He's a cynic. She's a romantic. One deal, one wedding, and one gigantic secret stand between them.
**
Harper Lane wants to believe in true love. After her parents split, she began photographing evidence of it. Couples holding hands. Valentine's Day...
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"Well," Paige said. "This is awkward."
His sister was leaning against a pillar, looking far too cheerful at the sight of Lawson's life imploding. She was also levitating. She did that sometimes, just to freak mess with him. He wished that he could snap at Paige to cut it out, but you know — bit difficult when six people were staring at you in horror.
Including Harper.
She was staring up at him. Lawson had seen that same look in cricket, when a batsman took a beamer to the chest; there was a moment of disbelief after the ball collided, a stunned silence, followed by crippling pain.
"Lawson?" she asked.
He couldn't bear it.
He turned and walked away.
This, Lawson thought, striding blindly down the corridor, was what he was good at: running. There had been a time where he'd thought that he was running towards things. A bottle of whisky. A cricket trophy. A pretty waitress in a café. Chasing the next party, the next high, the next girl.
Now, he understood the truth of it.
He swiped a bottle of sherry from a bar, choosing a stone corridor at random. Then another. Another. Footsteps sounded behind him.
"Hale!" Alisdair's voice. "Where the hell are you?"
Lawson didn't think.
He ducked into the cloakroom.
It wasn't a particularly roomy cloakroom, as far as cloakrooms went: just a few hangers and perfumed wool coats. The roof was so sloping and narrow that Lawson had to stoop, and he took a seat by the far wall. There was a box of Villager cards — all unsigned — and Lawson pulled it closer. Diana and David were obviously planning to give them out as party favours to their wedding guests.
Lawson examined the top card, which had an illustration of smiling pasta on it. Curling black font swirled around it.
I know this might be cheesy, but you mac me very happy.
He snorted. Good god; who wrotethese things? Next. He picked up a card with an abstract rainbow design.
Teach me the colours of your dreams.
Even worse. Lawson tossed it back into the box, grabbing another. This one was plain, with only text — no illustrations.
Forever
/fəˈrɛvə/
adverb
1. How long I'll love you for
Lawson stared at the card until the words blurred together, turning into inky smudges. Then he opened the sherry and took a large swig. The sweet liquid burned a path down his throat, and so he took another.
