Page 60 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
‘I think you missed your calling as a military general,’ said Mort, impressed.
‘The military couldn’t handle me.’ At least, the military men she’d met over the years hadn’t been able to. She tapped her fork on Table 1, then waggled a green pawn. ‘This is Aunt Jemimah. She can’t sit near Grandma Beatrice on Table 2 because she had an affair with Grandpa Joe. And Table 4 is out of the question because she gave Auntie Edith brutally honest feedback about the pelmets in her living room.’
Mort nodded thoughtfully. ‘Problematic but tasteful. I see how she could be an issue. Go on.’
‘I’d choose to scoot her over to Table 8, but I already have Cousin Miriam there, and she can’t be moved to any of the other tables after what she did at ChickenFest back in 1988.’
Mort’s fork screeched over the cake plate. ‘What did she do at ChickenFest?’
‘No one will tell me. But the nine other people at the table are the only ones who’ll abide it.’
‘Ah, we’ve found the chicken fuckers.’
Lily snorted, giving his bicep a squeeze. Oops, getting handsy – she probably shouldn’t have taste tested that prosecco this evening. ‘Mort! I didn’t know you had it in you.’
For good measure, she pulled out the prosecco and waggled it at Mort.
‘Sometimes I get tired of gallows humour and veer into the world of crass humour instead. Fill me up – I think we’re going to need the help.’
‘Crass suits you. It’s unexpected.’
She poured Mort a drink, then passed it to him with a cheersing motion.
Sipping away, Mort tapped the table plan. ‘Mm, that’s good. Much better than what we get stuck with – people in mourning say that everything tastes like ashes, so they just go with whatever’s on sale. So, what about if we move this chunk of Table 7 over to Table 12.’
Lily put a protective hand over a jumble of multicoloured pawns. ‘Those are the Mopsy triplets and partners. They come as a set. And they’re vegan, so they can’t be seated near Cousin Isaac, who runs a brisket truck.’
‘I see why Isaac would want to be spared a tarring and feathering. With vegan feathers, of course.’
Between sips of prosecco and mouthfuls of cake, Lily and Mort worked on the chart for a solid half hour, making very little progress on the wedding’s seating arrangements – but making quite a bit of progress in terms of their own.
‘I’m afraid,’ said Mort seriously, ‘the only way this seating situation gets resolved is if someone dies.’
‘Idohope you’re talking about the wedding,’ said Lily, whose leg was now pressed up against Mort’s. Mort’s arm had at some point made its way around Lily’s shoulder, and Lily leaned into him, conscious of the confident thrum of his heart against her arm, painfully aware of the warmth of his breath in her hair. Would it be so wrong to kiss him? She spent her days bringing happy couples together, after all – why shouldn’tsheget to be on the other side of that arrangement? She had a whole basket of out-of-season mistletoe sitting right there, for fuck’s sake. Not to mention the rude party favours she’d ordered as part of a hen’s night side business she was working on. (Although she should probably wait to bring those out.)
Mort brushed her hair gently from her face, and Lily turned, her pulse quickening.
His dark gaze met hers, full of the usual warmth and humour … and something more heated.
Lily was first to break away.
There was a moment as they both collected themselves, still living in a world of what might be. Lily’s hand was on Mort’s knee, and Mort’s rubbed her shoulder ever so gently. One of them had to say something – or one of them had todosomething before this whole situation imploded into messiness. Or worse, into nothing.
Oh, fuck it. Turning, Lily reached for Mort, her fingers curling around the back of his neck, running over the soft, short hair that gave way to bare skin. Their eyes met again, but this time neither looked away.
Lily pressed her lips against Mort’s, tentatively, then hungrily. She’d been longing to taste him since they’d first met, and thefeeling didn’t disappoint: heat sparked between them like a feral magic, and Lily drew him in closer, shifting on the couch so that she could straddle him. Mort’s hands found her sides, his fingers wrapping around her waist with an urgency that surprised her.
‘I’ve wanted to know what you felt like for so long,’ he murmured, his voice husky against her lips, her chin, now her throat.
The feeling was mutual. So damn mutual. Desperate to close the space between them, to find the smallest distance between her skin and Mort’s, Lily grabbed at her ridiculous Disney nightie, dragging it over her head – grateful that she hadn’t gone to bed wearing her loosest, most threadbare sports bra, the one with the red wine stain on the front and the hole in the side.
So too was Mort, because his hands roved from her sides up to her breasts, cupping them reverently, his thumbs finding her nipples as his lips found the edge of her collarbone. Lily groaned, leaning into him as he gently explored her skin with his fingers, his mouth. Every inch of her felt primed, electrified, ready to ignite.
But then Lily’s phone vibrated on the table, startling them both. They jerked apart, suddenly shy, the spell broken.
The phone buzzed again, then again, slowly making its way across the seating chart like it was possessed by a very small but very determined demon.
‘Fucking hell,’ said Mort, his gaze averted once more. Lily shyly hid her breasts under one arm, although, she supposed, that ship had sailed.
