“I know.” I sigh. “I wish he wouldn’t. I’m fine.”
“Whether or not that’s true, it won’t make any difference. He’s still going to worry.”
And now I’ve given him even more to worry about, I think with a spark of guilt. “Where is everyone?”
“Bride and family are in their rooms getting ready. Groom has gone on a walk with the best man – think they took a flask of whisky with them, so they might be gone a while. Mason andRoss are out with your hiking friends. Last I saw Stuart, he was with you. That woman of yours is in her room.”
“She’s not my woman,” I snap.
Not anymore. Not now Ethan has come and whisked her away. Will she even stay for the rest of the wedding? She has to. But she’s already bailed once.
What are they doing in her room?
Jonathan’s hands still on the buttercream. “Interesting.” He resumes smoothing. “And everyone else is either here, or changing, ready for the first arrivals.” He shrugs. “There’s nothing for you to do.”
“I was worried you’d say that.”
I need a job. A task. Something to occupy my hands and mind.
“What can I say? We’re entirely too capable. You should check out the barn. The transformation Stuart’s worked there is nothing short of magic. If we weren’t already married, I’d propose to him on the spot.”
“He has a knack for seeing potential in everything.”
Jonathan gives me a significant look and smile. “That he does.”
“Sure you don’t need me?”
He shakes his head. “No. Go get reacquainted with the farm. But Angus?”
“Yes?” I pause in the doorway.
“He’s put a lot on the line for you. Don’t fuck it up, okay?”
There’s nothing I can say to that, so I leave the kitchen, not quite running, but certainly striding quickly, as if my steps can carry me away from my guilt. The courtyard is quiet, nothing like the hubbub from earlier, and my formal shoes click on the flagstones as I slip inside the barn’s double doors.
Jonathan is right. It is nothing short of a miracle. Pale purple cloths cover long wooden trestle tables, on which blown glass vases had been placed at intervals, filled with bouquets of driedflowers, which lend the formal settings a rustic feel, perfectly in line with the barn’s exposed wooden beams. Everything has been thought of, from the elegant table plan by the entrance, to the linen napkins tied with twine, and the chiffon drapes hung from ceiling to wall, lining the length of the space.
Motes of dust drifted in the air. I try to imagine the hubbub here tomorrow, one hundred people filling the seats, the hum of their conversation, the clatter of cutlery, the clink of glasses.
Tonight’s dinner will be a smaller affair: only family, bridal party, and close friends. Assuming the weather holds, we’ll host it in the walled garden, and if not, we’ll move inside the main house, where we’ve extended the dining room to accommodate all the guests.
I should check that is prepared, I think, even as I marvel at the room. It’s beyond my wildest dreams. All the back-breaking labour to convert it, to remove all traces of husbandry, re-painting the walls and re-laying the floors, all those hours I spent on my hands and knees going over every inch and cranny, and I still never imagined it would look like this.
It’s perfect.
For the first time, I feel a spark of hope.
The door clicks closed behind me. I spin around.
The sight of her steals the breath from my chest.
It’s Rowan, but not the Rowan I know. There isn’t a hint of neon or Lycra in sight. The woman in front of me is still beautiful, but it’s a harnessed beauty, trimmed and coiffed, every inch of wildness removed, except for a few strands of her hair that have loosened from her low bun.
Her dress is almost floor-length, slitted from hem to thigh and silvery-blue, hugging every one of her curves all the way down to her shimmering heels. Thin straps frame her collarbone, descending to a deep cowl neckline that shows off a hint of cleavage.
She isn’t wearing a bra, that much is clear.
And with a cut that tight, I bet she isn’t wearing pants either.
