‘Will you… pretend to marry me?’

Bonnie Haskett loves everything about weddings. She loves her job at a national bridal magazine and even has a deposit down on her dream dress. The only problem? She doesn’t have a fiancé!

So when Bonnie is sent to Edelweiss Island, known as ‘The Little Wedding Island’, it’s a dream come true. She’s heard the rumours, every wedding that takes place in the tiny chapel ends in a happy-ever-after.

But there’s a catch! Bonnie needs a groom in order to pose as a blushing bride – and the only man up for the job is her arch rival (and far too good-looking) journalist Rohan Art…

A gorgeously uplifting summer romance, perfect for fans of Holly Martin and Caroline Roberts.

Also by Jaimie Admans

The Château of Happily-Ever-Afters

The Little Wedding Island

Jaimie Admans

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

JAIMIE ADMANS is a 32-year-old English-sounding Welsh girl with an awkward-to-spell name. She lives in South Wales and enjoys writing, gardening, watching horror movies and drinking tea, although she’s seriously considering marrying her coffee machine. She loves autumn and winter, and singing songs from musicals despite the fact she’s got the voice of a dying hyena. She hates spiders, hot weather and cheese & onion crisps. She spends far too much time on Twitter and owns too many pairs of boots. She will never have time to read all the books she wants to read.

Jaimie loves to hear from readers, you can visit her website at www.jaimieadmans.com or connect on Twitter @be_the_spark.

Mum, thank you for the constant patience, support, encouragement, and for always believing in me. Love you lots!

Bill, Toby, Cathie, and Bev – thank you for always being supportive and enthusiastic! It really means the world!

Thank you to my Chihuahua, Bruiser, for letting me use him as a sounding board for plot problems and listening intently when I read dialogue aloud to him!

The lovely and talented fellow HQ authors – I don’t know what I’d do without all of you!

All the lovely authors and bloggers I know on Twitter. You’ve all been so supportive since the very first book, and I want to mention you all by name, but I know I’ll forget someone and I don’t want to leave anyone out, so to everyone I chat to on Twitter or Facebook – thank you.

The little writing group that doesn’t have a name – Sharon Sant, Sharon Atkinson, Dan Thompson, Jack Croxall, Holly Martin, Jane Yates. I can always turn to you guys!

Chris, Aaron, Bryan Thomas, Annette and Sarah, my lovely Llama and Owlee – thank you for being awesome friends!

Thank you to the team at HQ and especially my fantastic editor, Charlotte Mursell, for all the hard work and support!

And a massive thanks to you for reading!

To my lovely mum – thank you for always being there for me.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Extract

Endpages

Copyright

Chapter One

‘Bonnie, you can’t argue with people on Twitter just because you don’t agree with something they say.’ My boss, Oliver, pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to stifle his fortieth headache since I got into his office five minutes ago.

I sigh. I knew I was going to get in trouble for this. ‘But did you see what he said about that lovely couple’s beautiful wedding? I couldn’t ignore his delusional twuntery – someone had to say something.’

‘He works for The Man Land. We’re in direct competition with them and you know it. By arguing with him, you’ve given him more publicity. Thanks to that little stunt on Twitter over the weekend, he’s gained another few thousand followers who are all laughing at his column with him while laughing at you and our magazine.’

‘Someone needed to call him out. He can’t just go around writing such horrible things about people’s wedding days.’

‘But not someone who works for the other magazine in this battle of the mags thing that Hambridge Publishing have got us embroiled in. Everyone knows it’s them versus us, but it’s meant to be in a professional way. It’s not meant to degenerate into petty insults and name-calling. How you conduct yourself online, even outside of work, reflects back on our magazine.’

‘I use an icon on Twitter. No one knows it’s me.’

Oliver rubs his temples. ‘You use a random photo of a wedding dress, your real name, and your bio says you write for Two Gold Rings magazine.’

‘It’s not a random photo – it’ll be my wedding dress one day,’ I mutter.

I don’t know why I’m trying to defend myself. He’s right. I love writing for a bridal magazine and I do mention it in my Twitter bio. The thousands of people who retweeted my argument with Mr R.C. Art over the weekend know exactly who I work for and the very public battle between us and The Man Land.

I try again. ‘He called the bride a twenty-one-year-old sentient boob job fake-tanned to the colour of an overcooked Wotsit and the groom a seventy-year-old walking bank account sponsored by Viagra!’

Oliver lets out a snort and I frown at him. ‘It’s not funny. He has no right to make fun of their wedding day and publicly humiliate them online. He called it the unholy union of a cross-dressing scarecrow and a taffeta loo roll holder, and I’m still not sure which one was which. It was totally unfair. It looked like a beautiful wedding.’ I scroll through my phone and hold it out to show him a picture. ‘See?’

Oliver glances at it and stifles a laugh. ‘Well, I’ve got to admit I admire the man for his way with words. He’s really hit the nail on the head this time.’

‘Their wedding day is their wedding day. Nothing about it has anything to do with him,’ I snap, yanking my phone back across the desk towards me.

‘Bonnie, you don’t even know these people. It’s not up to you to stick up for them. If they take offence at what he said, let them sue him for libel. Everyone knows this R.C. Art guy writes horrible stuff in his monthly column. It’s tongue in cheek, designed to get a laugh at someone else’s expense. He’s like the Katie Hopkins of weddings. He says controversial things to get a reaction out of the public. The Man Land don’t pay him for his writing, they pay him for the amount of press he gets them. The best thing anyone can do is ignore him, which is not what you did.’

