Page 109 of Wilder at Heart
‘You’re so right.’ Her beam is dazzling, and I know that if there’s ever a bride who doesn’t need to hear that advice, it’s Saoirse. Nothing can dampen her happiness. Her excitement. Her positivity.
‘You’re definitely the most well-adjusted bride I’ve ever met,’ I tell her, and she laughs.
‘I think this is it.’
She hits her indicator in front of huge iron gates that stand open. The pillars flanking them haveThe Old Rectoryengraved into the ancient stone. Nice.
‘Wow. This artist must do well for herself,’ I quip, and she turns to me, eyes dancing.
‘Yeah. Something like that.’
We sweep into an imposing gravel driveway. There are two cars parked: a glossy Audi, and a red car that’s the same model as Theo’s. What are the chances? But my eyes are drawn to the house. It’s aCountry Lifereader’s wet dream. A spectacular Georgian building, long and low, covered in unmistakably gnarly vines of wisteria. Symmetrical rows of stunning windows flank a huge pillared door, and it’s open.
There’s a man standing in the doorway, leaning against a pillar, his arms crossed. He has aviators on, but he’s unmistakable. It’s Theo.
I turn to Saoirse in confusion. She’s watching me with a warm, expectant smile.
‘What’s going on? Is Theo helping with the painting?’
My gaze swings back to Theo. He’s striding across the gravel towards Saoirse’s car. Pushing his aviators up from his eyes. Hisbody’s lean and rangy in jeans and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up. His face gorgeous but uncertain.
‘There is no painting, hon. Let’s just say your boyfriend’s planned a little ambush, and he roped me into his evil plan.’ Saoirse’s voice goes up a couple of octaves with excitement. She squeezes my arm. ‘Go get him, gorgeous girl. I’ll see you at the rehearsal.’
CHAPTER 41
Nora
Ilet Theo open my car door for me. I’m so busy staring at him that he has to lean over and unsnap my seatbelt. He grins at Saoirse and thanks her before taking my hand and tugging me out of the car. He slams the door shut, and then he’s pulling me into his arms so tightly that all I can do is clutch at his back and enjoy the feeling of the oxygen being squeezed out of my lungs. I’m vaguely aware of Saoirse pulling out of the driveway.
‘What the hell is going on?’ I ask, my hands dragging shamelessly over back muscles that should be illegal.
‘Belle.’ His voice is hoarse enough, desperate enough, to cause me to pull away and look up, and then by silent, and very mutual, agreement, his mouth is on mine. And thank God. From the way his warm, hard lips press against mine and his hand clenches in my hair and his tongue drives into my mouth, focused and hungry, I’d guess he’s as frantic for me as I’ve been for him, these past few days.
He’s ignoring my question, and for once I let it slide, because being here with Theo as he kisses the life out of me like a dying man is, in a funny way, all the answer I need.
This is real.
It’s real, and we can work with this. We can find a way.
The softness of his lips and the potency of his tongue are having a drugging effect on me, commandeering my senses and my brain function so thoroughly that I stand like a rag doll in his arms, allowing him to hold me up as I use my exhausted reserves on important functions like sucking on Theo’s irresistible bottom lip and entangling my tongue with his and sliding his silky hair through my fingers.
He smells delicious. Like sun cream and summer and lemons. I drag my lips away from his mouth, along his jaw and down his neck, tugging the open collar of his shirt down so I can inhale the scent of his skin.
‘Happy to see me?’ he groans, and I hum an affirmative against his neck.
‘Theo?’
‘Yeah, baby?’
‘What have you done?’ I ask casually between laps of his neck, and he laughs sweetly, threading his fingers through the hair at my temple so he can tug my head back slightly while his other hand splays across my lower back.
And there he is.
There’s the man I love, his dark eyes almost all pupil as he gazes down at me, the mouth I’ve been kissing swollen and curved up into a smile bracketed by the softest lines.
‘I fucked up, sweetheart, and I’m trying to make things right.’
‘You didn’t fuck up. I’m the one who fucked up. I didn’t—I didn’t realise?—’
