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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Lawson was freaked out.
He would deny it, Harper reflected, but she could just tell. It wasn't that Lawson was quiet; if anything, he was even more insufferably charming. He laughed. He cajoled. He sang along to the car radio. He even pointed out Leicester Cathedral as they drove past, explaining how King Richard III had been reburied there ("He's the only one I can ever remember," Lawson added cheerfully, "because he murdered his nephews, poor sods.").
He was chatty.
Buoyant, even.
But there was something just a little too bright about Lawson, Harper thought suspiciously. Something a little too quick. Something...
Off?
Harper sighed. Not that she blamed him; Lawson had made it very clear on Vauxhall Bridge that he didn't want to go to the wedding together. And then Harper turned around and told Jake that they were.
It was — as Griffin would have said — one bloody, buggering mess. Or a spectacular catastrophe, as Alisdair would have said. Haz, Harper reflected, probably would have scowled and called it a shitshow.
And all of them would have been right.
They arrived at Huntingdon Manor at three o'clock. Marble statues cast long shadows over the driveway, turning it into a piano keyboard. The manor was large — large enough to fit about 50 wedding guests, anyway, Harper observed — and it seemed to droop under the weight of its stone chimneys, blinking sleepy eyes as they approached.
"Go ahead," Lawson said, pushing open his door. "I'll get the bags."
"Thanks."
Harper took the towering stairs two-at-a-time, hurrying towards the reception desk. A thin, broad-shouldered man stood behind the wooden counter, bearing a striking resemblance to the sword mounted on the wall.
"Ah," he said. "You're here for the Lane-Pembrooke wedding?"
Harper nodded. "Sorry we're late."
"Not to worry, love." The receptionist turned to his computer. "Just one moment."
Harper waited. She felt Lawson come up behind her before he appeared, flushed and slightly out of breath from dragging two suitcases. He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up in dark, wild clumps.
"Those stairs," he said, "are more cardio than I've done all year."
Harper smiled.
"Ah!" The receptionist clicked his fingers. "Here we are. And may I just say congratulations?" He beamed at them. "You two make a charming couple."
Horror swept through her. "Oh, we're not— ah, that is to say—"
"Not our wedding," Lawson cut in.
"Ah." The receptionist had the good grace to look embarrassed. "Apologies. Well, the room's all sorted. You'll have the place to yourselves as promised. Catering will be in starting tomorrow, and the rest of the décor will be installed on—"
