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“As soon as I can,” she promised.
He made a gruff noise which might have expressed gratitude or might have expressed relief, and then kissed her again, this kiss slower, more drawn out, teasing her and promising her all sorts of heavenly pleasures just as soon as she could get to their room.
He waited until she’d rejoined her family, then gave himself a few more minutes to let the visible sign of his attraction diminish. He didn’t exactly want to draw that kind of attention at Bronte’s sister’s wedding. He waited by the urn, watching as water trickled over the top – a water feature that had probably, at some point, spouted a fountain high into the air. He reached forward and ran his finger over the outlet. Yes, it had been cracked at some point, and cheaply repaired. Closer inspection revealed waterproof tape holding it in place.
With a frown, he straightened, and began to move around the corner of the chapel, tracing the line of the stone base, avoiding the crowds for the moment. He was used to networking – it came part and parcel with his work – but for the moment, he didn’t particularly feel like seeing or speaking to anyone.
He could taste her in his mouth, feel her on his lips, his fingers tingled with the sensation of touching her soft skin. Was it that she was – on some level – forbidden? Or that he knew this was temporary and therefore it was, in a way, okay to lose his head a little?
A combination of both, he suspected. Forbidden fruits were ever sweet and Bronte knew the score with him. After his confession in the small hours of the morning she probably wouldn’t want anything to do with him beyond this weekend, anyway.
“Hey.”
He stopped walking and looking in the direction of the voice. Great. Ashton. He dipped his head in acknowledgement, feeling a sharp stab of dislike for the man who’d had Bronte in his life and let her go so casually, as though she didn’t deserve a hell of a lot better. The man who’d broken her heart. The man she’d loved.
“So you and Bronte?”
Bene, apparently this was going to be an actual conversation, a nod wouldn’t suffice. Luca stopped walking. “Yes. And?”
Ashton lifted his shoulders in a shrug, drawing Luca’s attention to the man’s outfit. Beige pants that were rolled up at the ankles, brogues, a pale pink shirt and navy blue jacket. He looked like he was going to a folksy music festival or the pub rather than a wedding.
“Nothing.” Ashton’s jaw squared, as though he were grimacing and trying to hide it. “So I guess she finally worked out how to get off the admin track, huh?”
Luca frowned, the comment making no sense.
“Best way to get ahead professionally, right?” Ashton clarified, so Luca felt his fingers itching to form a fist, the temptation to punch him surprising him completely.
Perhaps Ashton guessed at Luca’s response because he took a step back and waved his hands through the air. “Anyway, I just thought I should say ‘hi’.”
Luca’s eyes narrowed, his anger still rising. “For what purpose?”
“Because we used to date.” He laughed a little breathily. “Bron and me. Not you and me.”
“I think I’d remember that,” Luca drawled, preparing to leave again.
“Yeah, right, no need to be snipey. I just wanted to say ‘hi’.”
Luca forced a smile to his face. “I intended it as a joke.”
“Did you? Well, sorry, maybe with the accent, it didn’t come through.”
Luca had to bite back a laugh. His Italian accent was barely noticeable, having done two years of college in the States, and spent much of his professional life in America. “Forse,” he shrugged, the other man’s insecurities palpable.
“Have you been going out long?”
Luca suppressed his own annoyance. Perhaps this situation could, at least, be put to his advantage. Wasn’t he looking to further Bronte’s cause? To make everyone believe they were a couple was one thing – irritating the hell out of her ex was a silver lining.
“As a point of fact, we don’t go out much at all,” Luca drawled, earning a look of surprise from Ashton. Enjoying it, he lifted a hand almost as an afterthought to his neck, where the edge of one of Bronte’s many scratches could be seen above the collar of his shirt.
He saw the other man’s eyes follow the gesture and the paling of his skin was all the reward Luca needed.
“Oh.”
“Anyway –,”
“I’m here with my girlfriend. My other girlfriend. My new girlfriend.”
Luca might have taken pity on the other man if he’d hurt Bronte less, but as it was, he saw no point. “Are you?”
