Monday: June 5, 2006

John was tempted to skip his usual coffee with his mother that morning and head straight to the Depot. He bit back a curse when he saw not only his mother and Fanny, but also Anne Latimer. The hell?

"Morning, John-John," Fanny chirped, far more awake than was normal. "How'd you sleep?"

"Don't call me that," he growled. He shot a questioning look at his mother. The tiniest shift of her head in Fanny's direction and an eye roll reminded him why the hell Anne Latimer was sitting in his kitchen, in tight jeans and a revealing top, drinking his goddamn coffee at five-thirty in the morning. Right. Their little vacation to Vegas. He poured himself a cup of coffee and drank it standing. His mother said nothing, the clock ticking too loudly, Fanny tapping the table with her brightly painted nails. "Aren't you going to sit down?" She demanded.

"Nope." He glanced at his mother as she rustled the newspaper. He caught the smallest flash of a grin. He sighed. "What do you want, Fan?"

"Good Lord, I thought you'd never ask," she bounded out of her seat. "Anne and I need a ride to the airport this morning and—"

"No."

"Please, John. Mama has to get to the hospital which is, like, the exact opposite direction, and you're already going that way and we don't want to take the bus and—"

"Ask Watson," he tossed back the rest of his coffee, chewing on the grounds. "I've got a shit-ton of work to get through before—"

"But we have to go now, and Watson lives outside of town, and you're already here," Fanny whined, grabbing his elbow. "Pretty please?"

He shot an exasperated look at his mother, and she raised her eyebrows. He glanced at his watch. He didn't have the time, but he had even less time for this stupid-ass argument. It would only cut half an hour out of his day. He sighed heavily and Fanny squealed, bouncing on her toes.

"You're the best," she gushed. "I'll bring you a souvenir mug as a thank you—"

"Please don't."

"We'll get our bags."

Mrs Thornton folded her paper and set it on the table as Fanny and Anne scurried from the room. She would take Fanny if he asked, but he wouldn't and she knew he wouldn't. "When do you leave for New York?"

"Noon." John bent and kissed her cheek.

She nodded and held out the newspaper. John grunted and tucked it into his back pocket.

Margaret retreated into a corner of the sumptuously decorated ballroom, ducked behind a thick velvet curtain, and yawned so hard she thought her jaw might break. The sounds of constant chatter, clinking glasses of mimosas and champagne, and scraping flatware on bone china plates seemed to crawl under her skin.

She flinched as her mobile vibrated, almost dropping it in her haste to extract it from the leather clutch Edith had insisted went perfectly with her mauve morning dress. She didn't even bother to check the caller ID.

"So how's the wedding from hell?"

Margaret slumped back against the wall, equal parts disappointed and relieved to hear Bess Higgins's voice through the speaker. "If Edith weren't my favourite cousin, she'd probably be dead."

"Isn't she your only cousin?"

"That's not the point," Margaret snipped, glancing around the curtain. Edith flitted about like a butterfly, resplendent in light blue ruffled silk, every line flattering her slim figure, ever blonde curl perfectly arranged. James followed in her wake, his besotted gaze never leaving his beaming bride-to-be. A strange pang of loneliness curled in Margaret's stomach. "She woke me up at six o'clock in the morning for bloody yoga. She's jet lagged, my ass—"

"Oh God, not six o'clock in the morning," Bess said, her voice flat with sarcasm, "like all the rest of the working world."

"Rude. You know what I mean."

"There are worse things than getting up early, Marg."

"Like having your aunt refuse to believe you've an actual boyfriend who is due to arrive in exactly six hours, and when he gets here, will be cross beyond reason because he doesn't have his own bloody hotel room?"

"Wait what?" Bess let out a short incredulous laugh. "You're shitting me right?"

"I wish I was," Margaret froze as a waiter walked passed her hiding spot. She dropped her voice, "I've no idea what I'm going to do. Edith got me this ridiculously posh suite of rooms so John and I could share but—"

"You and John are sharing a room?"

