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He reaches out and fingers stray hair, then pushes it to one side. He considers my face, takes his sunnies and slips them over my puffy eyes. “You look good.” He rises sharply to his feet and hurries towards the wedding ceremony, tossing cheekily over his shoulder, “But not as good as me.”
It’s just what I need. I chase after him towards the lines of white chairs quickly filling up. One seat is left free next to a freshly-changed Robin, now in a dress shirt and jeans and looking around wildly trying to spot us. When he finally does, he waves and his eyes brighten as we near. Lyle moves faster. I attempt to give him a run for his money, but I’m touched he endured my panic attack. It’s only fair to let him have this shot. I play fair, after all.
“How is . . . everyone?” I murmur between them.
Robin nods sombrely. “Kid’s fine. Much relief all around.”
“Good,” I murmur, my own wave of relief washing through me.
It’s only once the beach ceremony is over that I can redirect my thoughts enough to enjoy the wedding.
Lunch is held in a beautifully decorated old hall with twelve round tables and edible fruit centrepieces. Robin and Lyle know heaps of the guests; they spend a lot of time chatting to others or being chatted to.
A particularly chatty grandpa is standing at Robin’s seat telling his stories, gesturing wildly; Robin listens and nods, but he’s side-eyeing the fruit—
Lyle plucks a few grapes and casually starts feeding him, grape after grape. Robin raises his brow quizzically but he’s too invested in being polite to Gramps to reach for the fruit himself.
I watch Lyle’s smooth fingers alternate between his own mouth and Robin’s. Hazel eyes graze over mine with a glint that is absolutely outrageous.
“Lyle?”
His gaze returns to mine. “Hm?”
I gesture with a finger to my mouth in the universal sign for you have something between your teeth.
He stops smiling as his tongue works hard to fix the issue. He mutters to himself and I shake my head, gesturing a few teeth over.
He grabs a napkin and tries that.
Again, I shake my head.
His chair rumbles out from the table and he stands, napkin pressed to his mouth. “Excuse me.”
He bolts off to the bathrooms, weaving around tables and couples moving to the cleared space in the middle of the hall for a dance, and Robin finally turns to me. “Sorry, this must be boring.”
I pluck the single strawberry from the centrepiece and denude it of greenery. Robin watches longingly—I’ve long learned strawberries are his favourite—as the strawberry heads towards my mouth. I stop an inch short, smile, and offer it to him as the music picks up, lively notes of jazz that have more than one guest tapping their feet.
“It’s yours, you have—”
I push it gently into his mouth, and he smiles around it, laughing.
Lyle, who is making his way back to us with a sharp shake of his head my way, is not laughing. “Liar,” he mouths.
I return him my own outrageous smirk.
His eyes narrow on me before he diverts to the table next to us and asks if any of the ladies can swing dance. Hands shoot up, and Lyle spares us a smug look. He takes a hand and glides out onto the floor.
Robin hollers, cheering Lyle on as he pays homage to a dance of a bygone era in his dapper suit.
Exactly the attention Lyle has been angling after.
I slouch further and further into my seat with each seemingly effortless dance. Bloody hell, his moves look choreographed.
After a half dozen songs, Lyle bounds over to us, breathless, and downs Robin’s full glass of water.
He’s not looking my way, but the cheeky curve at the edge of his lips is all for me. What do you have to top that? I fold my arms, and his smile grows.
He takes Robin’s arm and pulls him out of his seat, glancing at me. “One dance. It’ll be fun.”
Robin half-heartedly protests, but lets Lyle drag him onto the dance floor and show him some moves.
Amid the joyful dancers, Lyle curves his arm around Robin’s waist and guides him into a slow waltz. Robin treads on his shoe, and Lyle laughs, undisturbed.
All I can do is watch Robin’s growing enjoyment as he finds the groove. I top up my champagne again and again, and later enjoy a splitting headache as we drive back to Wellington.
Chapter Eight
The next weekend, I drag myself up Lyle’s front path, duffel bag of gear slung over my shoulder. Being here is one of the last things I want to be doing. Robin said he’ll be coming round, and quite frankly, I’m not up for seeing Lyle’s flirtatious show. The wedding weekend showed he’s good at it.
And the way he helped me . . . he’s deserving too.
