.”

Ever polite, Heath offered a hand. “Heath Carlisle.”

“Somewhere…to stay?” Hell, I was gonna puke. “You’re not getting married in London?”

“No, in San Gallicano. I’ve always dreamed of a beach wedding.”

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. Constance wanted me to leave the freaking country? Some days, even leaving my own home was a step too far.

“Wow,” was all I could manage.

“Sun, sea, and sangria. It’s going to be amazing. We’ve found the most beautiful location, right by a waterfall.”

Heath’s grip around me tightened, which was just as well because my knees had gone wobbly.

“We’ll be there,” he said. “Looking forward to it.”

“Fabulous! Oh, there’s Ashley and Edward—I should go and say hello.”

“I’m going to be sick,” I mumbled the moment she was out of earshot.

“You want to go home?”

“Get me out of here. Please.”

My ears began ringing as he half carried me to the street, and I gulped in mouthfuls of air as I tried to get my racing pulse under control. What had I done? What had I agreed to? Heath held up a hand.

“Little finger to middle finger, Edie.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Breathe, sweetheart. Everything’s fine.”

Hot. I was so hot.

Ah, that’s because I was wearing a jumper in bed. Why was I wearing a jumper? Snippets of last night came back to me in horrifying technicolour: cookies, margaritas, bridesmaid duty. The car ride home. Heath holding back my hair as I puked tacos. Jerilyn pulling my boots off.

Oh, hell.

I rolled over, groaning, and that was when I saw the note on my nightstand.

Please don’t flip out. I was worried about you, so I’m sleeping on the sofa in the living room.

H

Heath was still here? Fuck. I’d thrown up in front of him. And now I had two options—swan-dive off the roof and send myself into peaceful oblivion, or go downstairs and apologise. Oh, and then explain to Constance that I couldn’t attend her wedding, but I’d certainly help with the hen do. I could ask Salma to explain the situation to Rosie, but that would be a cop-out, and dammit, why did I go to that stupid wine bar?

My jumper smelled of vomit, so I threw it in the laundry hamper and put on a silk robe. Time to face the music.

Heath was sitting at the breakfast bar, eating a slice of toast. “She wakes.”

“I feel like death.”

“You look like it too. I think it’s the mascara circles.”

Double fuck. “Heath, I’m so sorry about last night. I swear I’m never going to drink again.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He nudged his plate towards me. “You want toast?”

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