4. Archer

Chapter 4

Archer

"I've got to go." Jacob slips past me and yanks on his clothes.

"Was it something I said?"

He shakes his head.

"Something I did?"

"No. You were great."

I press my hand against my forehead. "Then help me out here because I'm confused. I thought we were getting along."

"We were." He does his buttons up wonky, which makes his shirt lopsided. It would be adorable if he weren't in the middle of running out on me.

"What's going on?"

He retrieves his shoes. "I'm sorry. I have to go."

All I can do is stand and stare as he lurches out my front door, slamming it behind him. What the fuck?

Didn't he like how I talked about my mum? Did I say anything disrespectful? No. I'm pretty sure I didn't.

Did he have a serious case of cold feet?

Maybe it was the age gap.

I flop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. The only person who can explain has run out the door half-dressed. I've never had a one-night stand go from fantastic to shit that quickly.

Oh, well. It's not as if we're likely to see each other again.

But the sex was great. I wouldn't have said no if he'd asked to see me again. I'd have been more than up for it.

We were getting along, weren't we? Or was I imagining that?

Ugh.

Mementos of the night: a sore arse, a bruised ego, and a battered pride.

"Hi, Mum." I kiss her on the cheek and sit opposite her.

We're in her favourite coffee shop. A fruit smoothie waits for me on the table. She's drinking a cappuccino.

"Hi, sweetheart. Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't it be?"

She shrugs. "No reason. I have something to show you."

"What—?"

She holds out her left hand and waggles her ring finger. I gawp at the two unfamiliar rings on her slender finger.

"I got married." She squeals like a schoolgirl.

"You—What?"

"Got married."

"When? Who to?" Why wasn't I invited?

"A few days ago, in Vegas."

I blink slowly. What the fuck? "Who to?"

"Barry Hart. I'm so happy. Say something, Archer."

"He cheated on his wife."

"So?"

"Once a cheat, always a cheat?"

She waves her hand. "Nonsense. He wouldn't cheat on me."

"I'm sure his wife thought that too," I mutter.

Mum presses her lips together and gives me a pointed look. It's the one she directed at me when I was a teenager and wasn't telling the whole truth about something.

"I'm worried about you, that's all," I say.

"You don't need to be. Barry and I are in love. Now, because we eloped, we're going to have a reception to celebrate with our friends. I've managed to book Weetwood Hall for Saturday evening."

"How the hell did you manage that?"

"They had a cancellation."

What destroyed that relationship before vows were exchanged?

"You'll be there, won't you?" She gives me puppy eyes.

I sigh. "Yes, I'll be there."

"I know you've never approved of my relationship with Barry, but he does love me."

Does he? More importantly, does Mum love him?

She's a serial romantic who flits from one relationship to another, leaving a trail of broken hearts. She's never got married before, though, so maybe—just maybe—it's different this time. But did she have to be half the reason a marriage ended to get to her happy ending? Barry bears just as much responsibility as she does. It takes two to tango and all that. He was married. She knew he was married. They hooked up anyway.

I've never met Barry. I try not to meet her man of the moment. What's the point? They'll be gone before I can blink. But now she's married to Barry and is planning a huge party. Will anyone come at such short notice?

"Barry's son will do a best man's speech at the reception."

Barry has a son? Mum never mentioned that.

What has she told me about him?

Barry's sixty-five, so twenty-eight years her senior. He owns his business, which, according to Mum, is lucrative. She says he's kind, generous, and makes her happy. Apparently, he makes her feel like a princess, which is too much information.

"I've been trying to rack my brain for something special for you to do," she says.

I wave my hands. "There's no need."

She gives me a hurt look. "I want you to be part of it."

"I will be by being there. I don't need to do anything else."

"Are you happy for me?"

I want to be. "Yes."

She beams. "Do you think it would be too much if I wore a wedding dress to the reception?"

"I—don't know."

"It is a wedding reception."

"What did you wear to get married?"

"Oh, a knee-length, lace dress I picked up in Vegas. White, of course. I even found a little veil and silk flowers to put in my hair. We had pictures taken. Let me show you." She takes her phone out of her clutch purse and scrolls through the pictures.

