So, guess Anne and I both know how it feels to be wooed with words.
One thing led to another and I just caught myself typing “what does Jane Austen recommend you do if someone pierces your soul” into Google search.
I think it’s time to go to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I’ve decided that if things drastically change for me and I somehow find a way of loving again, then I will fall in love with and marry an Irish gentleman. My reasons for this are twofold. One: the accent. And two: the wedding.
Irish weddings areso fun.I haven’t stopped smiling since the festivities started earlier this afternoon. The wedding is in this grand Dublin hotel called the Shelbourne. Ever since she booked it on her parents’ recommendation, Niamh has joked that it’s much too posh for the likes of her and Freddie, but, of course, it’s absolutely perfect. She and Freddie have looked deliriously happy and at ease all day, and everyone is so friendly. And despite the impressive surroundings, the general atmosphere is relaxed and happy, and there’s no sense of stiffness or formality. As soon as the music started, the guests were all up on their feet, no faltering or stage fright at the edge of the dance floor. The best thing about it is that every Irish person here has made me feel so welcome, like they are personally invested in me enjoying myself.
“I need to reprogram my brain,” I tell Jamie as we sit next to each other at a table with our coffee, watching people gallivant around the dance floor.
“Why in the world do you say that?” he asks, digging into his slice of wedding cake.
We’re at the stage of the evening where he’s taken off hisjacket and tie, and has his first few buttons undone and his sleeves rolled up. I appreciate this look on him. It’s very smart.
He’s very sexy.
“I’m too cynical and standoffish,” I explain.
“That’s all part of your charm.”
“But everyone in Ireland is warm and kind.”
“That’s a bit like saying everyone with a beard drinks flat whites. Slight generalization, don’t you think?”
“So far, I haven’t been proven wrong on either of those points.”
“You know what I think?” he says, gesturing to the cake with his fork. “Fruitcake is awesome. And you know I don’t have a sweet tooth, but this is really good.”
“Yeah?”
“Why do people choose all these outlandish flavors for their wedding cakes these days? Salted caramel, lemon drizzle, red velvet. I say bring back the traditional fruitcake. It’s delicious.”
“Okay, grandpa, thanks for your opinion.” I pick up my dessert fork and try a bit of the slice in front of me. “Oh wow. That is actually really good. I didn’t think I was a fan of fruitcake.”
“You didn’t get a bit with the icing. Get a bit with the icing.”
“I don’t want a bit with the icing.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like marzipan and I can see a layer of it there.”
“Oh that’s another thing that I was confused about for years,” he says, reaching over to my plate with his fork and stealing my icing. I slide my plate nearer to his to aid the transference. “Marzipan and mascarpone. Got those two mixed up the whole time.”
“They do sound similar.”
“Are you good at baking?” he asks, putting his fork down.
“Terrible. That’s not me being modest. I’m genuinely shit at it. You?”
“Quite good actually. I like baking.”
“Even though you’re more of a savory man?”
“You can bake savory stuff,” he informs me with a shrug. “But I like baking even if I’m not going to eat it myself.”
