Scores of his stunning exes stared up at him, trying to catch his eye, but Jake’s attention was focused rigidly on the tent’s entrance.
“Where is she?” His jaw was so tight he looked like he was in the early stages of rigor mortis.
“For fuck’s sake, mate, she’s coming,” laughed Danny. “Try and enjoy yourself. With any luck, this’ll be the only wedding you ever have.”
Christ, I hope so, thought Jake. Much more of this and they’ll have to take me away in a straitjacket.
But the moment Scarlett walked through the double doors, walking four abreast with Diana and their respective fathers, his nerves melted away like butter in the sunshine. Glowing as if lit from within, her glorious mane of hair snaking down her back beneath the antique veil, he had never seen her look happier, or more lovely.
“Pinch me,” he whispered to Danny.
“Sorry,” his brother sighed. “I’m too busy pinching myself.”
Diana, a blonde vision in her simple, clinging dress, was laughing aloud, smiling, and waving to her friends like a teenager as she skipped up the aisle toward him.
“I can’t believe it. Neither of the girls is wearing diamonds,” Aunt Agnes grumbled to her neighbor, adding proudly: “I’m a partner in Solomon Stones now, you know. I shall be having words with both the grooms later. Imagine passing up such a glorious opportunity for some free advertising.”
“I don’t think they entirely passed it up,” the woman whispered back. For there, trotting along sedately behind the wedding party, was Boxford, his collar dripping with Trade Fair diamonds.
“For heaven’s sake,” mumbled Caroline sourly to Cameron. “Can you believe what Scarlett’s done to that ridiculous dog?”
But Cameron was too busy gazing into the eyes of his handsome American actor friend to notice.
Scarlett approached the dais.
“I love you,” said Jake, gripping her hand so tightly he nearly broke a finger as Hugo returned to his seat.
“That’s a coincidence.” She grinned back at him. “I think I might love you too.”
“Oh my God, I’m gonna bawl,” sighed Nancy, rummaging in vain through her Marc Jacobs purse for a handkerchief.
“Please don’t,” whispered a male voice from the row behind her. “You’ll smudge all your makeup. I was kinda hoping I could do that later.”
Che Che’s smile was so white and broad it looked as if it might leap out of his face at any moment. Nancy opened her mouth to speak, but he held a finger up to her lips.
“Later, OK?” he said gently. “Let’s let the happy couples make it official first.”
“I don’t forgive you, you know,” said Nancy, desperately trying to sound mad, which was hard when one’s mouth insisted on pinging up at the corners. “I’m not sure if I even like you anymore.”
“That’s OK,” said Che Che, deadpan. “I’m taking you down to the woods after this to fuck your brains out. You’ll like me again after that, I promise.”
“Really!” The elderly Scottish man to Nancy’s left huffed indignantly.
Young people today had no respect.
The wedding party rumbled on long into the night. Danny and Diana both seemed happy to party until dawn, while little Zack, exhausted from the day’s commotion, slept soundly in his bassinet under a table, oblivious to the deafening rumble of music and laughter around him.
At around midnight, Jake finally managed to pry Scarlett away from her drunk and emotional girlfriends and persuade her to sneak off with him into the night. They had a room booked at the Malibu Inn, and he’d been waiting all night—all his life, really—to get her back there. Alone.
“But surely we’re bringing Boxie?” she pleaded as he bundled her into the car, a vintage Alfa Romeo that was his newest pride and joy.
“No way,” said Jake firmly. Seeing her crestfallen face, he added, “Trust me, you wouldn’t want him to have to witness what I’m about to do to you. Nancy’ll take care of him.”
The short drive along PCH was magical. The road was silent at this time of night, and all Scarlett could hear was the low rumble of the engine merged with softly lapping Pacific waves.
“Don’t you feel even the teensiest bit guilty?” she asked, when they finally pulled in to the hotel parking lot.
“About what?”
Jumping out of the car, Jake hurried around to Scarlett’s side and opened the door for her.
“Rushing off without saying good-bye to anybody,” she said, carefully gathering up the train of her dress.
“Not remotely,” said Jake. “It’s our wedding. Now where do you think you’re going?”
“What do you mean?” Scarlett gave him a puzzled look as she swung her long legs out of the car.
“Oh no you don’t,” said Jake, and scooping her up into his arms, he carried her like a fireman across the parking lot toward their private, beachside bungalow. “I’m carrying you across the threshold.”
Scarlett laughed, thinking for the thousandth time how unbearably handsome he looked in his wedding suit, with the moon’s shadows dancing across the strong lines of his face.
“I never knew you were so traditional, Mr. Meyer.”
“You’d better believe it, Mrs. Meyer. I’ll have you barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen before you can say stay-at-home mother.”
Scarlett frowned at him knowingly.
“I hope that’s a joke! Besides, I thought we agreed we were adopting children? You promised we’d talk to Dr. Katenge about it.” Her face was suddenly serious again, and he saw the earnest, passionate moral crusader who’d infuriated and entranced him in equal measure since the day they’d first met.
“There are so many needy children in the world, Jake, and we have so much. The least we can do is—”
He stopped her with a kiss.
“For God’s sake, Scarlett. Shut up.”
And for once in her life, Scarlett did.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PHOTO BY: MICHAEL PILKINGTON
Tilly Bagshawe was born in London and raised in a large family in the English countryside. She enrolled at Cambridge University and later launched a successful career as a headhunter in London. At twenty-six, she became the youngest-ever partner in the number-one global search firm, before changing course to pursue a writing career. After a brief stint at the Sunday Times, she followed her novelist sister’s example and wrote her first book. Today she is a happily married mother of four and author of ten novels, including Adored, Showdown, and Sidney Sheldon’s Mistress of the Game. In addition to her bestselling novels, Tilly has contributed to numerous British newspapers and magazines, including Cosmopolitan, Glamour, Elle, The Sunday Times, The Times, and The Daily Mail. She divides her time among Los Angeles, London, and Nantucket.
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