Of all the lunchboxes in all the world, this one has to land here.
‘It is Milla, isn’t it?’ His mouth curves into a grin. ‘So this is where you’ve been hiding. I wondered where you’d gone.’
As my indignance rises, I finally get my act together ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘I could ask you the same thing.’ This is windcheater guy; he’s not going to hold off on the backchat. ‘Oliver had a bit of a crush in Groomswear so he sent me up to the overspill attic changing area. He warned me Poppy was up here baking, but he didn’t mention there would be barely-dressed women up here too.’
Damn. This far I’ve been so bedazzled by his bare skin, I totally forgot about mine. ‘Sorry to disappoint you but there’s only me. And where I come from, a sleeping T-shirt and shorts counts as fully clothed, not undressed.’
In his anchor-print socks and Calvin’s he’s in no position to judge, even if my briefs are exactly what it says on the tin. No doubt they’d be huge on someone whose bottom was smaller, but on me they’re teeny. It’s also worth mentioning that they don’t go with my top either. The joy of mismatching pyjamas is one advantage I’ve totally rocked since being single. Ben getting picky about tops and bottoms and pairs going together is one bit of the relationship I was not sad to wave goodbye to.
But back in the attic, just to be on the safe side, I yank my top down, keep my eyes low, and definitely don’t dwell on how Nic’s got exactly the right amount of hair on his thighs to make your insides melt. I slam my eyes closed before I get to thinking how it would feel to run my fingernails over the pale strip of skin on the inside of his leg. If he’d be ticklish. Or just super-appreciative.
From his low laugh, I wonder if he’s read my mind. ‘There’s no need to stalk me, Milla. If you want me to take my shirt off, you only have to ask …’ The smile he’s holding back breaks free again.
‘Dream on, mate.’ There’s male beauty we don’t mind appreciating even when it takes us by surprise on Saturday morning. And then there’s knowing you’ve got a body to die for and assuming every girl wants a piece of it. Which is way less attractive.
‘If you’d like to see more of me this week, I’ll mostly be down at the harbour. Just ask for Nic Trendell.’ His eyes spark for a moment, then he looks away and snatches a glance at his watch. ‘And much as I’d love to stay, I’m due at my next appointment.’
‘Fabulous.’ It’s totally not. If my feet weren’t welded to the spot, there’s no way I’d be watching him pick up his denim shirt from the sofa. Or notice that as he takes an inordinate amount of time to do up the buttons, I’m back to letting out mentalphwoarsat how taut those thighs are. Or be picking my jaw off the floor as I watch him pull up his jeans and zip in.
If there’s an upside, it’s that you can’t feel guilty for mentally undressing a guy when he’s already stripped off in front of you. And if there’s a sense of anticlimax, not relief, as he finally buckles his belt and tucks in his shirt, there’s no way I thought that.
He’s picking some smart navy trousers off the floor and sliding a white shirt onto a hanger. Pulling a face at the jacket that follows. ‘I’d take ocean-going waterproofs over satin lapels every time myself, but at least the fit’s perfect.’ He dives past me towards the door. ‘Let’s make sure we have breakfast together very soon.’
I’m ignoring the butterfly storm in my chest that his offer unleashes. Instead I growl softly, ‘Over my dead body.’
He’s not the only person in the world with a busy Saturday morning. Below, the shop is buzzing. I’m in a hurry too, but before I open my mouth to say so, he’s already out of the door and bounding down the stairs. Hopefully to the other side of town. Or better still, a whole lot further.
As for me, I need to smooth out my skirt, paint on some eyebrows, then start hoping like hell that whatever request is coming my way, it’s something tiny that will be over very fast.
Chapter 5
Later the same Saturday.
The Style File, Brides by the Sea.
Special offers and discount codes.
‘Talk about a coup for our Special Request service, Milla! Even with the ten percent discount claim this one ishuge!’
This is Jess a few minutes later. And as she marches me down the stairs and into the wonderful basement department known as The Style File, my stomach is quaking more with every exclamation.
I’ve lost count of the hours I’ve spent down here this last week. I’ve put my personal discomfort to one side and pointed my camera at everything from clusters of candles to flowers in pots, past vintage dressing tables reinvented as wedding cake stands and themed place settings, to light-up signs saying L-O-V-E. There’s so much bridal pretty crammed between the chalky lime-washed and bare brickwork walls my memory stick is bursting.
Jess steers me to a metal table by the big French doors and clinks down a bottle and three glasses. ‘No need to look so worried, Milla. Have a glass of fizz and relax.’
As we sit down in the warmth of a sun splash and I look past a tiny outside courtyard full of lanterns to a tiny patch of iron-grey sea beyond, I know it’ll take more than a few bubbles to calm me down.
‘A big job … in what way?’ In theory, I should be able to handle anything wedding-related, but there’s the pressure of doing it in a new setting. I’d assumed that being a bride’s right-hand woman was as big as the job was going to get. We’ve been emailing each other this week; Calista is super-friendly, extra pretty – judging by her Insta photos – and rocking the cool New Yorker thing, and the most she’s asked for so far is my dress size and that I carry her tissues for her.
It’s a measure of my state of high-alert and how anxious I am to make a good impression that I’m rubbing at a scuff on my kitten heels. Usually I wouldn’t give scruffy shoes a second thought, let alone try to hide them, but I’m desperate not to let Jess down here. And much as I’d rather not know the details of the upcoming job if it’s huge enough to put me outside my comfort zone, I’d rather find out the worst before the customer arrives.
When Jess lowers her voice so the others can’t hear, it’s breathy with excitement. ‘We have a very charming but clueless gentleman who’s wanting to put together his very ownDon’t Tell the Bride!wedding.’ She pauses to pop the cork and passes me a full glass. ‘He needs you to hold his hand all the way from now until the big day in July.’
One partner taking sole charge may be great for shock-value TV, but in real life not so much. ‘It’ll be fine if he’s easy-going. If he’s in any way picky, early summer could prove pretty impossible.’
That’s the catch about the wedding world – the run-up times are traditionally very long because perfection can’t be hurried. Couples book venues as much as three years ahead and dresses are ordered in September for delivery the following spring. A fast-track wedding is fine for anyone happy to take what’s left over but you have to be prepared to compromise.
