Page 38 of Strawberry Kisses

So much for sneaking off. Still, he was probably right about this one. I sighed then chuckled, remembering what had happened that morning. “Probably for the best. Unless you want one of your sisters to find us making out.”

Patrick huffed a laugh. “Not really. If it’s Mary, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“You might, um, you might…” I pointed to his mouth, trying to conceal a smile when he wiped his finger across his lips, tinting his skin with the remnants of my lipstick.

“I thought you said this was supposed to survive blowjobs. Shouldn’t it be, I don’t know, more resilient than this?”

“Honestly, you just can’t get the products these days.” I laughed. “Although, as I said, I’ve never tested it on a dick, but I think we can rule out it being ‘desperate kiss’ proof.” I gave him my best teasing smile. “However, I wouldn’t be opposed to testing it out more thoroughly.” Patrick’s mouth dropped open in the most adorable way, and I laughed again. He didn’t totally object, so maybe there was a possibility there.

Patrick scrubbed his fingers across his lips, which didn’t really help. Yes, it removed the colour, but it also made his lips very pink and almost puffy. Like he’d been thoroughly ravished. Which wasn’t totally untrue.

“You’re making it worse,” I said, reaching for his hand. “Stop rubbing them.”

“Sorry.” His cheeks tinted. “You might want to top it up, it’s uh, er, a little smudged.”

“Of course it is.” I’d left the lipstick up in our room, relying on the product to do as advertised. C’est la vie, I’d just have to go top it up. Plus, it would give me five minutes to calm myself down and recentre myself after everything that had happened. “I’ll be right back. Save me some cake.”

I pressed a quick kiss to Patrick’s cheek then hurried across the farmyard towards the house in search of my lipstick.

When I got back to the barn, people were milling around the buffet tables again or standing at the barn door and spilling out into the yard. It seemed like the main meal had finished and people were just going to chill until the band started. I had no idea what sort of music the band would play, but I’d assumed it would be something like a wedding band.

When I entered the barn and saw the four musicians setting up and some of the tables being pushed to the sides, I realised it wasn’t going to be quite what I’d expected.

“Oh my God. Is it a ceilidh?” I asked Patrick when I reached him. He was perched on the end of a bench with Mary, and as soon as I’d sat down, he handed me a plate piled high with puddings and a large slice of the strawberry and cream cake he’d made. I gasped happily, momentarily distracted, and took the fork he offered so I could take a huge bite of the cake. The sweetness of the cream and the slight tartness of the strawberries were exquisite, especially with the little crunch of the meringue, and I made a happy little sound in the back of my throat.

“Are you okay?” Mary asked with a wry smile. “Do you and the cake need a moment alone?”

“The cake and I are just perfect, thank you!” I smiled and licked my lips before taking another bite, already wondering if there’d be enough for me to have more later. Like everything Patrick made, this cake was perfection. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yeah, it’s a ceilidh,” Patrick said. “They do them once a month in Ivybridge, and I know Mum and Da always go. It’s the same band, right?”

“Yeah,” Mary answered. “I’ve been a few times. They’re really fun. They’re never pushy if you want to sit out, and they’re never strict about who partners with who since these events tend to be unbalanced anyway. Have you done one before?”

“A couple of times when I was at uni,” I said. “Someone I danced with knew a steampunk-style group who used to run them in London, and she took me. It was really fun. I had some other friends take me to Edinburgh for Hogmanay once just because they wanted to do the ‘Strip the Willow’ at the ceilidh there. It was fun but fucking exhausting. I was knackered the next day, although all the drinking might have had something to do with it.”

Mary laughed. “You’ll be fine then. You can teach Patrick.”

“Not a fan?” I asked, turning to face my beloved chef, who already looked slightly nervous.

“Not really. I’ve got two left feet, and I’m not the most graceful person.”

“It’s ceilidh, Patrick. You can’t really go wrong,” Mary said. Patrick nodded, but he didn’t look any better.

“Don’t worry.” I nudged him gently. “You don’t have to dance if you don’t want to. I’ll just make Mary dance with me instead.”

“Oh, will you now?”

“Yup. I hope you brought your A game.”

“Bring it on.” She laughed. “You’re definitely going to have to come down again. There are so many people I need you to meet.”

“I’d love that,” I said because I genuinely would. Mary was so like Patrick. She lit up every space she was in without even realising it. She was definitely more extroverted than Patrick was, but she was warm, generous, and kind. I already knew we were going to be friends for life.

We chatted for a little bit longer while I worked my way through my pudding mountain, occasionally getting Patrick to try things. The catered desserts weren’t as good as his, but they were still nice. I was making a list in my head of everything I wanted to get Patrick to try making because I knew his would be even better.

“Good evening, everyone, and welcome to Aoife and John’s anniversary party,” the caller said from the middle of the little stage they’d built. He was a giant of a man with a bushy ginger beard and looked distinctly like a Viking. Like the rest of the band, he was wearing a white shirt and a black waistcoat. “Are we ready to do some dancing?”

He summoned everyone who wanted to dance onto the floor, saying that since it was a wedding anniversary, we were going to start with one they often used for first dances. I grabbed Mary’s hand and pulled her behind me, noticing she’d swapped her heels for a sensible looking pair of sandals. We lined up, me on one side and Mary opposite, as the caller talked us through the steps, giving a bit of a demonstration.

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