Page 47 of The Wedding Pact

But he doesn’t.

8

RAFFA

After not sleeping well again, I drag myself out of bed the next morning and stumble into the shower, turning the water to freezing cold in an attempt to shock my system out of a weird sluggish state that’s overtaken me and into one of an alert and cognisant human being.

I need to be on my A-game during the wedding ceremony today so I can show that I’ve made the effort to be engaged and then hopefully be able to slip away early from the festivities without any passive-aggressive sniping being aimed at me for the rest of the week.

I’m not sure what’s going on with me at the moment, but something about spending time with Ida is making it nearly impossible to concentrate on the work I need to be doing while I’m here.

She has a way of making me feel like I’m missing out when I’m not with her. It was great, hanging out with her last night, even though I had to concentrate hard on what was being said and force my brain not to keep wondering what it would be like to kiss her.

My entire body was on high alert and every time she so much as shifted position behind me, whilst rubbing my shoulders, an electric thrill shot through me, as if in the back of my mind I was anticipating her abandoning the massage and doing something about the obvious tension between us.

I’m not just imagining it. I’m sure I’m not.

But I guess neither of us wants to be the one to break the pact we made about just being friends. Because neither of us has the brain-space or inclination to launch into a proper relationship, even though a militant voice in the back of my head keeps telling me I shouldn’t say no to a fling while we’re here.

What harm could it do?

The trouble is, I have the feeling it could have repercussions that neither of us would want to face.

It’s the wrong time.

But very much the right place.

Which is only making it harder to keep a lid on my restraint.

I mean, look at this place. You couldn’t get a more idyllic setting.

Glancing around where Ida and I have just arrived on the beach to take our seats amongst the other wedding guests, who are waiting for the ceremony to begin, I allow myself a moment to soak in the beauty of this island.

The setting here is perfect, with the soft turquoise water deepening to a navy blue as the Indian Ocean stretches away from us. The whole place seems to glow with an otherworldly aura, the backdrop of the natural-material-built five-star eco hotel lending weight to the feeling of being castaways on a desert island. Just us, in the middle of nowhere.

Away from the relentless, overstimulated pulse of life.

The sun is high in the sky and beating down on our heads, though it’s not so intensely hot it’s uncomfortable. I’m glad they made a point of telling people they didn’t need to wear suits for this ceremony because of the risk of overheating.

I chose to wear another of my linen shirts, this time in white, with a pair of light tan, tailored trousers. Ida’s in another sleek, elegant type of dress with her shoulders bare and her feet in low-heeled sandals.

She looks incredible again.

Speaking of incredible, as a quartet of musicians start to play a slow classical number – that I have no idea the name of, but definitely recognise – I turn to see that Margot is waiting at the beginning of the aisle, ready to begin her slow glide between the rows of the congregation to where Darian is waiting for her at the altar.

Wow.

She looks beautiful.

The wedding dress, which has been kept more secret than the nuclear launch codes, is perfect on her.

No surprise there.

Margot was always going to look knockout, no matter what she wore, but she’s genuinely taking my breath away right now.

I watch as she makes her way down the wooden aisle, which has been constructed over the white sand of the beach especially for this event. She’s smiling at the rows of guests who are all gazing back at her with the same appreciative fascination I’m feeling.

Yeah, my stepbrother is a lucky guy to be marrying her.