‘He deserved putting in his place. It didn’t matter who he worked for.’

‘But you didn’t put him in his place. All you did was give him a petty, childish argument that he could use as an example of how crazed brides get.’

‘I’m not a bride.’

‘Well, for whatever reason, you have a picture of a wedding dress as your profile photo…’

‘Which is better than him. His profile photo is just two engagement rings with a big “no entry” road sign over them.’

Oliver slams his hand down on the desk. ‘Bonnie, you don’t seem to realise how serious this is. I’ve had the owner of Hambridge Publishing on the phone this morning and to say he’s not impressed would be an understatement. It looks like you were deliberately baiting R.C. Art and trying to draw him into an argument so The Man Land would come off looking worse than us.’

‘That’s ridiculous. If anything, he did it on purpose to make me look bad. He screencapped my tweets and posted them for all to see, and conveniently cut off his original post where he thought it was okay to compare a bride’s make-up to the zombies from Michael Jackson’s Thriller video and the wedding guests to Night of the Living Dead. He made it look like I was randomly attacking him by taking out what I was responding to.’

‘You shouldn’t be responding to anything in this situation. This thing between our magazines is a well-known publicity stunt and people are watching what we do.’ Oliver’s face is red and he looks like he’s one step away from banging his head, or more likely mine, on the desk. ‘I don’t care if you stood up for that couple with the best of intentions. You can’t keep fixating on other people’s weddings to detract from your own loneliness, and getting into a slanging match with The Man Land’s high-profile anti-marriage columnist is asking for trouble. Quoting his column and trying to incite your followers against him reflects badly on our whole magazine.’

‘I didn’t try to incite anyone! I just pointed out that there are some twats in the world and most of them have a Twitter account. And what about him? Have Hambridge been on the phone to his boss this morning yelling at him too? He posted screencaps of my tweets and told his followers that I’m the kind of idiot he has to deal with on a daily basis.’

‘So you react with dignity, poise, and silence. Trolls go away if you don’t feed them. You served him a seven-course meal with extra dessert. You may as well have called him a poo-poo head, blown a raspberry at him, and ran and told your favourite teddy bear. Actually, on second thoughts, that might have been a more mature way to deal with it.’

‘R.C. Art,’ I grumble. ‘What kind of a stupid pseudonym is that? It sounds like a school class, which is fitting given his level of maturity. He probably looks like the offspring of a flying monkey and Yoda. No wonder he hides behind a picture and uses an alias. He’s probably a bitter and twisted old man who’s so bitter and twisted because he’s too horrible to have ever found anyone to marry him. He wouldn’t be so nasty if anyone loved him, would he?’

Oliver pinches the bridge of his nose. Again. ‘Says the woman who has a wedding dress but doesn’t have a groom to go with it.’

‘I don’t have the wedding dress. I’ve only paid a deposit and it’s on hold for me at Snowdrop – you know the little bridal boutique tucked away near Marble Arch?’

‘No. I’ve been divorced for four years. Oddly enough, I have no knowledge of bridal shops and nor do I want any.’

‘You run a wedding magazine!’ I say, wondering why I expect anything different from a man who has the Ambrose Bierce quote ‘Love is a temporary insanity curable only by marriage’ printed on the wall above his desk.

‘I edit a wedding magazine. I rely on you and your colleagues to provide the content. I’m just counting down the days until I retire and never have to read another comparison between napkin rings or essay on wedding favours ever again. Only three years and ninety-three days to go now. What I really don’t need is to have to find another job at this time of my life if we lose Two Gold Rings, which we are going to at this rate.’

‘We won’t. The Man Land prints nothing but sexist, unfunny drivel. Two Gold Rings has been going for decades and thousands of brides have turned to us for all their wedding-planning needs. It’s good versus evil. Love versus misogynistic sarcasm. There’s no way they’re going to win.’

‘They have a much bigger online following than us, and a lot of men agree with their views. I’m one of them. I completely agree with R.C. Art when it comes to marriage. It’s the worst mistake anyone can ever make. People spend thousands of pounds on a day that will ultimately end up destroying their lives. If he wants to make fun of that, well, good on him. Obviously we couldn’t publish that kind of thing in Two Gold Rings, but I always thoroughly enjoy a sneaky read of his column. He’s very funny.’

‘He’s rude and cold-hearted. People’s wedding days are special. They’re in love. They’re happy. It’s the best day of their lives. How can anyone be so cynical that they agree with that anti-marriage idiot?’

‘Bonnie, you’re a sweet, naive, hopeless romantic. You’ve never been married, and judging by the soppy things you write, you still think Prince Charming is going to ride around the next corner on a big white horse. When you’ve come out the other side of a messy divorce, your opinion might change. To me, R.C. Art sounds like a guy who’s been burnt by love and now uses his column to help other men avoid the same fate… Which brings me nicely back to why I called you in here.’

Back to the Twitter spat. I should’ve known my boss wouldn’t let me get away with it. I stupidly believed he might be pleased with me for sticking up for a couple who didn’t deserve to have their beautiful wedding day lampooned by a deluded prat for his own entertainment.