"Yes, but—"

"As in one room and one bed? Oh. My. God—"

"No—it's not—there might be only one bed and it's not funny, thanks," Margaret hissed as Bess started to laugh. "You're the world's worst best friend."

"Excuse me, I called you specifically so you could bitch about your family to a sympathetic listener. I'm a fantastic best friend," Bess gasped, still laughing. "I'd pay money to see John's face when you tell him—"

"Don't remind me," Margaret snapped. "I don't have a bloody clue what to do about it—"

"What's there to do? You share the damn bed. Duh."

"He won't—" Margaret bit her tongue. Up until this moment, she hadn't even considered what John might want. Oh bloody hell. What if he wanted to share the bed? Or—or what if he flat out refused to share with her? She pressed a hand against her stomach as it rolled in protest, unable to decide which would be worse. "This is a proper disaster."

"Only you would call getting cosy with John Thornton a disaster. I told you it would only take a few weeks before you two were all over each other—"

"Shut up," Margaret grumbled, biting her thumbnail. "The hotel room debacle isn't even the worst of it. Remember Henry Lennox?"

"Slightly less hot than John, dresses like a tv lawyer, looks like he swallowed a dog turd."

Margaret snorted, "Exactly. My lovely aunt had him installed in the suite next to mine."

"Oh my God—"

"—and he's been following me around since hot yoga this morning, even though I told him about John yesterday." She peeked between the curtain folds. She immediately spied Henry in his grey suit, rep tie, and too shiny shoes, only a few meters away. "I'm literally hiding from him as we speak," she whispered.

"You know a good 'fuck off' can work wonders on self-entitled assholes."

"I can't tell the best man to bugger off. I'm the maid of honour—"

"Marg, you're too damn nice for your own good sometimes."

"I'm not nice, I'm just bloody good at pretending." Margaret sighed. "At least I haven't vomited yet today. Silver lining, yeah?"

"I guess," Bess said, her voice suddenly serious and soft. "But I think John's going to be your real silver lining."

"I—I don't know what that means."

"Sure you do," Bess chuckled. "I'll see you when you get back."

"Who shoved the stick up Master's ass this morning?" Nick muttered to Williams.

"Canada."

Both truck drivers stood in the corner of the office under the pretense of getting more coffee while Thornton yelled at some sorry sop on the phone.

"What'd they do this time?"

"Fucked over an entire schedule of bulk shipments out of California. After Master spent nearly four hours personally reworking it yesterday."

Nick whistled low, his eyes widening. "Damn."

"Yep."

"Isn't he supposed to be leaving today for some fancy pants wedding?"

Williams poured himself a cup of coffee, and checked his watch. "The plan was to have him gone by noon."

Nick glanced at the wall clock. It was eleven-fifteen. He rubbed his chin and caught Williams's eye. "Ten bucks says he don't get out until two."

Williams snorted. "Three-thirty and not a minute sooner." Nick gave him a dubious look. "It's Canada."

Nick shrugged. He liked Canada as a general rule, but Williams had his own opinions about it. All truck drivers did. "You're on."

Williams chuckled as Thornton swore and threw his hat across the room. Both men exchanged a look. If he didn't get off the phone soon, the coffee cups would be next. Nick waited until Master's back was turned and snatched two empty mugs off the desk, Williams right behind him grabbing the other three.

"Turn to the left two inches. Now back to the right half an inch."

Margaret rolled her eyes and attempted to comply. She bloody hated professional photographers.

"Perfect." The photographer, a skinny balding man wearing very tight, very shiny gold trousers, and a lilac coloured ruffled shirt skewered Margaret with an threatening stare, "Don't move." Then he pivoted with a flourish, continuing to arrange, rearrange, adjust, and readjust the bridesmaids around a beaming Edith.

They were standing in one of the many picturesque locations in Central Park, underneath a giant oak tree, bedecked in heels, slinky black cocktail dresses, too much makeup, sweating in the oppressive summer heat.

