Page 6 of Paper Roses

I can’t count the number of times I’ve wished I’d never had that revelation six months ago. He’d leaned over me to correct something in a document, pressing his warm body against mine. Then I’d looked up at him, and my head had spun at the sight of not a boy, but a gorgeous young man. It was as if someone had ripped a blindfold off my eyes, and I’d finally noticed his full, soft lips and those pretty, pale eyes.

“Jed?”

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I’m just a bit tired.”

His face clouds in concern. “You need to get a good night’s sleep.”

I think of the hours I’d spent lying on the edge of my bed last night while my bedmate snored peacefully. It had felt rather rude to wake him at four in the morning. I’m reconsidering that decision now.

“You’re not wrong,” I say grimly.

He presses his ear against the door again. “It’s gone quiet. Is that good or bad?”

“Depends whether matricide is your thing or not.”

He snorts and then looks at me and back at the door. “On the count of three?—”

“This is not a BBC police drama. It’s just a bride and her mother-in-law. How bad could things get?”

“Quite bad,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “Have you forgotten the Rogers-White wedding?”

I roll my eyes. “If anything was going to send me to therapy, it would have been them. The dry cleaners never managed to get my suit clean again.” I reach past him and open the door. Voices rise suddenly in shrill argument. “Ladies, we’re coming in,” I call.

There’s an ominous silence before they start shrieking again, and I exchange a look with Artie. Before my gaze can linger on those soft blue eyes, I walk into the bathroom. There’s a small waiting area in front of a closed door. Whatever is behind that door has got to be better than standing around lusting over my assistant.

I reconsider that statement when my feet crunch on the flowers strewn across the floor. A closer look identifies it as Esme’s bouquet.

“Hasn’t she even tossed the bouquet yet?” Artie whispers, standing close.

I shiver slightly at his breath on my ear. “No, she did that earlier. Her mother-in-law caught it.”

He frowns. “Why do you say it in such a tone of doom?”

I grimace. “It wasn’t so much her carrying her daughter-in-law’s bouquet around the reception like a chimpanzee on her hip, it was probably the outfit she was wearing that tipped the balance.”

“Why?” He brightens. “Was it tartan? I know Esme specified no tartan.”

“Not a whiff of a check anywhere, unfortunately.” I knock on the door. “I’ll let you see for yourself.”

“You’re such a fucking cow,” comes Esme’s shout. “And your Yorkshire puddings areterrible.”

There’s an outraged gasp. “Take that back, you…you Jezebel.”

I clear my throat. “Hello? It’s Jed. If it’s okay with you both, I’d like to come in. I’m with Artie, and we wanted to check on you.”

And find out whether I should warn Lee that his family Sunday dinners just got a whole lot more awkward, and his damage deposit has probably sailed away on a sea of in-law strife.

There’s a short silence and then Esme exclaims, “Artie’shere?” in a manner I’d use to announce Taylor Swift on stage.

If I could bottle Artie’s gentle charm to give away, the world would be a better place. “Yes, he is,” I say. “And we need to make sure that everything is okay.”

Footsteps sound, the door swings open, and Esme the bride stands there. She’s a beautiful woman, but her face is cherry-red with rage, and her hair has fallen out of its previous neat chignon. Her tiara is crooked, giving her the look of a drunken princess.

“Hey,” she says in an excessively cheerful voice. “Did you enjoy the wedding?”

I stare at her. “Yes, it was exceptionally well organised.”

She slaps my arm. “Cheeky boy.”

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