‘I’ve got a very angry boss, Bonnie. You know what Hambridge have done with this stupid battle of the mags thing. Pitted their two worst-performing publications against each other in what they hoped would provoke a spirited public reaction to save their favourite, and they’ve been met with, well, mild indifference would be putting it kindly. There are no public petitions, no protests, no Twitter hashtags to save Two Gold Rings. It’s up to us. We have to sell more copies than The Man Land this quarter and bring in more revenue, and if we don’t then we can all kiss our jobs goodbye, and Two Gold Rings will be no more. Two advertisers have already pulled full-page ads from next month’s issue because they don’t want the association with us. Over twenty thousand people have RT-ed the screencaps of your argument that he posted. I have no doubt that more advertisers will pull out and more readers will go to pick up a copy and remember what they saw on Twitter and put it down again.’

‘I was only doing what I thought was right,’ I say, wondering just how much trouble I might be in here. The magazine is teetering on the edge of destruction, and I’ve made it worse. I should have just ignored R.C. Art – I know that – and now I’m, what, the ‘troublesome’ reporter? I feel sick. I’ve never been troublesome in my life.

‘I know.’ He pushes his hand through his curly grey hair with a sigh. ‘But I think that, given the circumstances, it might be a good idea if you just… weren’t here for a while.’

‘For a while…’ I repeat. ‘You’re suspending me?’

‘Oh, good Lord, no.’ He laughs. ‘And give you a paid holiday as a reward for dragging our name through the mud of the Twittersphere? No chance, especially now that we need all hands on deck to outdo The Man Land next month.’

‘What, then? Work from home?’

He rifles through his in-tray, suddenly looking positively gleeful. ‘Have you ever heard of Edelweiss Island?’

‘Like the song in The Sound of Music?’ I ask, feeling my ears perk up. ‘No, but it sounds nice. Should I have heard of it?’

‘It’s an island off the south coast of Britain, not far past the Isle of Wight. Calls itself The Little Wedding Island. It’s been a wedding venue for years now, but not a hugely popular one, until recently. A story has leaked about the church on the island – apparently no marriage that’s ever taken place there has ended in divorce. It sounds like a load of old codswallop to me, but people are talking about it, and the talk isn’t going away. Some of the major newspapers have sent journalists there but they’ve all come back empty-handed, so no one’s ever got to the bottom of it.’

‘Oh, that’s so romantic!’ I gasp in delight. ‘A church with no divorces! It must be the most amazing place.’

‘That’s exactly why you’re going there,’ Oliver says with a false grin that’s probably as wide as my genuine one. ‘I can’t be seen to be doing nothing in light of the nonsense on Twitter, Bonnie.’

‘So you’re exiling me?’

‘Only for a little while, and let’s not call it exile. Let’s call it “a sabbatical” with a job to do. Edelweiss Island is the story everyone wants and no one’s managed to get yet. If we get it, we’ll win the battle. This is literally life and death for Two Gold Rings. You don’t have to worry about being suspended or fired, because if you don’t get that article, there won’t be a job to lose by the summer.’

‘I still don’t understand how they can pit us against each other. Our readerships are a totally different demographic and we’ve already got the advantage because women buy more magazines than men.’

‘They don’t care. Hambridge wanted something to drum up public interest. It’s backfired. It’s not the massive boys versus girls publicity stunt they hoped for. Our market is too niche. People buy our magazine when they’re planning their wedding, they get married, and they stop buying it, whereas The Man Land cover everything from controversial news stories, fitness, and DIY projects to book, film, and game reviews. They cater for all types of men with all types of interests. We cater for a very specific group of women who lose interest once a specific date has passed. We’re actually at a disadvantage, which brings me back to Edelweiss Island. Everyone will read an article that really, truly gets to the bottom of these stories about the no-divorce church. Demographic, gender, what pretty wedding dress is on the cover all goes out the window. Getting it will wipe The Man Land out. It will give us respect within the industry no matter how poor our sales are. It will give you major attention with your name on the by-line. Everyone from the head honcho at Hambridge to household-name tabloids want this story. And you are going to Edelweiss Island to get it.’

My stomach ties itself in an even bigger knot than it’s been in since I saw his angry face waiting for me when I got off the elevator this morning. ‘What exactly do you want me to do there?’

‘According to my friend from a newspaper who’s been trying to get the vicar to do a phone interview to no avail, the locals are quite a tight-lipped bunch. You’d think they’d be keen to push this story about the church of no-divorces, but apparently it’s the opposite. With a bit of luck, they’ll be more open to a writer from a bridal magazine than they would to a reporter from a tabloid newspaper. I want you to go there and find out what’s going on. Is the story true? Has the church really never had a marriage that ended in divorce? How do they know? What exactly are the numbers? If it’s true, it could be that they’ve only had two or three weddings there, which doesn’t make it a difficult record to keep. Or is it just a story designed to drum up tourism?’

‘Aw, it must be true. They wouldn’t make that up, would they?’

‘They would if they were selling something. Apparently they offer package deals, like a wedding and honeymoon in one, and according to the only review on TripAdvisor that has since been taken down, you can get your wedding dress and your cake and stuff like that on the island, and they do a discount for getting it all in one place.’

‘It sounds perfect,’ I say, smiling at the thought.

‘It sounds like a business that’s failing,’ he says with a frown. ‘And whoever’s running the joint has invented this story to dredge up customers and increase tourism. You go there and find out if the no-divorce thing is true or not – if it’s real then you can write a lovely story about how romantic it is and our readers will lap it up, and if it’s fake, you can write an exposé about this scam island and we’ll be the first press to reveal the truth about it.’

