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After she leaves, I pull my trainers on.

“It was nice doing it in the garden, wasn’t it?” Emily comments.

“Aye.”

“Of course, the weather in Scotland wouldn’t always allow for doing it outside. If only you had, say, a function room—somewhere spacious, light, and with beautiful views of the garden. Somewhere like that would be perfect for so many things.”

I meet her teasing gaze with a stony-faced expression. “Oi, we agreed to put aside talk of renovations for the rest of the day.”

“You’re right, we did. Sorry. Besides, now you and I finally have some time to ourselves, there’s something I’ve been wanting to do with you since I woke up.”

“Aye?”

“Aye,” she replies, adopting that silly impersonation of a Scottish accent again. She gazes about her, making sure we’re not being watched, then says, “It involves this thing.” She reaches out and squeezes my cock through my shorts. “I still can’t believe you didn’t show it to me this morning when I asked you to!”

Fuck, this woman.

Into her ear, I whisper, “I’m taking you upstairs right now. The yoga was good, but I know an even better way of dealing with tension. I’m going to fuck you so damn hard.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

EMILY

Last night, the sight of me in my yoga outfit did something to Ally. In the bedroom, he was a man on a mission. The sex was mind-blowing.

After we were intimate, though, what made me even happier was the way he held me in his arms for the rest of the night. When I woke up, I was still in his embrace. He kissed me tenderly before getting up and returning to his own room to get ready for the day, skipping his usual morning jog. To be fair, last night’s lovemaking was rather . . . energetic. Maybe it was all the exercise he needed.

I get up and shower, feeling good about myself—really good. It’s almost obscene to be this happy first thing, but I can’t help it. Sharing a bed with Ally at night and spending time with him during the day . . . it feels right. I know I had a momentary panic yesterday, when Ally freaked out about the new mattresses, but that was just a blip.

Yes, this is happening very soon after things ended between me and Harry, but that doesn’t mean this can’t work. You can’t predict when the right man will come along, and I won’t ruin my shot with Ally just because of what happened with my ex.

I dry off and get dressed. As I’m doing my skincare routine, I check my phone and spot three new emails. They’re to my personal account—I’ve silenced all work notifications—but from the subject lines, I can tell they’re not personal. They’re from clients.

This gives me pause.

Before the wedding that never was, I made sure all my clients knew I’d be out of contact for a month. I’d be going on my honeymoon, the holiday of a lifetime. Of course, there was a major change of plan—Harry jilted me—but I still took the time off, coming here to Bannock instead. I’ve not spoken to any of my clients since, so as far as they’re concerned, right now I’m a married woman relaxing abroad with my husband.

I worked hard to ensure there would be no emergencies while I was away, but just in case, I gave each of my clients my personal email, although I hoped none of them would need to use it. Never did I expect three of them would get in touch on the same day. Something has obviously happened to prompt this, but what?

I open the first email. It’s short and blunt, informing me that the couple no longer require my services. No reason is given.

Dread gnaws at my stomach. I pride myself on the care and attention I offer my clients. Over the course of my career, I can count on my fingers the number of couples who’ve terminated their contract with me. The most common reason for termination, accounting for all but two of my ex-clients? The couple separating. If the wedding isn’t going ahead, then you’ve no need for a wedding planner. Those cancellations were no reflection on me.

Is that what’s happened here? Have this couple parted ways? It’s impossible to tell from the email—it’s only a few lines long—but the way it’s signed from both the bride-to-be and the groom-to-be makes me doubt that’s what’s behind this.

I move on to the next message. It’s from a client asking me to contact her urgently. This particular client, however, isn’t getting married for over a year—not until next July—so I can’t imagine what the emergency could be. Had I received this email in isolation, I might have wondered if the venue had fallen through. But in combination with the other email? Something else is at play here, I’m sure of it.

The last message is from a client who’s a B-list celebrity, and she too is terminating my services. She, at least, is less blunt than the first couple—apologetic, even. She’s sorry to hear about what happened to me, but as she works in the public eye, she thinks it’d be prudent to end our working relationship. She wouldn’t want the gossip magazines to learn her big day is being organised by “the jilted wedding planner”, and she assumes I want to avoid further articles too.

I let out a soft, involuntary moan. So that’s it. I invited a journalist to cover my wedding, thinking it might be a bit of free publicity for my business. Instead, she’s gone and written an article about how I was jilted, which is the kind of unwanted attention that could ruin my career.

Part of me wants to look up the article to see what’s been said about me, while another part thinks it’d be better to go through the rest of my life in blissful ignorance. In the end, my curiosity wins. I need to know, even though I’m not sure I’ve got the emotional strength for this.

On my phone, I open my browser and visit the magazine’s website. I soon find the article about me. When it loads, the first thing I see is a photo of me in my wedding dress, my phone to my ear—the same phone I’m now staring at. The picture captures the very moment Harry told me he couldn’t go through with the wedding, and my expression says everything. The scene has been recorded for posterity, published in full colour on the website of a popular magazine.

There are two other photos: one of me taken before the news, in which I still have an excited smile, then another taken from behind, of me racing through a crowd of surprised people in central London, Grace hurrying after me. I hadn’t even realised the photographer followed us out of the hotel.

My hands are shaking now, which makes it hard to focus on the phone, but I need to know what’s been said about me. So, taking a deep breath, I read the article.