"Tell me again why we have to practice having our picture taken, Eds?" Margaret swallowed thickly as a hot wave of sewage laced wind rustled past. The city smells were almost unbearable.

"Anton wants to be absolutely certain of positioning and lighting for the big day. Outdoor photography is terribly tricky," Edith replied, nudging her with her pointed white-sequined shoe. "Isn't he fabulous? He came highly recommended by all the best people."

"Yes, I'm sure he did."

"Could those the front remain perfectly still, please?" Anton, The Fabulous Photographer scolded, continuing to fuss with Telulah Gallaway and Juliet Pinkham, the two tallest of the bridesmaids. "No, no, no sweetie, you're simply too tall to make this shot work. You'll have to loose those heels."

Telulah—or was it Juliet?—squeaked, but she removed her shoes, shuddering as her stockinged feet settled in the grass. Margaret's own feet throbbed in envy. She'd give ten quid to be instructed to removed the ridiculous heels Edith insisted she wear.

"So I heard you've got some exciting news, Margaret." Amelia Nelson, Edith's best friend from Primary spoke through her toothpaste-advertisement-smile which didn't waver for a second. "Is it true you've been seeing an American?"

"God, yes, I could use a gossip before my ankles give out." This came from Darcy Mosley. Margaret couldn't quite remember if Darcy was the friend who'd toured America with Edith for their gap year or if she'd been in the same ballroom dance club. "You know, half of us had a bet you were lesbian, Meg."

Margaret sucked in a breath, her face flushing hotly.

"Darcy," Amelia gasped, politely appalled, but not enough to genuinely refute the assertion. "Really. What a thing to say."

"You, Juliet, and Telulah owe me a fiver each, Amelia. I knew Meg liked the blokes." Darcy tossed her mane of messy red curls. "So what's he like? Fit, I hope."

"A man ought to be fit if he can manage it," Telulah—or Juliet—commented, shooting Anton a black look as he shifted her shoulder, first one way, then another. "That's the only reason to date an American. One can ignore their atrocious manners and politics so long as they're talented in other areas."

"But is he very American, dear?' Gemma Proffit sniffed, her face twisting as if American was the very worst thing anyone could be.

"What does that even mean, Gem?" Darcy retorted, turning. "He's not a leper." She grinned at Margaret, "Or is he? Is that why he's not here yet?"

"Definitely not a leper," Margaret said with the tiniest nod. Of all of Edith's ridiculous friends, she might be able to like Darcy. "He'll be here this afternoon." John had said he'd arrive by half-three and she'd very deliberately not rung all morning. But now that the bridesmaid luncheon and manicure appointments were over, she'd left her mobile in her suite to keep herself from checking on him. She wasn't going to become one of those girlfriends.

"Brilliant," Darcy beamed. "How much longer do we have to stand here sweating our arses off, Eddy?"

"I heard," Amelia flicked at a speck of dust on her skirt, "this American boyfriend was a clever ruse to keep a certain best man on a tight leash." She gave Margaret a pointed look and then glanced over to where the groomsmen were gathered in the shade of a large tree, waiting their turn. "Isn't that right, Edith?"

"I didn't say that, Amelia," Edith scolded. She laughed and touched Margaret on the shoulder, like she always did when she hoped Margaret wouldn't be cross about something she most certainly ought to be cross about. "Not exactly. It would be rather clever of you, Migs—"

"Did you lot have a bet about that too?" Margaret snipped, twisting her hands in her skirt.

"Obviously," Darcy nodded, winked, and tossed her hair again, "I'll have you know, I'm two for two."

"You haven't actually won until the mystery boyfriend proves his existence, Darce," Juliet—or Telulah—retorted.

"Which he will, won't he, Meg?"

"If he's some John she's hired, you'll lose all of it."

"Amelia!"

"Well, she wouldn't be first woman to try it, would she?"

"The best part of it is," Edith burst in, covering up a sudden giggle, "his name's actually John."