‘It must be real. They wouldn’t make up something like that. There are records, I bet it could be checked out easily enough.’

‘Do it, then. Check everything out. And for God’s sake, bring me something that the other reporters haven’t been able to find out. Something real. And don’t come back until you’ve got something, either. I want the article on my desk in four weeks. No extensions.’

‘It sounds wonderful to me. I can’t think of a nicer place to be banished to.’

Oliver rolls his eyes and I’m sure the look he gives me is one of pity. ‘Well, I can’t think of anything worse than a whole island of weddings. It sounds tragic. Apparently there are loads of desperate women trying to get married there now, couples travelling from all over the world, convinced the church will somehow stop their marriage ending in divorce. And you had better make this article a good one, Bonnie. At least R.C. Art makes people care. Whether they care because they agree with him or because they vehemently disagree, people respond to him. Write me something that people will respond to, enough people to make copies of our magazine fly off the shelves. Think of how good it will feel when you can say you’re solely responsible for putting R.C. Art out of a job.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ve blocked the prat now,’ I say. ‘Believe me, if I never see, hear, or think about R.C. Art ever again, it’ll be too soon.’

Chapter Two

When did everyone stop believing in love? That’s what I’m thinking about as I drive down to Lymington to catch the afternoon trip of the twice-daily boat to Edelweiss Island. Oliver, R.C. Art, and the thousands of people who follow him on Twitter and read his column every month, even the bloke at the petrol pump in front of me in the garage just now wearing a slogan T-shirt that said, ‘I’d give a toss, but my wife took them all in the divorce’.

Everywhere I go, people spout divorce statistics at me. Especially when they find out I work for a wedding magazine. No one ever says, ‘Oh, how lovely. Do you know how many people get married and live happily ever after these days?’ Instead it’s, ‘Urgh, I hate weddings. Do you know that fifty percent of all marriages end in divorce?’

Even my happily married colleagues spend half their days complaining about something or other their husband has done or moaning because they’ve got a wedding to go to that weekend. I love weddings. It’s so romantic to watch two people hopelessly in love, vowing to spend the rest of their lives with each other, come what may, and yet people always complain when they’re invited to one.

Maybe I’ve just answered my own questions about what I’m supposed to do on Edelweiss Island – make people believe in love again. That’s what my article will be about. If there’s really a church where no marriage has ever ended in divorce, that’s kind of magical, and maybe people need a touch of magic in their daily lives. If I can prove that their church is for real, not codswallop as Oliver and undoubtedly every other reporter thinks, then maybe people will read it and start believing in love again.

Sometimes I think the only people who still care are people in the industry, like the girls who work at Snowdrop Bridal Boutique near Marble Arch. They don’t think it’s stupid that I saw a wedding dress in their window and just knew it was the one. They thought it was romantic that I wanted to buy the dress when I’m not even dating anyone, let alone planning a wedding. I just knew the moment I saw it that it was the dress I’d get married in. They probably thought all their Christmases had come at once when I saw the price tag and realised it was the most expensive dress in the shop, but they were very kind to keep it for me after I’d put a deposit down and now I pay whatever I can afford monthly, and soon it will be mine. If approximately three hundred and seventy-four years counts as ‘soon’ anyway. I need a pay rise. And I suppose a groom would come in handy too.

I’m freezing as I stand at the side of the boat, looking at the horizon while mainland England disappears behind us. The spring sunshine was deceptively warm while I was packing, and my sad excuse for a coat is buried at the bottom of my suitcase. The biting wind is flapping my shirt around me and the bottom two buttons have ripped off with the force of it. Sea spray is splashing me in the face and my blonde hair is too short to stay up in a ponytail so I’m trying to clamp it down with the hand that’s not holding on to the boat railing. I should sit down, but firstly the blue sky on the horizon and the Isle of Wight in the distance as we bypass it are the kind of view that makes you want to look at it, and secondly, the single row of seating on this small boat is currently occupied by the only other passenger. He’s sitting with his arms folded on the back of the chairs and his body turned so his forehead is resting on them, groaning occasionally. I debate talking to him, but I vaguely remember hearing that talking can make seasickness worse so I don’t say anything. If I was feeling sick, the last thing I’d want is some random stranger asking me how sick I felt.

‘You’re freezing. You should put this on.’

I jump when the man lifts his head and speaks.

‘Oh, I’m fine.’ I try to pretend I wasn’t looking at him. ‘Thanks.’

‘Seriously. You’re shivering so much I can feel the deck vibrating, and I’m too hot to wear it. It’s just a coat, it won’t bite.’

It seems stupid to borrow a complete stranger’s coat, especially when I’ve got my own in my suitcase, but I keep thinking there’s no point rummaging through it when we can’t be far from the island.

‘You’ll have to come and get it though.’ He pats the coat screwed up in a ball on the seat beside him. ‘I don’t want to find out what might happen if I attempt moving.’

I go to protest but my teeth are chattering so much I can barely speak. I give in and walk over to the seats on the unsteady deck. ‘Thanks, that’s really kind,’ I say as I shake the coat out and slip my arms into it.

It’s warmed by the sun and I sigh in relief as my arms slide into the soft sleeves and wrap it around myself. He must be tall because it comes down to the knees on me and it’s heavy enough that it feels like wearing a rug, but it smells like a delicious mix of amber-y, spicy aftershave, and it warms me instantly.

