Chapter Thirteen
“Darling, I signed you up for that speed-dating event that the Deacon set up in the church hall. Just go and see. You might be surprised.”
APPARENTLY, SINCENate hadn’t gotten fucked the night before, the universe had decided to fuck him today instead.
It was raining in the wedding chapel. Water ran down the twisted wire that connected the chandelier to the ceiling and dripped from the multitude of tiny crystals. It oozed up between the planks of the wooden floor with every step and drenched the gold-and-white chair backs and pulled the carefully tied bows down in draggled knots. The flower arrangements had shed drifts of petals, and the delicate fronds of green fern were sodden and drooping. There were water stains on the old stone walls that, from experience, would take hours to dry. And everything smelled… damp.
“Fuck.”
It wasn’t the most eloquent response, but Nate felt that it summed up his feelings. He picked his way across the floor, tried to avoid the welling puddles, and poked at a broken vase and wet knot of daisies with his toe.
“What happened?”
Max followed him across the floor and stepped in all the puddles. He shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged.
“Pipe burst.”
“Fuck.”
Nate scrubbed both hands through his hair and clenched his fingers at the nape of his neck. His brain tripped over itself as he tried to cope with all the different ways it was a disaster.
“Insurance will cover it,” Max offered.
“By the weekend?” Nate asked. “Katie and Bradley’s wedding is on Saturday morning.”
Max glanced around and pulled a rueful face. “Yeah. Can’t see that happening. You know… Ididcall you last night.”
The way he dropped the comment made it obvious that Max knew he was on shaky ground. It didn’t quite commit to being an accusation, but it was close enough to divert Nate’s attention from the wreck of the venue.
“Not the time,” he said flatly.
Max snorted and scratched his ear. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The muscles in the sides of Nate’s jaw hurt because he clenched them so hard. He took a deep breath of air that smelled like damp stone and wet fabric. “Just drop it, Max,” he said. “Does Teddy know?”
“Of course,” Max said. “I called him after I called you. Told him you’d been having trouble with your phone.”
“You don’t have to lie for me. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Max shrugged and reached up to hook his arm over Nate’s shoulder. The solid weight of him threatened to make Nate stagger, but he braced his feet.
“I don’t have to do anything,” Max said. “But my dad hates Flynn even more than I do… and that’s saying something.”
“I know that,” Nate said. “What I don’t get is why. Flynndidn’tfuck his teenage son, anddiddrag him home in one piece. Might not have been Teddy’s finest hour as a dad, but what the hell does he think Flynn actually did wrong?”
There was a pause and then Max shrugged. “I don’t know,” he admitted and looked away. “Maybe he knows something we don’t. What are you going to do about this?”
Subject changed, he waved a hand at the drenched mess that had been a wedding chapel until the night before. There were crumpled balls of wet kitchen roll in the corners of the room.
“Can you put it off?” Max asked.
Nate gave him an exasperated look. “Yes, Max. I’m going to just tell Katie that her wedding, the day she’s been planning for a year, if not decades, has been rained out. Could she, her entire family, her groom, and his so-enthusiastic mother just come back next week? It’s herwedding day, not a manicure.”
“Trying to help.” Max stuck his hands in his pockets and looked around. “I could clear out the bar for a night.”
Nate rubbed his eye and pressed down with the heel of his hand until he could see stars. He could imagine the reaction. The whole thing was meant to be classy. “Classy as shit”was how Katie had described it. A stone wedding chapel where the lord of the manor—even if technically not their manor—had been married for three of his four weddings? That was the sort of classy she was after—theTatlerclassy.
Hollyoaksactress and footballer getting married in a bar, however nice, sold to a different class of magazine.