The girls all squealed, giggling at the absurdity.

"That's too delish!"

"Is it really, Meg?"

"But how will we verify he's here of his own free will?"

Oh God. Margaret pressed her eyes closed. Heaven forbid someone actually believe John was a living breathing human being she wanted to date —except, her conscience whispered, she hadn't really wanted to date him at all. Not at first. She'd been awful to him this entire time too, and that made it so much worse.

"Can you imagine hiring a man to date you?"

"Blokes hire us to shag them all the time. Why shouldn't we return the favour?"

"Darcy, you can't say such things."

"Migs?" Edith leaned in behind Margaret, whispering gently. "Just ignore them."

"He's real, I swear, Eds. He's real and really lovely, you know—"

"I'm sure he is." Edith patted her shoulder, and Margaret shook herself, embarrassed at the sudden threat of tears.

"Alright ladies," Anton snapped his fingers. "Eyes on me," he popped a hip, adjusted a setting on his camera, and squinted at them through the viewfinder. "Fabulous. Hold that. Blondie in the back, without the shoes—"

"It's Juliet."

"Right. Could you slouch a bit?"

"Slouch?" She scoffed. "You can't be serious—"

"Go on then, Jules, slouch those finishing-school shoulders," Darcy teased. "Just the once. No one will tell mummy."

Juliet scowled at Darcy, but she slouched anyway.

"Perfect. On three..."

John swore under his breath as he stared at the stretch of bumper to bumper traffic winding its way slowly into Manhattan. At two-thirty he'd hung up on the asshat at Canadian Freightways who'd put him on hold for the third time that day. He'd have to call them tomorrow and try to untangle that shit storm. He checked his watch again, and flicked open his phone. He'd tried to call Margaret twice to let her know he was running late but she still hadn't answered.

You've reached the phone of Margaret Hale.

"Shit," He slapped the phone shut, tossed it back into the cup holder, inching the truck forward.

He leaned his head back against the headrest, and shut his eyes, the sounds of angry honks mixed with random shouts spilling over him through the truck's open windows. His eyes snapped open when the car behind him leaned on their horn and inched the truck forward again.

Margaret picked at her thumbnail, pacing about the luxurious sitting room of the bridal suite, watching the clock on the mantel like a hawk watches its prey. She hadn't heard anything from John and she hadn't been able to slip away to check her mobile. After photographs, a meeting with a local dance instructor, and the most tedious tea she'd ever sat through, Edith had insisted they all prepare for supper—together—in her suite.

"Do these heels work with this hemline?" Amelia asked, twisting and turning before a intricate full length mirror. "They seem a bit much."

"You've been through every pair of shoes we've got between us," Darcy was lounging sideways in a sumptuous arm chair, a cigarette hanging from between her blood-red painted nails. She pointed at a giant mound of discarded scrappy heels. "At this point, does it even matter?"

Margaret felt sweat gathering on her neck. It was half-five and they were supposed to be in the Queen Mary Room in thirty minutes. There was still no sign of John. Where the hell was he?

"Darcy, put that out," Edith coughed prettily, waving her hand in front of her face. "It's not allowed in here."

"I've not had a fag all day, Eddy—"

"You can't say 'fag' here, Darce. It's a rather vulgar term for homosexuals."

"Come off it," Darcy rolled her eyes. "No one can hear me up here—"

"Ladies, we've got to be downstairs at six exactly," Gemma clapped her hands twice, like she was a school teacher rounding up a group of rowdy primary children.

"Eds, I'm just going to pop out and grab my mobile before supper starts, yeah?" Margaret called, moving towards the door with a sigh of relief. "You go on. I'll just—"

"Not without us you don't," Darcy interrupted, hopping to her feet. She dropped her cigarette into a cup of water. "Where one of us goes the rest must follow, Meg. That's the rule."

Margaret's suppressed a frustrated groan as all six women crowded through the door and dragged her along towards the lift.

