Page 13 of The Wrong Suitcase

‘Woah,’ I repeat.

We’ve stumbled upon where dinner will be, and it’s beautiful. Twinkling lights and huge long trestle tables filled with dramatic centrepieces that contrast with the white tablecloths and black chairs that have all been put at the same exact forty-five-degree angle. There are champagne flutes and white wine glasses, as well as red wine glasses and water glasses. There are six sets of cutlery at each place setting. We must be about to dine like kings. The castle is around two parts of the outdoor dining area, leaving a vast expanse of pink sky that even as a guy I can see complements the colour scheme of everything else.

‘Come on,’ she implores, tugging at my elbow. I wasn’t expecting her touch, and it shocks me into pulling away abruptly. She scowls. ‘I think it’s this way.’

‘I’llget us back to the main lobby,’ I insist, now I’ve been reminded of the importance of the day. I was tardy for the ceremony – I can’t be late for dinner as well. ‘Follow me.’

She imitates a troop following orders from her chief, walking with straight legs and swooshing her arms, gently saying under her breath, ‘Yes, sir! One-two, one-two, one-two …’

I stop walking.

She looks at me, stifling a smile.

‘Sorry,’ she says.

‘Look,’ I reply. ‘It’s the lobby. Can you find your way from here, or shall I ask somebody to take us up there? I really just want my case.’

‘I know where to go from here,’ she says in a small voice, and I almost feel bad until I remember she’s the one who screwed up.

11

Izzy

I think the gods are testing me. No man this handsome should be this awful. I hate that I’ve been trying to make him laugh, exactly like I used to do with Doug. Except at least Doug would say something witty back. But this guy? This guy is rude. He stands at the door and watches me zip up his case on the bed, pull it off (in my gown! He doesn’t give two hoots that I can barely move in the thing!) and wheel it towards him. After a terse thanks, he marches off, and I let the door slam behind him.

Seriously?

I lean a hand against the door and breathe in as I count to ten in my head, trying to shake him off. I feel silly that I thought this would be a gateway to getting to know him after his awesome reading. He was furious with me. I’m glad he’s gone.

There’s a knock at the door.

I open it.

‘Oh,’ he says, his face so triumphant that if I wasn’t a pacifist, I’d lunge behind him and issue a wedgie. ‘So you heard that one?’

‘I don’t know why I didn’t hear you earlier!’ I cry. ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry about everything! That I’ve ruined your night and that you’re very angry and I am sorry for existing!’

He looks at me with those brooding, mercurial eyes in a way that makes me feel two inches tall.

‘Did you want something else?’ I ask, trying to make my voice more level. I just want to get back down for dinner. I wonder if we can get hold of some shots, too. I know the place is upmarket, but I’d love a tequila after all this … What even is it?Friction.I’d like a nice smooth Gran Patrón after all thisfriction. ‘I feel awful, okay? But it’s done. Can we just get on with having a nice night? This is a wedding, after all.’

‘You owe me a favour,’ he replies, in a measured and gruff growl. I’m so ashamed that I find brooding men sexy. It’s a betrayal to the sisterhood. I wish I found emotional intelligence and kindness sexy instead. Now it’s my turn to blink. I don’t trust myself to speak, so wait for him to say what he needs. Perhaps it’s help getting the stick out from his ass, which might be impossible.

‘I left my room key downstairs. Can I get changed in your bathroom? Then we can go our separate ways and all this will be over.’

I stand back and wave an arm to invite him in.

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Be quick.’

He hoists his case back onto the bed, and I open the sash windows to let in the evening air. I rest my forearms against the little railing that’s there and say over my shoulder, ‘The iron is in the wardrobe if you need it.’

‘Hmmm,’ he says. ‘Yes. I think I might.’

I can hear him rustling and ruffling and sorting and moving things, but I refuse to turn around. I might have said I’d love to have a drink and crack some jokes with a fitty, but disappointingly he isnotthe one. He’s really is the worst kind of bloke. Good-looking people think they can do what they like. Good-lookingmenthink they can do what they like, and he’s being grumpy and mean because with a face like he has, I’ll bet he never has to say sorry.

‘Wait a minute,’ he says, the rustling and ruffling coming to a stop. ‘You zipped up my case before. Which means you had to unzip my case to know it wasn’t yours. How did you do that?’

‘1-3-0-2.’

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