Wedding Bell Wishes. Lynne Marshall

between Ashleigh and Luke’s mother. And there were enough people between them, Claire thought, for them to be able to smile and hide their relief at not having to make small talk.

      It was an amazing table, under a pergola draped with white wisteria. Woven in between the flowers were glass baubles, which caught the light from the tea-light candles set in similar glass globes on the table, and reflected again in the mirrored finish of the table. The sun was already beginning to set, and Claire had never seen anything so romantic in her life. And the whole thing was topped off by the traditional Neapolitan guitar and mandolin duo who played and sang softly during the meal.

      If she ever got married, Claire thought, this was just the kind of wedding she’d want, full of love and happiness and so much warmth.

      Finally, after the excellent coffee and tiny rich Italian desserts, it was time for the speeches. Luke’s was sweet and heartfelt, Tom’s made everyone laugh, but Sean’s made her blink back the tears.

      He really did love Ashleigh. And, for that, Claire could forgive the rest.

      The cake—a spectacular four-tier confection, which Claire knew held four different flavours of sponge—was cut, and then it was time for the dancing.

      Ashleigh and Luke had chosen a song for their bridal dance that always put a lump in her throat—‘Make You Feel My Love’—and she watched them glide across the temporary dance floor. The evening band played it in waltz time, and Claire knew that Luke had been taking private lessons; he was step-perfect as he whirled Ashleigh round in the turns. The perfect couple.

      Tradition said that the best man and the chief bridesmaid danced together next, and Claire liked Tom very much indeed; she was pleased to discover that he was an excellent dancer and her toes were perfectly safe with him.

      ‘I love the dresses,’ Tom said. ‘If I wasn’t gay, I’d so date you—a woman who can create such utter beauty. You’re amazing, Claire.’

      She laughed and kissed his cheek. ‘Aww, you’re such a sweetie, Tom. Thank you. But I wouldn’t date you because I have terrible taste in men—and you’re far too nice to be one of my men.’

      He laughed. ‘Thank you, sweetie. You’ll find the right guy some day.’

      ‘If I could find someone who’d make me as happy as Luke makes Ash,’ she said softly, ‘I’d consider myself blessed.’

      ‘Me, too,’ Tom said. ‘And the other way round. They’re perfect for each other.’

      ‘They certainly are,’ she said with a smile, though at the same time there was a nagging ache in her heart. Would she ever find someone who’d make her happy, or was she always destined to date Mr Wrong?

      * * *

      Sean knew it was his duty—as the man who’d given the bride away—to dance with the chief bridesmaid at some point. For a second, he stood watching Claire as she danced with Luke’s father. She was chatting away, looking totally at ease. And then Sean registered what the band was playing: ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’. He was shocked to realise that it was true: he couldn’t take his eyes off Claire.

      Which was absolutely not a good thing.

      Claire Stewart was the last woman he wanted to get involved with.

      And yet he had to acknowledge that he was drawn to her. There was something about her. He couldn’t pin it down, which annoyed him even more—he couldn’t put his feelings in a pigeonhole, the way he usually did. And that made her dangerous. He needed to stay well away from her.

      Though, for tonight, he had to do the expected thing and make the best of it.

      As the song came to an end, he walked over. ‘I guess we need to play nice for Ashleigh.’

      ‘I guess,’ she said.

      Even as the words came out of his mouth, he knew he was saying the wrong thing, but he couldn’t stop himself asking, ‘So is one of your awful boyfriends joining you later?’

      ‘If that’s your idea of nice,’ Claire said, widening her eyes in what looked like annoyance, ‘I’d hate to see how caustic your idea of snippy would be.’

      He grimaced, knowing that he was in the wrong this time. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have put it quite like that.’

      ‘Not if you were being nice. Though,’ she said, ‘I do admit that I have a terrible taste in men. I always seem to pick Mr Wrong.’ She shrugged. ‘And the answer’s no, nobody’s joining me. I’m happily single right now. And I’m way too busy at work right now to get involved with someone.’

      Was that her way of telling him she wasn’t interested? Or was she just giving him the facts?

      Her perfume wasn’t one he recognised; it was something mysterious and deep. Maybe that was what was scrambling his brain, rather than her nearness. Scrambling his brain enough to make him think that she was the perfect fit. The way she felt, in his arms...

      ‘So isn’t one of your sweet-but-temporary girlfriends joining you later?’ Claire asked.

      Ouch. Though Sean knew he deserved the question. He’d started it. ‘No. Becca and I broke up three months ago. And I’m busy at work.’ Which was his usual excuse for ending a relationship before things started to get too close.

      ‘Two peas in a pod, then, us,’ she said with a grin.

      ‘I always thought we were chalk and cheese.’

      She laughed. ‘I was going to say oil and vinegar. Except they actually go together.’

      ‘And we don’t,’ Sean said. ‘So would you be the vinegar or the oil?’

      ‘Difficult to say. A bit of both, really,’ she said. ‘I make things go smoothly for my clients. But I’m sharp with people who have an attitude problem. You?’

      ‘Ditto,’ he said.

      This was weird.

      They were actually laughing at themselves. Together. Not sniping at each other.

      And this felt sparky. Fun. He was actually enjoying Claire’s company—something that he’d never thought would happen in a million years.

      This was the second song in a row they were dancing to. The music was slower. Softer. And, although he knew it was a seriously bad idea, he found himself drawing Claire closer. Swaying with her.

      * * *

      Oh, help, Claire thought. She’d been here before. Today, she’d paced herself and only drunk a couple of small glasses of Prosecco, well spaced out with sparkling water. But she could still remember the first night she’d kissed Sean Farrell. The way his mouth had felt against hers before he’d pulled away and given her a total dressing-down about being seventeen years old and in a state where an unscrupulous man could’ve taken advantage of her.

      And again, at Ashleigh and Luke’s engagement party, where they’d ended up dancing way too close and then Sean had kissed her, his mouth warm and sweet and so tempting that it terrified her.

      Right now, it would be all too easy to let her hands drift up over his shoulders, curl round the nape of his neck, and draw his mouth down to hers. Particularly as they were no longer on the dance floor, in full view of the rest of the guests; at some point, while they’d been dancing together, they’d moved away from the temporary dance floor. Now they were in a secluded area of the garden. Just the two of them in the twilight.

      ‘Claire.’ His voice was a whisper.

      And she knew he was going to kiss her again.

      He dipped his head and brushed his mouth against hers, very lightly. It felt as if every nerve-end had been galvanised. He did it again. And again. This time, Claire gave in and slid her hands into his hair. His arms tightened round her and he continued teasing her mouth with those light, barely there kisses that made her want more. Maybe she made