could organise with his eyes closed while he whisked a chocolate soufflé.
For once in his life he didn’t need a list.
‘Yes.’ She reached down beside her to where she’d dumped the silver leather bag she’d been swinging when she walked over and pulled out a dazzling chartreuse folder. She removed some paper, peeled off two pages and held them out to him. ‘Your copy. I’m actually not really into lists,’ she confessed—surprise, surprise. ‘So it may need some work.’
He looked at the first page. At the big, bold heading: The Marriage Celebration of Jonathan and Caleb, October 20th.
Seeing the words was like a punch to the solar plexus. It was real. Happening. Imminent. His baby brother was getting married.
What were the odds? Two Aussie guys who’d never met in their own country moved separately to New York, met at a random party, and—bang!—happy-ever-after.
It didn’t matter that Leo didn’t know Jonathan, because Jonathan made Caleb happy. It didn’t matter that the ceremony was taking place on the other side of the world, because the place was just logistics. It didn’t matter that their marriage was only going to be legally recognised in a handful of countries, because they knew what it meant wherever they were.
Leo wondered if he would have had more luck meeting the love of his life if he were gay. Because it sure wasn’t happening for him on his side of the sexuality fence. The succession of glossy glamour-pusses who seemed to be the only women that came his way were certainly lovely to look at—but they didn’t eat, and they didn’t occupy his thoughts for longer than it took to produce a mutual orgasm.
He wanted what Caleb had. The one. Someone to get into his head, under his skin, to intrigue and dazzle and delight him. Someone who burrowed into his core instead of bouncing off his shell. Someone to belong to. And to belong to him.
He thought back to his last failure—beautiful, talented singing sensation Natalie Clarke. She’d told him on their second date that she loved him. But nobody fell in love in two dates! Nope—what she’d loved was the concept of Leo the celebrity chef. She’d wanted them to be part of ‘the scene’. And who said ‘the scene’ with a straight face? He couldn’t think of anything worse than ‘the scene’...except maybe her predilection for snorting cocaine, because apparently everyone on ‘the scene’ did it.
In any case, she was a relentless salad-with-dressing-on-the-side type. And she liked playing her own cheesy love songs in the bedroom way too much.
With a repressed shudder he brought his mind back to the present and ran his eyes down the list.
Budget
Wedding Party
Master of Ceremonies
Venue
Menu
Alcohol
Guest List
Invitations
Flowers
Lighting
Music
Cake
Clothing
Shoes
Hair and Make-up
What the hell...? Why did that need a subheading?
Gift Registry
Photographer
Videographer
Wedding Favours
Order of Proceedings
Toasts and Speeches
Printing
Seating Plan
Each item was bullet-pointed with a little box that could be ticked, and accompanied by questions, comments and suggestions.
Good thing she wasn’t into lists!
Sunshine must have noticed the stunned look on Leo’s face, because she asked, ‘Have I screwed it up?’
‘This is...’ he started, but words actually failed him.
‘Exciting?’ Sunshine suggested, looking as if she were about to celebrate Christmas, her birthday and the wedding all at once.
‘Comprehensive,’ Leo corrected. He ran a hand across his scalp. Her eyes followed his hand. She was frowning suddenly. He wondered what was going through her mind.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it. Closed it. Sighed.
Then, ‘So!’ she said. ‘The venue is the first thing. Because it’s bound to be tricky, securing somewhere wonderful with only two months’ notice.’
‘It may have escaped your notice, but I am a restaurateur,’ Leo said. ‘I have venues. I am venues. And menus. And booze.’
Sunshine seemed startled. ‘Oh. I just assumed we’d be too late to get a large group booked into one of your places. That’s why I’ve suggested somewhere like the hotel on—’
‘My brother is not celebrating his marriage in a hotel.’
‘Okay. Well, there’s that lovely place that used to be a stately home in—’
‘Or in an old house.’
‘Then perhaps the new convention space—which is not as tragic as it sounds. In fact it has a—’
He slammed his hand on the table. ‘No!’ He stopped, reined in the spurt of annoyance. ‘No.’ Better. Calmer. ‘We have a perfectly...’ Reaching, reaching... ‘Perfectly perfect...’ hmm, thesaurus required ‘...private room in this restaurant.’
The only sign that Sunshine had noted his ill-tempered hand-banging incoherence was a tiny twitch at one side of her mouth. He feared—he really feared—she was trying not to laugh.
‘Which seats...?’ she asked, her head on one side like a bird, with every indication of deep interest.
‘Seats?’
‘How many people does the private room seat?’
‘Twenty-five.’
Sunshine crossed her arms—seemingly unaware of how she was framing her rather spectacular breasts—and looked at him, apologetic. ‘See? Me and lists! I got the order wrong. “Guest List” should have come before “Venue”. So! Let’s take a step back. I have Jon’s invitation list. Do you have Caleb’s?’
‘It’s coming today some time.’
‘Because there are seventy-five people on our side.’
He stared. ‘You are not serious.’