‘No problem. Better you wear it than anything I’m likely to do to it in this state.’

‘Seasick?’

‘No, I just enjoy sitting on boats and groaning in my spare time.’

Despite the sarcasm, he grins up at me from the seats and I’m smiling back without even realising it.

He looks so ill, bless him. There’s sweat beading on his forehead in spite of the cold wind, and his skin is pale and mottled. I know he’d be clammy to the touch and I fight an urge to put my hand out and brush his dark blond hair back. ‘I’m sure we can’t be far from the island now.’

‘Can’t wait.’ He looks up at me with light eyes, somewhere between blue and grey, and a wide forehead that creases as he squints into the sunlight.

I think that remark was meant to be sarcastic too but the thought trails off and my breath catches in my throat at the sight of his lopsided smile.

I’m about to ask him why he’s going there when the boat jolts again and he groans, his hand going to cradle his stomach as he curls in on himself. His knuckles are white where one hand is still gripping the back of the seat and his skin goes even paler.

‘Is there anything you can take?’ I ask.

‘You have to prevent seasickness beforehand. It’s too late once you’re actually on the boat, and I didn’t know I was coming here until a couple of hours ago.’

‘Same.’

The boat rolls again and his cheeks take on the old cartoon cliché green tinge.

I bite my lip as I stand there, wanting to do something but unsure of how to help.

‘You don’t have to stay and watch.’ He waves a hand in the vague direction of where I was standing earlier. ‘Feeling like this is bad enough without a beautiful girl watching on.’

My cheeks flare red at his words, and I’m not sure if I’m embarrassed because he caught me watching him or because he called me beautiful. I can’t remember the last time someone called me beautiful… well, unless you count the builder up on scaffolding on my way to work last week, which I don’t. ‘Get yer tits out, beautiful’ is not quite the compliment most girls dream of.

‘Thanks for the coat loan,’ I say as I walk back over to the side of the boat, giving him as much privacy as I can on the small deck, and trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach.

I hold the coat closed around me. It’s the darkest shade of navy blue, soft suede on the outside and thick sherpa fleece on the inside. It’s much too big, but it feels nice. Maybe it feels even nicer now because its owner called me beautiful and because he was attentive enough to notice my shivering and kind enough to offer it.

I try to concentrate on the horizon but my attention is drawn to the seats behind me like there’s a magnet there. I keep looking over my shoulder to check on him. He’s hunched over and breathing heavily, still so pale that a ghost would look healthier, and I wish I knew of a way to make him feel better.

‘Do you know the cure for seasickness?’

‘I think I remember hearing something about ginger,’ I say as I look back at him, surprised because I didn’t think he was going to speak again.

His chin is resting on his folded arms and he’s looking at me over the back of the seat. ‘Go and lie on the grass.’

The laugh takes me by surprise as he flashes that smile again, and I can’t stop giggling as I look away, not sure if it’s because he’s funny or because the butterflies in my stomach have made me suddenly and inexplicably nervous. It’s been a long time since any man caused butterflies.

‘At least we know you’re feeling well enough to be cracking jokes,’ I say to the open water.

He laughs too and then groans. ‘Oh no. No laughing. Laughing’s bad.’

I glance at him again and when our eyes meet, my face breaks into a smile. ‘So what’s a guy who gets seasick doing on a boat to The Little Wedding Island then?’

‘Pissed my boss off,’ he says. ‘Punishment.’

‘Hah. We’re in the same boat.’ I glance down at my feet and realise we are actually in the same boat at exactly the same moment he starts laughing again.

‘Literally.’

‘No pun intended,’ I say as my cheeks burn red again even though I’m laughing too.

I go back to looking across the sea to take my mind off how much I want to keep looking at him. I sneak surreptitious glances in every time I can, taking in his sharp jawline and stubble much darker than his fair hair.

‘Oh, thank God – are we nearly there?’ he says, looking past me in the direction we’re heading.

Rising from the sea in front of us is an island. From this distance, it doesn’t look big enough to be the famous place that everyone’s talking about, but there’s a raised area in the middle surrounded by trees, the hint of a building through the branches, and what can only be a church spire showing above the treetops. ‘Looks like the place.’

‘Great. It sounds like a hellhole but land is land at this point.’

I look at him, wondering why he thinks it sounds like a hellhole, but he’s smiling again and I think he must be joking.

‘Well,’ he says. ‘All I can say is that I sincerely hope you’ll be on the same return journey as me. You’ve taken my mind off it. Actually, this is probably the best boat ride I’ve ever been on.’

It makes me laugh again, simultaneously embarrassed and enjoying the easy compliments. ‘I don’t spend a lot of time on boats but this is probably the best one I’ve ever been on too. If you don’t find your sea legs, maybe you’ll just have to stay on the island.’ I don’t add that I’d maybe really like him to be staying there. He’s got a big holdall bag with him, the kind that looks too big for a day trip, and hope fizzes inside me that I might get to see him again. Hopefully when he’s not feeling quite so ill.

‘Oh, hell no. I’d rather ask a piranha to give me a pedicure than stay there any longer than absolutely necessary.’

‘I think it sounds lovely.’

He looks at me with a dark eyebrow raised and even with his green-tinged pale skin, he still makes the look so incredulous that I find myself giggling nervously again. Why do so many people seem to have a problem with this place? I can’t wait to get there and see the church. I bet it just oozes romance. I’m looking forward to starting my article and proving Oliver wrong. When it’s published, maybe I’ll even send a link to that R.C. Art twat just to show him that love does still exist.

