I made a mental note to watch that space.
I decided to check the reception layout for the tenth time. The terrace, at least, promised a brief reprieve from silk, perfume, and the collective tension of too many people pretending to enjoy themselves.
I’d barely made it three steps onto the terrace before Lucas appeared, as if conjured by the sound of my heels on the pavement. All charm, sunglasses, and that grin that saidyou’re welcomebefore he’d even opened his mouth.
His hair was a little windswept, a little smug, the kind that hinted at boats and weekends in Capri.
He held two iced coffees, condensation trailing down the cups like it had been staged.
“Well, if it isn’t our resident hero,” he said. “I heard shouting upstairs. Sounded intense. Should I be bracing for shrapnel? Or sequins?”
“Bit of both,” I said, taking the coffee before he could make a production of offering it. “Crisis contained. No casualties, unless you count a few bruised egos.”
He nodded solemnly. “Excellent work. The couture gods owe you a debt of gratitude.”
I rolled my eyes and took a sip, immediately clocking the logo on the side. “Hang on, Maison Bean? That’s in town.”
He smiled, looking unbearably pleased with himself. “Correct. I convinced Margaret to let me borrow Lady Victoria’s chauffeur this morning.”
“Borrow?”
He shrugged, the picture of unbothered wealth. “She wasn’t using him, and I wasn’t in any condition to drive. Apparently, champagne and tequila don’t pair as well as I’d hoped.”
I raised an eyebrow. “So you were still drunk?”
“Technically hungover,” he corrected. “Though I prefer to think of it asfashionably delayed recovery.”
I stared at him. “You took an eighty-year-old woman’s personal driver because you couldn’t face your own hangover.”
“Just for coffee,” he said, pointing at his. “See? Responsible. Hydration and generosity all in one morning.”
“Are you always this dramatic before noon?”
“Only when the occasion calls for it. And you, Sinclair, are absolutely an occasion.”
I groaned. “You’ve been saving that one, haven’t you?”
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I’m just naturally inspired by your presence.”
“Try naturally irritating.”
He chortled, a low, easy sound that gave away just enough charm to be dangerous. “You wound me. Truly.” He glanced towards the bridal suite windows above. For a fleeting second, his grin faltered. Something flashed in his eyes, concern, maybe, or something closer to guilt, but it was gone before I could pin it down.
“You know,” he said after a pause, his tone suddenly lighter, “you should put me on the payroll. I’m clearly boosting morale.”
Before I could come up with something suitably cutting, someone called my name from inside, Cleo, by the sound of it. I turned, half-grateful for the interruption, though I could still feel Lucas’s grin following me like perfume.
When I looked back, Lucas was still watching me, that knowing little smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“See you around, Sinclair.”
I watched him for a second longer than I meant to.
Because for all the charm and easy confidence, something about Lucas didn’t quite add up.
Chapter Seventeen
The celebrant, Graham Peters, a genial man in his fifties with kind eyes and a neatly pressed linen shirt, sat in one of the armchairs opposite Caroline and James. His notebook rested on his knee, his pen poised with the hopeful patience of someone who still believed weddings could be fun.
