Page 89 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
Lily crawled aside, ushering Mort in. He stooped to avoid hitting his head against the tent ceiling, which although generously pitched, still wasn’t designed for his height. Only the bridal parties’ tents were – although probably unnecessarily, given that half the wedding party was sitting around murmuring about what this meant for the future of two significant toothpaste empires, and the other half was on a conference call with their C-suites.
‘What a night,’ whispered Lily, who in the soft light of the tent’s Moroccan lamp looked as beautiful as Mort had ever seen her – even clad in the pair of novelty tie-dye pyjamas that was part of each tent’s care package. ‘Is it bad if I’m glad she didn’t go through with it?’
Mort shook his head. ‘Better now than later. Is she okay?’
Lily sprawled over a tie-dyed multi-piece floor-couch – the same as the one that Mort had helped the Grief Guys install in their own tent earlier that day. ‘She’s spending the night at my place. Don’t worry – she’ll take the first helicopter out tomorrow. But it makes you think, doesn’t it.’
‘How so?’ asked Mort, who to be fair,didhave some thoughts about the travel habits of billionaires.
‘Well, they’re sort of the opposite of us. On paper, their union was perfect. The same businesses, the same backgrounds, the same goals. All carefully orchestrated for seamless … synergy.’
‘I see that Harvard MBA of yours is being put to good use.’
‘I only went for the sweatshirt. But look at them, and look at us. We’re messy, and unplanned, and our opinions on good design couldn’t be any more divergent. And yet.’
‘And yet,’ agreed Mort, who had never known that such a simple phrase could carry every possibility in the world.
‘And yet …’ Lily fixed her bright blue gaze on him ‘… why are you all the way over there?’
Mort’s heart was thrumming, and he briefly worried about the likelihood of a heart attack. But then: fuck it, if a heart attack was how he went out, then it would all be worth it.
He rustled over to her, moving awkwardly in the confines of the tent.
Lily giggled. ‘You’re like a weird Gothic caterpillar.’
‘That’show you’re going to seduce me?’
‘I’m not wearing my contacts,’ added Lily, squinting intently. ‘You’re going to need to come closer.’
Mort did: close enough to see that the top button of her tie-dyed pyjamas was unbuttoned. He was pleased to see that although Reba had committed to tie-dyed everything, she was less exacting about button integrity. ‘How’s that?’
‘Closer,’ said Lily, crooking a finger. ‘My vision is terrible.’
Mort inched forward, mentally counting the buttons on her pyjamas.
‘Oh God, not that close,’ shrieked Lily. She burst out laughing at his startled expression. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. But I do like having you this close.’
Mort couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward and kissed her, seeking out her soft lips with his, melting at the sweet taste of her lipstick, yearning for the taste of the rest of her. As all first kisses – well, second kisses – are, it was a maddening mix of exploration and compromise, pulling back just slightly to avoid bumping teeth even though he wanted nothing more than to wrap his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and pull her close – as close as possible.
Lily took the lead for him, dragging a hand hungrily up his cheek and twisting it into his hair. Her eyes were wide as she pulled him down with her to the amply cushioned floor of the tent.
‘Wow, this is too many cushions,’ said Mort, as he fought not to drown in the stack of throw pillows and novelty cushions. ‘It’s worse than the couch in your apartment.’
‘You’ll thank me when you don’t get stabbed in the butt with a stick.’
‘Kinky,’ said Mort, balanced precariously upon a cushioned yoga mat and a Moroccan ottoman.
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ said Lily. Her breath was hot on his neck as she grazed her lips along his throat and jawline, and Mort thought of the card he’d pulled fromDirty Laundry– the one he’d been too embarrassed to share during his first meeting with the Grief Guys.
‘You look sexy in tie-dye,’ Mort whispered, his fingers tracing the loose outline of the pyjamas, which did an exhilaratingly poorjob of shielding Lily from his hungry gaze. His thumb slipped beneath the tie-dyed hems and over the soft skin masking her collarbone, the warm and inviting curve of her shoulder. ‘Almost as sexy as you do in fluffy slippers.’
‘I love that you love my slippers,’ said Lily, unbuttoning the remaining holdouts on her pyjama top, giving Mort a teasing glimpse of bare skin shadowed by the too-soft light of the stippled Moroccan lamp. ‘Because I have an entire basket of them. We’ll put them on rotation, and you can drag a different pair off me each time.’
Mort chuckled, amused, and also honoured that Lily was thinking ahead, was thinking of a future withhim, withhimof all people.
‘I can think of nothing I want more than being part of your slipper rotation,’ he said, sliding a hand lower, where the solidity of her collarbone gave way to the gentle curve of her breasts, the stiff nub of her nipple. As his thumb grazed it, Lily moaned softly, biting at her lower lip.
He let his hand slide over her body, marvelling at the warmth and softness of it – the dips of muscle, the gentle curves, the endless undulations he could explore forever.