As we get near the island, the boat pulls up to a concrete jetty and one of the crew moors it. ‘Low tide, bit of a climb, I’m afraid,’ he tells us.

There are metal rungs set into the concrete side of the structure, and the deckhand bounces up them and holds his hands out for my suitcase. I hand it off to him and look behind me.

Seasick Man is still on the seats and making no move to get off the boat. Now he’s bent over with his head between his knees. I can’t just leave him there.

I go back over to him. ‘Can I take your bag?’

‘Out of context, you could be the politest mugger I’ve ever met,’ he mumbles, muffled because his head is still between his knees.

‘Well, I’ve already got your coat, so I may as well have your bag too.’

‘Just when you think chivalry is dead, a lady comes along and offers to carry your bags for you.’

It makes me grin, but I pick up his bag and heft it over my shoulder without waiting for a reply.

He groans again and pitches himself to his feet, staggering upright and clinging on to the back of the seats for support. ‘I’ll make it up to you. I’ll hold a door open or pull out a chair or something.’

‘Ah, but we’re in the new millennium now. There’s a rumour going around that women are quite capable of opening doors and seating themselves.’

His laugh gives way to a groan. ‘You’ve got to stop making me laugh. It’s no good for those of us who are about three seconds away from a full-on Exorcist-style pea soup scene.’

I laugh even though the mental image is not a good one.

I carry his bag across the deck and hand that up to the waiting deckhand too, secretly glad that it’s heavy enough to suggest he’ll be staying a few days. I watch him make his way gingerly towards the ladder onto the jetty, swaying unsteadily and grabbing on to anything in his path for support. The boat is bobbing on the waves, and while I find the movement quite soothing, he obviously doesn’t.

The captain of the boat stands and gives us a salute as we disembark. I clamber onto the first of three ladder rungs and at the top, the jetty is bathed in spring sunshine, and there’s a man waiting to board the boat we’re getting off.

When Seasick Man makes it to the top of the ladder, he doesn’t look like he’s feeling any better. I reach out to offer him a hand up and he takes it. His hand is cold and his skin is clammy but his touch makes goose bumps rise across my arms where they’re still snuggled in his coat sleeves, and it’s not just because of the coldness.

‘Thank you,’ he mumbles, using his grip on my hand to haul himself onto the jetty. He dizzily stumbles into me and I put my other hand on his arm to steady him.

‘Enjoy your stay!’ The deckhand of the boat says, saluting us both and jumping back down to the deck.

The man waiting to board lowers his bag to him and turns to go down the ladder, but he stops and looks at us. ‘You’re not reporters, are you?’

I go to say something but he barrels on without letting me speak.

‘If you are, you may as well give up and go home now. The locals here are barmy. You’d think they’d want publicity, the idiots. If you’re here for a story, save yourselves the trouble and the overpriced stay in that crappy little guesthouse and get back on the boat. You’ll get a better story out of the dead jellyfish on the beach. That vicar’s about as open as a clamshell having a colonoscopy!’

As he stomps angrily across the deck of the boat and the engine starts up, Seasick Man seems to realise he’s still holding my hand because he lets go abruptly and sinks down to sit on the little wall built around the opposite side of the jetty.

‘How would a clamshell have a colonoscopy?’ he says like he’s seriously considering the question.

It makes me burst out laughing again. ‘I wouldn’t like to imagine,’ I say as I watch the boat with the angry man on it disappearing into the distance. He certainly had a bee in his bonnet about something. Maybe this is what Oliver was saying about reporters not getting anywhere when they came here. Surely the locals will be okay with talking to me? It’s not like I’m a tabloid reporter, I just write about weddings for a bridal magazine.

Seasick Man drops his head into his hands and exhales slowly.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask, even though he’s clearly not.

‘Yeah, thanks,’ he says without looking up. ‘That was just a bad boat trip. I’m sorry you had to see that.’

I wave a hand dismissively even though he’s not looking at me. ‘It’s fine. At least you didn’t puke on me, which is an improvement on another date I’ve been on.’ I blush bright red as I realise what I’ve said. ‘I mean, not that that was a date, obviously…’

He looks up, squinting at me in the sunshine. ‘You’re just trying to make me feel better.’

‘Nope, I honestly went on a date with a guy who turned up so drunk that he threw up on the pavement as he arrived, which splashed my shoes, and they were new, and he promised to pay to get them cleaned, and I never heard from him again.’

‘The bastard,’ he says, grinning.

‘Right?’ My face is actually aching from how widely I’m smiling at him.

‘So you have a history of making men feel ill then?’

‘Maybe I’m just doomed to meet guys with weak stomachs.’

‘Oi! I don’t have a weak stomach, I just don’t get on very well with boats. Generally I avoid them at all costs, but I couldn’t get out of this trip and I didn’t have time to prepare myself.’

I press the toes of my shoes alternately against the concrete. I should go – I know that. Now is the time to say it was nice to have met him and leave him in peace when he’s obviously still feeling like death warmed up, but I can’t make the words come out of my mouth.

‘You don’t have to stay with the pathetic seasick loser, you know.’ He squints up at me again with a gentle smile. ‘I’m just gonna sit here until I feel marginally less like I’m going to die.’

‘I still have your coat,’ I say, even though I could easily take it off and leave it with him.

