The Fiancée He Can't Forget

Moments later, there was a soft knock at the door.

‘Amy? It’s Matt.’

She let him in reluctantly and tried to look normal and less like an awkward teenager. ‘Everything OK?’

‘Yes. I’m going to see Melanie Grieves. Ben asked me to keep an eye on her.’

She nodded. ‘Are you coming back for breakfast and to say goodbye to everyone?’

‘Yes. I don’t want to be lynched. Let me take my stuff, and I’ll get out of your way. Here’s your room key. Hang onto mine as well for now. I’ll get it off you later.’ He scooped up the suit, the shirt, the underwear, throwing them in the bag any old how and zipping it, and then he hesitated. For a second she thought he was about to kiss her, but then he just picked up his bag and left without a backward glance.

Amy let out the breath she’d been holding since he’d come in, and sat down on the end of the bed. There was no point in hanging around in his room, she thought. She’d shower and dress, and go downstairs and see if anyone was around.

Unlikely. The party had gone on long after they’d left it, and everyone was probably still in bed—where she would be, in her own room, if she had a grain of sense.

Well, she’d proved beyond any reasonable doubt that she didn’t, she thought, and felt the tears welling again.

Damn him. Damn him for being so—so—just so irresistible. Well, never again. Without his body beside her, without the feel of his warmth, the tenderness of his touch, it all seemed like a thoroughly bad idea, and she knew the aftermath of it would haunt her for ages.

Years.

Forever?

Melanie Grieves was fine.

Her wound was healing, her little twins were doing very well and apart from a bit of pain she was over the moon. He hadn’t really needed to come and see her, he’d just had enough of sitting around in the hotel beating himself up about Amy.

Not that he shouldn’t be doing that. He’d been a total idiot, and she really, really didn’t need him falling all over her like he had last night. And leaving the dance floor like that—God knows what everyone had thought of them. He hadn’t even asked her, just dragged her up the stairs and into his room like some kind of caveman.

He growled in frustration and slammed the car door shut. He’d better go back, better show his face and try and lie his way out of it. Better still, find Amy and get their story straight before his mother got her side of it and bent his ear. She’d always taken Amy’s side.

Oh, hell.

He dropped his head forwards and knocked it gently against the hard, leatherbound steering wheel. Such a fool. And his head hurt. Good. It would remind him not to drink so much in future. He’d thought he was sober enough, but obviously not. If he’d been sober—

His phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket and stared at the screen. Ben. Damn.

He ignored it. He’d talk to Amy first—if he got to her before they did. If only he had her number. She’d probably changed it, but maybe not. He dialled it anyway as he turned into the hotel car park, and she answered on the second ring.

‘Hello?’

‘Amy, it’s Matt. We need to talk—we will have been seen last night. Where are you now?’

‘Oh, damn. In the courtyard. Bring coffee.’

Stressed as he was, he smiled at that. He found a breakfast waitress and ordered a pot of coffee and a basket of bacon rolls, then went and found her.

She was waiting, her heart speeding up as she caught sight of him, her nerves on edge. She couldn’t believe what she’d done, couldn’t believe she was going to sit here with him and concoct some cock-and-bull story to tell his family. Her friends. Oh, lord …

‘How’s Mel?’ she asked, sticking to something safe.

‘Fine. The babies are both doing well.’

‘Good. Ben and Daisy’ll be pleased.’

Silence. Of course there was, she thought. What was there to say, for heaven’s sake? Thank you for the best sex I’ve had in over four years? Not to say the only …?

‘Any sign of the others?’ he asked after the silence had stretched out into the hereafter, and she shook her head.

‘No. I put my bag in the car. Here’s your room key. So—what’s the story?’

‘We wanted to talk?’

‘We didn’t talk, Matt,’ she reminded him bluntly.

Pity they hadn’t, she thought for the thousandth time. If they’d talked, they might have had more sense.

‘You were feeling sick?’ he suggested.

‘What—from all that champagne?’

‘It’s not impossible.’

‘I had less than you.’

‘I think it’s probably fair to say we both had more than was sensible,’ he said drily, and she had to agree, but not out loud. She wasn’t feeling that magnanimous.

‘Maybe nobody noticed?’ she said without any real conviction, and he gave a short, disbelieving laugh.

‘Dream on, Amy. I dragged you off the dance floor and up the stairs in full view of everyone. I think someone will have noticed.’

She groaned and put her face in her hands, and then he started to laugh again, a soft, despairing sound that made her lift her head and meet his eyes. ‘What?’

‘I have some vague recollection of passing my parents in the hall.’

She groaned again. It just got better and better.

‘Maybe you thought I needed to lie down?’ she suggested wildly. ‘Perhaps I’d told you I was feeling rough? It’s not so unlikely, and it’s beginning to look like the best option.’

‘We could always tell them the truth.’

If we knew what it was, she thought, but the waitress arrived then with the tray of coffee and bacon rolls, and she seized one and sank her teeth into it and groaned. ‘Oh, good choice,’ she mumbled, and he laughed.

‘Our default hangover food,’ he said, bringing the memories crashing back. ‘Want some ketchup?’

‘That’s disgusting,’ she said, watching him squirt a dollop into his bacon roll and then demolish it in three bites before reaching for another. The times they’d done that, woken up on the morning after the night before and he’d cooked her bacon rolls and made her coffee.

He’d done that after their first night together, she remembered. And when she’d come out of hospital after—