"May I help you, sir?" The hotel desk attendant looked at John with a pointedly dubious expression. "Are you … checking in?"

"I'm with the Shaw Lennox wedding," he grumbled, glancing around the lobby. He was almost three hours behind schedule, the fancy-ass party he was supposed to be at would start in twenty-four minutes, and he still didn't know where the hell Margaret was. "John Thornton."

"Oh. Of course,"

John rolled his eyes at the man's barely concealed surprise. He clicked through his computer, his eyes flicking from John's ID to John himself. If he wasn't so damn late, he would've laughed. In his boots, wrinkled jeans and plaid shirt, with two days of unshaven scruff, he didn't exactly look like the regular type of schmuck who stayed in one of the fanciest hotels in Manhattan.

"Are there any messages for me?"

"No sir," The clerk retrieved a key, and held it out with a mildly apologetic expression. "The Crampton is on the seventh floor, Mr Thornton. Philip will see to your bags, and Gustav will attend you at the elevator."

"No thanks," John shook his head at the bellboy. "I'm good." He raised an eyebrow at the elevator attendant when the doors opened and he asked for John's room. The staff in this place was a little much, but he played along. "The Crampton."

"Very good, sir."

Apparently this hotel didn't believe in actual room numbers, each door sporting a shiny brass plate with a name. He slid his key into the lock, and let out a low whistle as he stepped inside. This wasn't a hotel room—it was a goddamn apartment. The place reeked of money. He checked his watch, dumped his bags on the couch, and quickly stripped off his clothes, not even bothering to let the shower get warm.

It took nearly ten minutes to get from the top floor to the seventh floor. First, they had to return to Edith's suite twice to retrieve forgotten items. Then they had to wait for the lift. Next, Gemma wanted to stop at her room and grab her makeup, which meant all the girls decided to retrieve theirs as well. Margaret nearly jumped off the lift on the seventh floor. Next time she'd take the bloody stairs. Edith and her entourage piled in behind her as soon as she swung the door open.

"Oh, Edith, this room—"

"There's a fireplace—"

"Isn't it divine?" Edith beamed. "I knew it was perfect for Migs the moment I saw it."

"A bit old fashioned—"

"—But this view is simply—"

"Does this lip colour go with my dress? I was thinking—"

"—Oh, I really ought to freshen up my curls. Do you think there's time?"

Margaret dashed around Juliet—or Telulah— and yanked open the nightstand drawer, snatching up her mobile.

"Oh my God," Amelia's voice pitched over the general chatter. She held a rumpled pair of grease-stained jeans and a wrinkled plaid shirt between her fingers. Margaret's heart jumped in her chest. She quickly spotted a large pair of boots by the foot of the bed and an achingly familiar battered red hat in a chair. "Whose are these?"

"Those are mine." Gooseflesh erupted over Margaret's skin at the sound of the familiar booming voice. When she turned, all the breath rushed out of her. John stood in the door of the bathroom, arms crossed, face half covered in shaving cream, clad only in a white towel sitting distractingly low on his hips. The room had fallen deathly silent, each girl staring at him in shock. His black scowl soften a little when he spotted her. "Do you ever answer your goddamn phone?"

John knew it probably wasn't the best thing to say, standing mostly naked in the wrong hotel room filled with a bunch of women he didn't know. His mouth never cooperated with him when Margaret was around. But instead of raising her chin, tossing back her hair, or saying something biting and sarcastic, she just … smiled. John felt like he'd been punched in the lungs—hard—when she rushed past the girl holding his dirty clothes, and threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly. His body reacted without his permission, tugging her close and lifting her off her feet, his face buried in her hair.

"The bloody hell," she mumbled, her breath tickling his skin. "What took you so long?"

"Sorry." He breathed in the soft floral smell of her shampoo and perfume, all the tension from the shitty day and the long drive beginning to melt away. He'd missed her. A lot. "Blame Canada."