‘Well, considering that was the last boat out today so we’re obviously both staying the night, and I’m told there’s only one B&B on the island, I don’t think you’ll have much trouble finding me to give it back.’

I know. That’s the problem. I don’t have an excuse to stay with him, but I don’t want to walk away yet. Butterfly wings are beating inside me and my heart is hammering in my chest. I can still feel the imprint of his hand around mine and the smell of his aftershave on his coat is making me decidedly light-headed.

I sweep his coat under my legs and sit down beside him on the wall. ‘Actually, you still seem really unsteady on your feet. I’d never forgive myself if you toppled over a cliff or something. This island seems really cliff-y.’

‘Cliff-y?’ He says with a snort. ‘That’s what my mum calls Cliff Richard when she listens to his music. When all the neighbourhood dogs start yowling, she sticks her head out the window and screams, “Calm down, it’s only Cliff-y!”’

I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much at someone, especially someone I’ve only known for half an hour.

When I’ve wiped away tears of laughter and composed myself enough to look up, he’s smiling at me, a wide smile that makes crow’s feet crinkle the corners of his eyes and I have an overwhelming desire to run my fingers across them. He’s funny and he loves his mum. Is he literally the perfect man? His only flaw so far seems to be seasickness, which is really, really far down the list of things you don’t want in a man.

And I happen to have noticed that he’s not wearing a wedding ring. Of course, you can guarantee he’s got a girlfriend, but for one delicious moment, hope lives inside me.

‘I’m Seasick Rohan, by the way.’

‘People don’t really call you that, do they?’

‘They probably would if I went on more boats.’ He chuckles and holds his hand out for me to shake. ‘Generally just Rohan will do. And that is by far the worst first impression I’ve ever made. I’m really sorry.’

‘You don’t have to apologise for being ill,’ I say. ‘And like I said, I once had a guy throw up on my shoes before he’d even introduced himself, so you’re way above the worst of first impressions with me.’

He smiles like he’s trying not to smile and I’m still shaking his hand even though it clearly doesn’t need any more shaking.

‘I’m Bonnie.’

‘Oh, how weird. You’re the second Bonnie I’ve come across this week, and the first one was nowhere near as nice as you.’

I blush at the once again effortless compliment. Does he really mean them or is he just trying to be charming and/or get in my knickers? Or am I becoming as cynical as Oliver and R.C. Art? Can’t a guy just be nice these days?

His hand squeezes mine gently and I’m not sure if he’s just squeezing it or politely telling me to let go. I extract my fingers from his anyway. It’s gone way beyond a handshake now, but goose bumps tingle up my arm again. It’s just how cold his hand is, I tell myself. Nothing more. And goose bumps are pointless anyway – no way is a gorgeous, hilarious, mum-loving, thirty-something guy really going to be single or interested in me.

Instead of concentrating on how much I like sitting close to him, I turn away and look at the island instead. There’s not a lot to see from here. Judging by the endless stone steps leading up from the jetty, we’re on the lowest part of the island, and the rest of it towers above us on jagged cliff edges. There’s greenery up top, trees and plants, and there’s definitely a church on a hill, grey bricks showing through the leaves when the wind blows in the right direction.

‘So you’ve heard about this church then…’ I venture.

‘Yeah,’ he says.

I’m waiting for him to say ‘my fiancée wants to get married there’ or something – that would be just my luck. There aren’t many men who are gorgeous, kind, funny, and still single left in the world. Maybe if there were, I’d have had better luck in finding a Prince Charming to go with my dream wedding dress.

His eyes are on the building on the hills above us. ‘Looks like they’ve made it into a shrine. It’s got to be a joke, right? I mean, look at that. Even from down here, you can tell they’ve done everything they can to make it seem like some kind of sacred temple or something.’

‘Who?’

‘Whoever stands to make the most money out of it.’ He shrugs. ‘Probably all of them. My boss said you can buy wedding dresses and cakes and stuff here, so every business owner on this island benefits from people getting married there.’

‘That’s very cynical.’

‘I’m sorry, I think I misheard – did you say realistic?’

I frown at him and he grins. ‘I just think it’s so contrived. We’ve been here for five minutes and I can already guarantee that those weeping willow trees are planted to hide it in plain sight. I bet it’s surrounded by flowers and there’s probably a sickeningly romantic little archway made of roses, so every sucker who comes here falls for the “oh, come and get married in our exclusive magical church” spiel. We promise your marriage will never end in divorce, and if it does, the boat ride over here is so choppy that it’s not like you’d want to come back and complain, is it?’

I don’t know whether he’s being funny or sarcastic or is just feeling ill. ‘Don’t you think it’s sweet? I’d love to get married in a place like this. Even if it is just a story, I still think it’s romantic.’

‘There’s no such thing as romance. There are people who profit from romance and there are guys who want sex. Couple those things and you’ve got a booming industry that thrives on telling women what they want and making men feel inadequate.’

‘Maybe at the beginning of a relationship, but not when it comes to weddings. Weddings are a commitment to spend your life with each other, for better or worse.’

‘Hah. Weddings are a commitment to spend a fortune and spend the rest of your life making each other miserable.’

I frown at him again. ‘That’s horrible. That’s not—’

He drops his head into his hands and groans. ‘Sorry. I could’ve held back a bit there. You’ll have to forgive me, my head’s pounding and the world’s spinning, and I think several donkeys have had a kick at my stomach. I don’t usually get quite that ranty with complete strangers. I just hate weddings.’

