Page 49 of The Wedding Pact

I’m hyper-aware of Ida’s bare arm resting so close to mine that I can feel the heat coming off her. I glance at her and see a gentle sheen of sweat on her skin, right at the hollow of her throat.

I want to lick it.

Jesus.

This is not good.

Luckily, the ceremony is mercifully short, with both the bride and groom reciting vows they’ve written themselves, and there’s a flurry of tissues reached for in tiny bags and swept over heavily made-up faces as the couple turn to kiss each other in front of the congregation.

I suppose it’s pretty touching.

At least it’s distracting me from my raging horny thoughts about Ida.

And I’m happy for them both anyway. If this is what they want. It must be great to think you’ve found the person you think you can rely on to be there for you for the rest of your life, no matter what.

Glancing round at Ida, I see her eyes are shining with pleasure at the sight of this display of devotion.

Seeming to sense me looking at her, she turns to gaze into my face and I get the distinct impression she’s trying to read my thoughts.

I guess after what I’ve told her about how I feel about Darian she must be intrigued to know how I’m taking this overt display of utter jubilation from him.

‘I’m happy for them,’ I tell her, before she has a chance to ask. I don’t want her thinking I’m some grumpy, self-involved arsehole. It’s important to me to keep her on my side and believing I’m the good guy I’m keen to project.

* * *

Ida

The wedding is so idyllic I could cry.

I don’t though. The last thing I want is for Raffa to feel like he has to prop me up emotionally in any way.

I glance around me to try and distract myself from the troubling onslaught of feelings.

The entire range of generations of Darian and Margot’s families have turned up to celebrate with the happy couple and the joyful atmosphere is giving me a lifting sensation in my chest, along with a dark pull of what I think must be envy.

There are a lot of people in their clans.

Unlike mine. My mum’s an only child and my dad is estranged from his brother, who doesn’t have any kids, so we’re a tiny nuclear pod.

I’ve definitely felt the loneliness of that at a number of points in my life.

This wedding seems to be one of them. It’s like I’ve walked into a full-on village of people who are related to each other.

It’s such a beautiful setting here too and everyone seems so relaxed and happy.

Apart from Raffa, that is.

I swear I can feel him vibrating next to me.

He’s obviously twitchy with the need to get back to the work he’s not doing to be here right now.

It hurts my heart to think about how he’s ignoring all this – the human connection of an event like this – in favour of a cold, hard screen.

It’s not right.

As the celebrant brings the ceremony to a close, the photographer steps up and his assistant starts organising people into groups for the family photos. Raffa is approached almost immediately and asked to join the group with his parents and the bride and groom, once they’ve taken a few shots of just the happy couple.

‘Do you want me in these?’ I ask Raffa under my breath. I don’t want to assume anything and get up to go with him only to find I’m not wanted.