"This is the American boyfriend?" A tall blonde chick holding a tube of very red lipstick demanded, mouth hanging open.

"Oh," Margaret immediately stiffened and let go, flinching back as if she'd been burned. "Yes, um—"

"Oh. My. God."

Within seconds the entire group of overly perfumed women had pressed in around him, all talking at once.

"Oh my God, he's real—"

"Proper lush too."

"Yes, please."

"And tall."

"Does he have a brother?"

"I'm Gemma, by the way—"

"How tall is he?"

"I'm standing right here," John growled. It was like being pawed over by a crowd of his sister's friends, in varying shades of blonde. Only worse. And he was basically naked. "I'd really like to put my clothes on now."

"Go on then, handsome," a curly redhead winked at him, elbowing Margaret. "Don't mind us."

"Stop it, Darcy—"

"I'm clearly in the wrong room. If you'll excuse me."

"No, you're not," a different blonde interrupted—the cousin?—and grabbed Margaret by the elbow, beaming mischievously. "Do you want to tell him the delightful news or shall I?"

He scowled, his mind scrambling to fill in the gaps. Margaret turned a bright shade of red but before she could tell him what the hell was going on, a third blonde gasped and pointed at the clock, "Oh, Edith, the time—" They let out a symphony of gasps, squeals, and 'oh my gods' as they rushed for the door, the cousin dragging Margaret along with them.

John's eyes swept over the room, immediately picking out what he'd missed in his hurry to shower; a dress bag, several discarded pairs of purple socks, three bottles of nail polish on the vanity, along with a hair brush, makeup bag, and other toiletries. Hotels like this didn't make these kinds of mistakes. So how the hell had he ended up in this room?

He stopped, catching sight of a familiar dark purple notebook on the bedside table. He stalked over and flipped it open, Margaret's neat cursive screaming at him from the paper. Then it all clicked; this was her room … and his.

"Shit."

He was here. Margaret pressed a hand to her stomach, barely registering the volley of questions flung at her from all sides. He was finally here, and—bloody hell, she'd hugged him, in front of everyone. And she still had to tell him about their room. She pressed the backs of her hands to her flushed cheeks, and felt something sticky. What—

"There you are," Henry appeared in the carpeted hall at Margaret's side as the bridesmaids filtered into the stately Queen Mary Room, where half a dozen standing tables were arranged with cheery floral pieces and small flickering candles for the mixer. A harpist sat in the corner, airy music drifting over them in delicate trills. The staff was already distributing hors d'oeuvres, and taking drink orders. "Margaret, I—oh." Henry's voice sounded odd. She barely noticed the glass of wine he tried to hand her, glancing back the way they'd come. Would John realise what Edith had done? How was she supposed to tell him before anyone else did? "Margaret, pardon me, but you've got something … "

She hoped he wouldn't be too cross—

"Oi," Darcy pointed, laughing. "John's got shaving cream all in your hair, Meg."

"What?" She hurriedly wiped at her hair and cheek, the sticky foamy substance smearing a bit more. "Bloody hell."

"He'd have got it all over you if we hadn't been standing there," Darcy winked at her and snagged one of the glasses of wine from Henry. "Little how's your father, yeah? If you run out of condoms, I brought extra."

Henry almost spit his wine on the floor, turning an unpleasant shade of red, Edith and Darcy jumping as he choked and spluttered. "I—um," Margaret blushed, running her fingers hurriedly through her hair again, heart pounding, the smell of John suddenly overwhelming. A wall of warmth flooded over her as a hand slid along her back. He was here.

"Hi." John was combed, shaved, and tidy, looking perfectly at ease in a navy suit, white shirt, and a familiar burgundy tie. She almost hugged him again, relief and an odd pressure in her chest urging her closer. She stared up at him for a beat too long before John cleared his throat, eyes flicking to the group watching them with silent intensity.