Another one. How many people can you find in one week who hate weddings? ‘You’re not here to get married then?’

He laughs, a bitter sharp sound. ‘Oh, trust me, marriage is not something I’ll be subjecting myself to, ever.’

Even though I don’t agree with his cynicism, and if we were having this conversation anywhere else, I’d have got up and walked away by now, I still don’t want to get up off this wall. This is the kind of conversation that crabby old men corner you with at weddings. They tell you to write about how much their wife got in the divorce or how much their solicitor charged.

It’s probably just how sick he feels. Everyone’s a bit harsh when they feel rubbish, and he’s still as pale as a freshly bleached bedsheet and I still want to put my hand on his forehead and see if he feels as hot as he looks. In temperature and sexiness.

There’s a couple walking hand in hand along the sandy beach to our right, and they look at us for a moment before waving.

I give them a wave back and my brightest grin. Rohan gives them a tight smile. ‘Thought we were being watched,’ he says through gritted teeth.

‘Oh, they’re just out for a walk, bless them.’

‘You didn’t spot them hiding behind one of the rocks just now then?’

‘No.’ I look at him in surprise. ‘I doubt they were hiding. They were probably looking at rock pools or something. Or the dead jellyfish that angry man mentioned.’

He laughs. ‘They have binoculars.’

‘So they’re bird-watching. They probably think we’re sitting here waiting for the boat and wondering if they should tell us it’s already left.’

‘Oh, I think this is the kind of island where the locals know exactly who is on it and exactly what they’re doing at all times. I’m sure they’re well aware that we’ve only just arrived.’

‘Well, I think you’re a cynical old grump.’

He starts laughing. ‘I’ll take the cynical grump bit but I’m thirty-six, you don’t get to call me old yet!’

I laugh too, my shoulder pressing against his, heat spreading outwards from the point of contact, another little shiver going through me. He’s only two years older than me. Could he get any more perfect?

‘Are you feeling any better?’ I ask when I realise that it’s probably weird to just sit here leaning against him.

‘Yeah, I am actually. I think talking to you should officially be classed as a cure for seasickness.’

‘And I think you should get a refund on your lessons at charm school,’ I say, even though I’m pretty sure Dulux do paint in the same shade of red as my cheeks.

‘Not being charming, just being honest,’ he says as I get to my feet. ‘Besides, I can imagine how much of a state I look at the moment. I think I’d have to try a bit harder than that to charm the socks off you.’

‘When it comes to most guys being charming, socks are not the item of clothing they want to charm off.’

‘Well, you can rest assured that I’m not interested in charming anything off you, including but not limited to socks, and I think it’s safe to say that the charm is gone when I’ve spent the afternoon retching into a bag in front of you.’

I grin at him and step back to give him space to get up. Honestly, the charm is far from gone.

He moves slowly to his feet but he’s swaying on the spot. He takes one step and wobbles, and my hand instantly goes to his arm to steady him. Both his hands lock around my arm and his eyes close. I stay silent as he stands still, clinging on to me as he gets his bearings.

‘You okay?’

‘Mm.’ He takes shallow, short breaths, and I can’t help looking at him. He’s tall and solid, and his hands on my arm are strong. His dark blond hair was probably neatly styled earlier but now it’s blown out in every direction and he probably thinks it looks a mess, but it looks ridiculously sexy.

‘Sorry, bad vertigo. Maybe I was overly optimistic about that cure.’

I can’t help smiling again. ‘Thought you might be.’

His blue eyes open and lock onto mine. ‘Nah. I still maintain this is the best boat trip I’ve ever had.’

‘So is this normal?’

‘Yeah. And you don’t have to look so worried. I’m fine, it’s just that motion sickness doesn’t disappear the minute you get off the boat, you need time to adjust. A good night’s sleep and I’ll be fine. Then I can die of humiliation for embarrassing myself in front of you instead of feeling like I’m going to puke until I die from disembowelment.’

‘What a lovely mental image.’

He beams at me. ‘And you say I don’t know how to charm a girl.’

When he lets go of my arm, I slip the strap of his bag over my shoulder and grab the handle of my own suitcase too.

‘You don’t have to—’

‘It’s no problem,’ I say, cutting him off. ‘Those steps look pretty steep and you don’t look like all your internal organs are in their right places yet. I’ll take your bag, you worry about getting yourself to the top.’

He looks like he wants to protest but I start up the steps without giving him a chance. The luggage is heavy enough that it’d probably overbalance him and he doesn’t look like he needs any more trouble with his balance today.

When I look back to make sure he’s following, he’s bent over with his hands on the step above him and his head down, and the urge to take care of him returns with a vengeance. I go back and hold my hand out. ‘Can I pull you up?’

His cheeks are flushed when he looks up and starts to protest again but I cut him off again. ‘Look, if you fall down these steps and break a leg, you’re not going to feel any better, are you?’

He pushes himself upright with a groan. ‘Just you wait – if you’re staying on this island too, you will never need to pull a chair out or open a door for the duration of your stay, I promise.’

The butterflies in my stomach get a bit overexcited at the implication that I’m going to see him again. That we might need to sit near each other or go through doors together.

The space where our palms touch is almost burning as he slides his hand into mine and lets me haul him up a step at a time, and I’m glad I’ve still got his coat on so he can’t see the nervous sweat I’ve broken out in because I can’t remember the last time my stomach felt this fluttery.

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