"Why Vegas?"

"We were there. He asked me to marry him. I said yes, of course, and we thought, ‘why wait?'"

"I didn't know Barry had gone with you."

She purses her lips and shifts in her chair. "It was a last-minute decision. Sorry I didn't tell you. Ah, here we are." She hands me her phone.

I half-heartedly look through the photos. Mum is beaming in every one of them. Her dress was nice.

"There was an Elvis impersonator?"

She nods. "Barry is a huge fan. Huge." She waves her arm like a dancer in a West End show.

I return the phone.

"Are you sure you don't want to do something special at the reception?" she asks.

"Positive."

"You will wear a suit, won't you?"

"Uh, yeah. I'll get right on that."

I'll have to go to a rental place and hope they have something my size on short notice. Or maybe I can buy something off the peg that will double up as an interview suit. With any luck, I'll have job interviews soon. I scan the job listings every day in case something interesting comes up. Until then, I enjoy working at the bar, especially when I meet sexy guys. Less so when they freak out and fuck off straight after sex. Well, not straight after. We did cuddle, which was so wonderful.

"Archer?"

"Huh?"

"Should I wear a wedding dress?"

"Oh. I thought we'd moved on from that. Can't you wear the dress you wore to get married in?"

"I suppose so. It lacks drama, though. Do you want to go wedding dress shopping with me this afternoon?"

"Do shops like that take walk-ins?"

"I'm sure they will."

I'm not. I'll admit to watching more than a few episodes of Say Yes To The Dress . Those brides always have to have an appointment.

"Please, Archer? I'd love to have your input."

"I've given you my opinion. Wear the dress you bought for the wedding. Then, when you look back at the photos in years to come, it'll feel more like the two events were close together."

She gasps. "Photos! You're right. I'll need a photographer for the reception."

What have I done?

"I'd better organise that. Do you think the reception venue will know which photographer the bride and groom who were supposed to get married on Saturday had hired? They'll have a cancellation to fill too."

"I'm not sure they'd know."

Mum's behaviour is somewhat vulture-like right now. I get she wants to celebrate her marriage, but this is a bit much.

"I'll call them. What song do you think we should play for the first dance?"

"Shouldn't you decide that with Barry?"

"He'll be happy with whatever I decide. Oh, shoot. I'll need to arrange a DJ. I'll ask the reception venue about that too. Is there anything else I need to arrange?"

"Food?"

"They'll handle that. What about wedding favours?"

"I think those are only put on the tables at the wedding breakfast." Not that I'm even remotely a wedding expert.

"Hmm. Good point. No wedding favours. Oh well, saves me money and time." She chuckles and then makes a call to her contact at Weetwood Hall.

I sip my drink. Why did Jacob leave? His rushed departure has been consuming my thoughts since I woke up. Who am I kidding? I've been thinking about it from the moment he left. Last night, I tossed and turned before I fell asleep. Why does it bother me so much? I got dumped. I need to get over it. But he was everything I like in a guy—slightly awkward, hot in bed, and attentive.

Mum cups her hand over the receiver. "Do you want me to book you a hotel room for Saturday night?"

"They have space?"

"Of course. They had a block booking for wedding guests. But now that wedding is off, most of the guests have cancelled their bookings. I'll pay. My treat."

"Uh, yeah, sure."

It'll be cheaper than getting a taxi home late at night. I should look up where Weetwood Hall is, and I'll need to ask for time off work. Hopefully, my boss lets me take the night off on such short notice. Saturday nights are always packed.

"The gentleman at the hotel was lovely. He's given me contact details for the photographer, the DJ, and a balloon man."

"A balloon man?"

"You know, the kind who twists balloons into silly shapes."

"Why do you need one of those?"

"It'll be fun. You don't mind if I make the calls now, do you?"

Would it matter if I did? "No. Go ahead."

I sigh. I'm in for a long wait. Oh well, at least I can sit here, staring out the window, wondering why Mr Perfect turned into Mr See You Later.