"Right—sorry." Margaret turned to her cousin and quickly made the introductions. Edith and James were all polite smiles and enthusiasm, Darcy bit her lip and gave him a saucy wink, Gemma blushed prettily, but Henry's face hardened as the two shook hands, his eyes darting between John and Margaret like the ball at a tennis match. Edith quickly took over the conversation, dragging John around the room and introducing him to all the groomsmen and bridesmaids and ushers and other wedding attendants.

"Well done, Meg." Darcy hooked her arm through Margaret's. She jerked her head towards where Henry stood stiffly, making stilted conversation with Telulah—or Juliet—but his attention was glued to John. "I'd wager ten quid good old Henners didn't believe you either."

"How much money have you won today?" Margaret asked, pointedly ignoring her question. She still couldn't help the wide grin that clung to her face, her eyes following John.

"Loads."

"Brilliant. Don't spend it all once."

"Where's the fun in that?" Darcy giggled, and gave John another slow once over from across the room where Edith had him politely sequestered at the open bar with Gemma and Amelia. Margaret squirmed a little, as Darcy licked her lips, "God, he almost looks better with his clothes on, doesn't he?"

"Darcy—"

"You're sure he doesn't have a brother?"

"No brother."

"Too bad," Darcy pouted. "Well, if you pitch him, don't mind me if I have a go."

Margaret blinked. What was she supposed to say to that? She and John had agreed to break up come January but the thought of any one else 'having a go' at him made her distinctly uncomfortable. It was very like the snarl of jealousy she'd felt at the Thronton's dinner party with Anne Latimer, and—

"Meg," Darcy interrupted her thoughts, a mischievous smiled playing around her lips. "I was mostly kidding. He's not the kind you pitch."

"Right," she laughed, a little breathless.

It was just shy of eleven when John and Margaret finally made their escape. The mixer had been like most fancy-ass parties John attended—lots of booze, long-winded petty conversations, overt flirting from the women, bad jokes from the men, and not nearly enough food. Margaret chuckled as his stomach growled.

"Did you eat today?"

"Not really," he hit the elevator button. "Did you?"

She shrugged, "I'm never hungry when I travel."

The elevator dinged and the door slid open. "The Cranford Suite?" Gustav the Elevator Attendant asked expectantly. Margaret bit her lip and darted a glance at him. John cleared his throat and nodded. She fidgeted with her dress; her very short, very clingy dress. He blew out a slow breath, feeling her stare at him. They still hadn't had a chance to really talk, so he should probably say something. Something not creepy. Something nice.

"Nice dress." John's voice was thick and uncooperative. He cleared his throat.

"Do you like it?"

"It's—yeah, it's … nice." Goddamn it.

"I think it's a little short, but Edith insisted." She blushed and tugged at it again, the neckline inching lower.

His fists tightened in his pockets and he called up every God-awful boring memory he possessed in a pointed effort to keep himself reined in. That dress had paraded itself around the room all damn night, dipping just low enough at the neckline for him to see a hint of—

He shook himself. Eyes on her face, asshole. He'd spent most of the night chewing over the problem of their shared room, which in hindsight, was probably a bad decision. That, combined with her dress, the memory of her pressed on his skin when she'd hugged him—

Shit. Three week old guacamole. Roadkill on a hot day. The bathroom at the Depot. The elevator dinged. Their awkward silence stretched unbearably thin until they stepped into their suite. The way things stood, there was no way in hell he could share a room with her, let alone a bed.

"Look," Margaret turned, her face and lips, flushed pink, her hair a tumbling mess of curls. "About the room—"

"No," John interrupted. He had to get ahead of this before he completely humiliated himself and embarrassed her.

"What do you mean 'no'?"

"I don't care how it happened," he growled, his voice too sharp, trying not to look at her and that goddamn black dress. John's fists tightened until his knuckles ached. A restaurant grease trap. Dirty gym socks. Williams without a shirt. "But I'm not sharing—"

"Don't bark at me. It's not my bloody fault my family didn't even believe you were real."

His head snapped up, "They what?"

