Page 35 of The Battle of the Bookshops
Jules wasn’t alone for long. All three sets of French doors wereopen now. Inside, guests were plied with glasses of champagne and canapés to keep them happy and occupied while the photographs were taken on the terrace. A photographer chivvied the various groups out, fussing them into place and then ruthlessly dismissing them. Exposed to the wind, Freya quickly donned her feathered bolero again. Tendrils of her bright blond hair had escaped their moorings, whipping around her prettily flushed face. By turn Freya was holding her bouquet and then handing it to Jules, who stood—her lips now blue with cold—to Freya’s side, being bustled repeatedly in and out of the shot.
Taking a moment to one side as the groom’s family was positioned for their moment in the spotlight, Jules allowed herself a seismic shiver, which warmed her slightly. Whenever she relaxed her jaw, her teeth chattered, so she clenched it firmly shut, smiling grimly and dabbing away the tears that came to her eyes, this time because of the biting wind.
“You’re freezing,” came Roman’s deep, caressing voice into her ear from just behind.
“I’m fine,” she ground out through her clamped teeth, not turning to look at him.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, and seconds later, Jules felt his morning coat being slipped onto her shoulders, still warm from his body. The relief was so dramatic, Jules had to consciously stop herself from throwing her head back and moaning with pleasure.
“You’re welcome,” he said wryly.
“I didn’t ask—”
“I know. Just wear it, for God’s sake, woman, before you get pneumonia. Again.”
Jules did a double take. What did Roman know about her and her diseases? For the first time, it occurred to her that it might have been Roman who left the hot toddy basket.
She stole a glance at him in his shirtsleeves, and his double-breasted dove-gray waistcoat. He looked even hotter without the penguin coat, she admitted to herself, relieved that he appeared unaware of her scrutiny as he narrowed his eyes against the wind and looked out to sea and to the horizon beyond, apparently lost in his own thoughts.
Thankfully, Jules and Roman’s enforced proximity did not extend to the seating plan for the meal. Back in the warmth, Jules shoved Roman’s morning coat at him, grunting her thanks without making eye contact. She took her place at the far end of the top table, grateful to be next to Freya’s lovely new father-in-law, Brendan, on one side and a distant cousin with thin, fair hair and no chin on the other.
The meal itself was unmemorable: prawns and smoked salmon, followed by chicken in some sort of sauce, then a trio of little puddings—not up to Freya’s standards, not that Freya appeared to eat anything as far as Jules could see. Having not eaten all day and feeling bored, Jules mindlessly ate and drank everything put in front of her, all the while keeping an eye on Roman and the woman who was obviously his plus-one. It was Cally, the glamorous blonde from New York. Jules consciously tried to avoid curling her lip as she assessed dispassionately what type of woman was Roman’s thing. Purely to pass the time, obviously.
Cally was wearing an elegantly unadorned boat-necked navy sheath dress, blatantly expensive in its simplicity, and displaying perfectly yoga-toned arms. She was giggling and tossing her glamorously blow-dried, shiny blond hair as if she were in training for hair-tossing as an Olympic sport and laughing prettily at more or less everything Roman did and said. This, Jules decided, was phenomenally annoying.
Although Roman didn’t seem to think so.
The wine flowed, and the volume of chatter in the room increased, as people raised their voices to be heard. The unrelenting noise assault and the dehydrating effects of the champagne were creating a tight band around Jules’s head that threatened a migraine. She desperately wished she was in her book nook in Flo’s little sitting room.
Over coffee and petits fours, Finn gave a lovely speech that made everyone cry, and then they cheered and laughed on cue as he referred, for the first time, to “my wife and I.” Then Jules sat on the edge of her seat with nerves as Freya gave a brief speech, which, Jules knew, she had rehearsed anxiously beforehand. Draining her glass yet again, Jules urged her on silently, especially when Freya got to the bit about wishing her mother were there, which made everyone cry again. Jules managed, through Herculean will and intense focus on a pistachio macaron, to maintain her composure this time.
Roman’s speech, naturally, was poised, witty, and perfectly gauged, even Jules had to admit. She sat stiffly, pasting on a smile and looking at a point just above his eyes, when he raised a glass to toast the chief and only bridesmaid. Jules cringed under the scrutiny of the entire room of guests, acutely aware of her smudged mascara and hideous dress. Thank God Freya and Jules had decided that Jules would not make a speech as well. They were both keen that Freya should strike a blow for women’s lib, but they were happy to leave it at that. There were plenty enough speeches as it was.
And then, thankfully, the formal part of the day was over.
Preparing for the big day, Freya and Finn had both refused Jules’s exhortation to engage in the whole “first dance” choreography. Finn had regarded this as ridiculously over-the-top, and Freya had agreed, mainly out of shyness. That said, they did submit to slowly rotating around the floor in each other’s arms tothe live band’s cover version of “I Will Wait” by Mumford & Sons, and that, Freya told Jules, was because it was the song Finn had serenaded her with, the night they first kissed.
Seeing Freya safely in Finn’s arms on the dance floor, Jules slumped inelegantly, looking out over the crowded room and breathing a sigh of relief at how well it had all gone. Just the disco to go. Suddenly, her entire field of vision was filled by an impeccably snow-white-shirted chest. Panning upward, Jules saw Roman standing in front of her, holding out his hand.
“It’s traditional for the best man to dance with the maid of honor at this point,” he told her, grinning.
“I’m pretty sure you just made that up.”
“I assure you, I did not,” he insisted. “Anyhow,” he said, his hand still outstretched, “don’t leave me hanging. I would have thought the last thing you would want to do is make a scene, with everyone watching.” He inclined his head toward the other guests nearby who were—he was right—apparently all smiling at them both with benign expectation.
“Fine,” snapped Jules, standing up reluctantly and taking his hand, to applause from the gathered crowd.
He led her to the center of the floor, smiling at Freya, who was circling dreamily, her head now resting against Finn’s shoulder. Next thing Jules knew, she had Roman’s arm firmly around her waist and his other hand holding hers flat against the left side of his chest. She could feel his heart thudding steadily beneath his pristine white shirt as he gathered her in toward him. For a moment Jules was overwhelmed. She could smell his crisp, lime-wreathed aftershave and feel the muscles of his chest flexing beneath his shirt. They were so close, his body heat warmed her for the second time that day, and this time it was an even more intense experience.
“There now... that’s not so bad, is it?” he murmured, smiling down at her, his blue eyes dancing with mischief, his lips curled in amusement.
Good God, his lips... Jules found herself mesmerized at the sight of his mouth, wondering what it would be like to stand on tiptoe and press her lips to his. She was so close she could see the stubble on his chin, noticeably darker than it had been earlier in the day. Dragging her eyes down, she was confronted with his broad chest, tapering to a narrow waist, and she bit her lip with approval. As much as her mind was screaming to run away, her body was telling her to move closer still. That was one well-tailored shirt, she conceded, and like his tailcoat, it was designed to show off, not obscure, his lean, gym-honed body.
Jules reckoned he must spend an embarrassingly narcissistic amount of time in the gym to look that good with his clothes off. Not that she was thinking of him with his clothes off. Definitely not. Damn, now she was blushing at her own lascivious thoughts, a moment that was not missed by Roman.
He laughed and pulled her closer still. “In fact,” he murmured teasingly into her ear, “the best man traditionally gets a bit more than a dance from the maid of honor.”
Jules stiffened. Just when she had begun to see him in a new light, he reminded her why she was right to loathe and despise him. “That,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain, “is possibly the most offensive thing you’ve ever said to me. And—I’ve got to tell you—it’s a high bar.”
