Made of Honour

Chapter One

Honestly, I hate weddings.

I know I shouldn't, given that mum is a wedding planner and both my sisters had beautiful ceremonies. It's not that I don't like celebrating love, I do. It's kind of what my whole column in the magazine is about. And it's not because I've never been married, even if mum tries to convince you that's why.

I hate weddings because it means I have to go back home to Ireland. Not that I hate Ireland, I miss home sometimes. I just hate my ex-boyfriend. Unfortunately for me, everyone in Callan loves him. They love to tell me so.

In addition to having to see my ex, going home means I have to spend time with Uncle John and Aunt Mary. Uncle John likes to talk about when my sisters and I would run around the lawn with no clothes on, and everyone laughs like it's funny. I question why a man in is fifties likes to recount stories about his naked nieces, mum tells me to shut up.

None of this really matters though, because regardless of not wanting to see Padraig (also known as Paddy) and my hatred for weddings - I'm currently sat in the airport waiting to catch a flight to Dublin.

My best friend is getting married.

Which, on most counts should make me happy and in many ways it does. Nimah's chosen some English fella I've only met once. She convinced him to move to Dublin with her and six months into their relationship, they're getting hitched.

Do I think it's fast? Yes. Has Niamh always been quick to rush into things? Absolutely. Would I dare voice any concerns to her? Never.

Sure, when I met him he seemed nice enough. If we ignore the tiny (and important) detail that I didn't actually get to know him. They spent most of their time ramming their tongues down each other's throats. But Niamh seemed keen and happy, so therefore I'm happy for her.

"Is this seat taken?"

I look up, startled. Towering over me is a tall, dark haired man with crystal clear blue eyes. He's all in black but it suits him. His denim jacket is hugging his frame. He's beautiful, and he's looking right at me, pointing to the seat next to me. I realise far too slowly that he's asking to sit there.

"No!" I squeak, moving my stuff away from the empty seat. "No, feel free."

"Thank you," he says. His voice is deep. Really deep. Dreamily deep.

"You're welcome." I murmur.

Neither of us speak again as he lowers himself into the seat. I turn back to my book which I'm not really reading because all I can think about is how much I do not want to go to this wedding.

But how could I say no? I've known Niamh my whole life. She's been talking about getting married since we started playing kiss-chase. This is her dream and I was always going to be her Maid of Honour. I knew she would ask.

But you hate weddings, my brain tells at me.

I do find them boring. It's a lot of standing around and staring. A boatload of awkward conversations and small talk - desperately trying to avoid people I don't want to see (like Paddy).

God, that bastard really did a number on me. I haven't been able to date anyone since him. It's been three years.

I can't tell anyone any of this. Everyone knows what the town is like, they'll just paint me out to be miserable and lonely; like this is the eighteen-hundreds and you need to be married off to be happy. Hard to believe we're in the day of modern technology when towns like mine exist.

"I'm sorry. I have to ask... do you usually cry in airports?"

I turn to look at the man who has taken the seat next to me. He's English, not Irish, he's probably going to Dublin on a romantic break. Someone who looks like him nearly always is.