"They thought I made you up." She shrugged, glancing away, the dress moving over her like liquid honey. Cow patties. Bedbugs. Chickenpox. "We don't have to share the bed. I'll—"

"No," he tossed his key on her vanity and grabbed his bags. "I'll find somewhere else to sleep."

"There is nowhere else," she snapped. "I can manage—"

"Well, I can't," he growled. The rational part of his brain screamed at him to get out. The horny part of his brain told his rational mind to shut the fuck up.

"You can't what? Share a suite of four rooms with your girlfriend?" She demanded, slipping between him and the door, pressing back against the dark wood. "You certainly can't afford a different room. There's more than enough space, and I'll sleep on the couch." She tossed back her hair, folding her arms.

"Like hell you will," he shook his head. "I'm not going to let you sleep on the couch. I'd rather sleep on the floor."

"Which is perfectly ridiculous. I'm not exactly thrilled about this either, but I'm not going to toss you out just because it's unexpected. Honestly, the bed's so bloody big we could both fit without much trouble—"

"Nope," he interrupted, his voice strangled as he tried to shove away the tantalizing thought of being in a bed with Margaret. His great aunt's hairless cat, Junby. Christmas parties. Taxes. "Move."

"Is this some idiot old-fashioned attempt to protect my reputation? Because that's bloody stupid—"

"I don't give a damn about your reputation."

"What then?" She took a step closer, her face flushed, voice rising in anger. "What's the bloody problem, John?"

"I am!" He gripped his bags, his temper wrestling against the sudden impulse to just shove her back against the door, and— he blew out a sharp breath. "You might be an immovable pillar of self control," he growled. "But I'm not."

Her eyes widened but before she could say anything a sharp knock split the tense silence. "Margaret?"

She flinched and John frowned at the sound of a man's muffled voice on the other side of the door. Who the hell?

"Do you realize how this will look to them all if you leave now?" She whispered, voice strained, stepping closer. "Most of the wedding party thinks I hired you to date me. God knows what my aunt will do. It's beyond embarrassing and I—"

"Margaret?" The voice came again. "Are you there?"

She laid a hand on his arm. "Please, John—"

He hesitated. Another knock on the door. John swore, dropped his bags, stepped around Margaret, and jerked the door open. As soon as he clapped eyes on the man in the doorway John's gut told him he'd stumbled onto a missing piece to the puzzle of this wedding. Henry Lennox stiffened, lips pressing tightly together.

"Excuse me, I was looking for … what are you doing in Margaret's private room?"

"I'm her boyfriend," John straightened to his full height, injecting a cold note of steel into his voice. "We're a little occupied and you're … interrupting." His lips twitched as he reached up and deliberately loosened his tie, never breaking eye contact.

"I'm Henry, James's brother and best man—"

"I know who you are."

Henry shifted uncomfortably, trying to peer around him into the room. "I'm in the adjacent suite—"

"Lucky you," John yanked his tie free. He'd made up his mind, consequences be damned. "We're going to bed. Let us know if we get too loud for you." He heard Margaret suck in a little gasp as she poked him in the ribs.

Henry's eyes widened and his face paled, but John closed the door with a firm thud before he could choke out a response. John turned, and leaned against the door, glaring at Margaret. "Is that little shit the reason I'm here?"

"Why the bloody hell did you do that?" she demanded, ignoring his question. She shoved him. "You all but told him we're—God, now Henry thinks we're in here—that we're—"

"Let him," he straightened and stepped closer, his eyes flickering over her body, every muscle tense and quivering. "I'll sleep on the couch."

"Really?" Relief washed over her face, and he felt his temper rising. She wanted him to stay, so he'd stay. But this week was about to test his self control to it's very limit.

"Yes."

AN: 'the wedding from hell' quoted from DaisyNinjaGirl. Thanks for the smart-a** line.

Gosh, this chapter is LOOOOOONG. At least it didn't take a month, yeah? Silver lining?

So what do you think, loves? Happy Friday!