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Shejust wished it wasn’t today.
Fora few moments, she hid behind the groom.Hewas taller and wider than she was, giving good coverage for her petite frame.Shedid her breathing exercise again, this time to calm her nerves, and scraped back her straight, dark brown hair.Thememory of the night she broke up withKrishfive years ago forced itself to the forefront of her mind.
‘I’vemet someone else,’ she’d said.Thelie she’d told him to cover up her other, bigger lie.
Thelook on his face had almost killed her, but it was the only thing she could think of that would be guaranteed to end the relationship, aside from moving toTimbuktu.They’ddated for six months, the point where a relationship either got serious or it didn’t.Conversationsabout the future and buying property together and having kids…well, those had been on the increase.That’swhy she’d walked away.
Inanother lifetime and another set of circumstances, she could be his wife by now.Thethought made her eyes sting.Sheblinked rapidly to hurry the tears away.Notime for that.Shehad a job to do.
Francescasucked in a steadying breath.Shewondered if he’d still look the same.Fixinganother false smile on her face, she stepped out from behind the groom.
‘Hey,Krish.’
Timestopped as their eyes connected.Sexyblack hair that ran through her fingers like silk, its scent masculine and sweet at the same time.Thosedimples on his cheeks.Burntumber in his gaze.Inthose seconds, she remembered kisses and caresses and laughter.Cinemanights and dinners and trips to the beach.Thecalluses on his hands and the warmth of his skin.Hownibbling his earlobe drove him crazy.Howhis hair tickled the inside of her thigh as he licked—
Hercheeks flamed.
‘Francesca.’
Nogreeting.Nosurprise.Justher name.Asthough ex-girlfriends turned up all the time.Ooh,burn, she thought.
‘Youtwo know each other?’ asked the groom before taking a long sip of his beer.
‘Oldfriends,’ saidKrish, breaking eye contact with her to turn away and twiddle with the settings on his camera.
Twocould play at that game.Hewanted to pretend that they were just ‘old friends’?Fine.Shewould be the picture of polite professionalism.Krishwho?
Shereached into her kit bag and drew out the second mic for the best man.Sherepeated the exercise of attaching the lavalier to his lapel and asking him what he’d eaten for breakfast.Shedidn’t even react when his eyes flicked up and down her body before answering, ‘Hot, sticky buns.’
Francescastill neededto mic up the father of the bride, a good excuse to get away fromKrishand the pre-wedding testosterone fug of the groomsmen.SheaskedRobertwhere to find his soon-to-be father-in-law.
Heflinched, and a twinge of something like fear flitted across the groom’s face and was gone. ‘He’saround the corner.Pinstripesuit.Hat.Darkglasses.Can’tmiss him.’
Weird.Shepacked up her bag, extricated herself from the boys, and walked around the perimeter of the bar.Sheused the distance to take a better look atKrish.
Hehad changed, and he hadn’t.Obviouslyhe was still tall: six foot three to her five foot two.Sheremembered how he used to lean down when he kissed her.Hisblack hair was longer now, and sexier, with a slight wave.Whenshe’d met him, his hair had been short, businesslike.He’dbeen thinking of moving from law, which he didn’t love, to photography, which he did.Itwas she who encouraged him to make the jump.Hergaze moved to the place formerly occupied by his dimples, now hidden beneath a short, manicured beard.Buthis eyes were the thing that she missed most: so bright and full of humour, except of course when he looked at her today.
Atleast he didn’t have the monopoly on change.She’ddone her fair share, too.Aftershe’d left him, she decided to improve her symptom management.She’dhired a nutritionist and a personal trainer, which helped her become better at regulating her weight.Theacne was also under control, and when it wasn’t, her improved make-up skills helped.
Lostin her own thoughts, she was surprised when a bald, thick-set man in a black suit suddenly blocked her path.
‘What’syour business?’ he demanded.
Shetook a step back.Whowas this man? ‘Watchit,Rock.I’mhere to mic up the bride’s father.’Whenhe stared blankly, she raised her eyebrows and said, ‘I’mthe videographer.’
‘Stayhere.’Theman swaggered over to an older gentleman sitting at a table with two friends, also in their sixties.Thegentleman wore aFedoraand a navy pin-stripe suit: the father.Hehad on those glasses that could transition from sunlight to indoors, the lenses hovering somewhere in between making it hard to see his eyes.TheRockmumbled something in the father’s ear, then strutted back to her. ‘You’realright,’ he said.
‘Gee, thanks.’
Francescastepped up to the table and introduced herself.
‘Larry,’ the father said, extending a hand with an oversized golden signet ring facing up, like he expected her to kiss it.Atthe last moment he flipped his hand sideways to envelop hers, squeezing her knuckles together as he shook it.Shekept her face impassive.She’dmet this kind of man before: the kind who confused dick-swinging with just plain old being a dick.
Thetwo other men introduced themselves with milder handshakes.
Shejust wanted to get this done. ‘Canyou stand up soIcan mic you?’
‘Alright, love.Plentyof me to go around,’ he said in a strongCockneyaccent.Theother two men laughed, although she wasn’t quite sure she got the joke.Larryunfolded to his full height, not much taller than her and twice as wide.Hiscologne unfurled around her, a pungent soapy smell ending on a hint of cloves.Shehated it.
