‘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.

Chapter Three

The island laid out in front of us is smaller than it looked from the sea. To our right is the hill with the church on it, but even from here, it’s still disguised by trees. The rest of the land is made up of wide tarmac paths between masses of greenery with low-growing white flowers blooming on tall stems. There are gorgeous little cottages dotted around, a row of shops near the base of the hill to the church, and that’s about it. The paths snake right across the island, running between each cottage and to the edges of the cliff where you can probably get down to the beach, like a higgledy-piggledy picturesque postcard.

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘It’s a tourist trap,’ Rohan says. ‘But, admittedly, I’ve seen uglier tourist traps.’

In front of us, there’s a rickety signpost with two arrows on it: ‘weddings’ to the right, and ‘accommodation’ to the left.

Rohan peers at it. ‘I don’t know how we’d have found our way around without that.’

There’s a woman pottering around in the garden of the nearest cottage and she waves at us. ‘Welcome to The Little Wedding Island!’ she calls over. ‘The B&B’s that way.’

‘Thanks!’ I shout.

‘How does she know we want the B&B?’ he hisses in my ear. ‘See, I told you they’re watching us.’

I try not to think about the shiver his mouth at my ear sends down my spine. ‘We’re obviously tourists and we’ve obviously just got off the boat. What else are we going to want?’

He mutters something unintelligible.

‘What was that? Yes, Bonnie, you’re quite right or something along those lines?’

He grunts but I know he’s joking.

The B&B isn’t far from where we’re standing, down a narrow path between the white-flowered plants. It’s much bigger than the cottages in this part of the island. There’s a wooden sign at the front that says ‘Edelweiss Island Bed and Breakfast’, and it has three storeys and multiple windows looking down at us. It makes me wonder how busy they get during wedding season. What if a bridal party of fifty guests turn up? Will they all fit in the one B&B? Or do people have to stay on the mainland and only travel out to the wedding?

I tried to do some research before I left the office, but no one seems to have any figures on how many weddings are actually held here. We know they offer one-stop wedding packages but no one seems to know what’s included. There was nothing online about the island, no contact number, no booking form, no pictures, no price brochures or comments from visitors. If they’ve invented the story of no divorces to drum up business, it seems an odd way to go about it. How can you drum up business for a place that doesn’t want to be found?

When we reach the door, Rohan darts in front of me and wraps his hand around the door handle. ‘Told you I’d open a door for you,’ he says with a wink.

I can’t help smiling at him as he holds it open and lets me go through.

‘Helloooo, my dears!’ a woman cries, making me jump. ‘Oh, what a chivalrous gentleman!’

Rohan nudges my shoulder as he closes the door behind us both. ‘See? I can be a chivalrous gentleman when you’re not carrying my luggage for me.’

The woman jumps up from the table she’s sitting at, and I get the feeling she was waiting for us. Maybe he’s right. Maybe they are all watching us.

‘What a lovely couple you are,’ she squeals, clasping her hands together and holding them to her chest.

‘Oh, we’re not a couple,’ I say in surprise. ‘We just met on the boat.’

She peers at us. ‘Are you sure?’

What an odd question.

‘Quite sure. Do you not think I’d know if I was dating someone this lovely?’ Even though Rohan’s tone is sarcastic, he says it with a smile and the woman fans a hand in front of her face.

‘You carry on like that and you won’t be the only one needing a barf bag,’ I mutter to him, even though something inside me has turned to goo.

‘I’m Clara,’ the woman says, coming over to give our hands a vigorous shake. ‘Welcome to The Little Wedding Island. I’m the owner of the B&B. I’ll be here for anything you need. Now, do come over here and let me get you checked in.’

We both follow her back to the table she was sitting at, and I get the impression it’s a makeshift reception desk, and all manner of diaries and appointment books are lying open and strewn across it. It doesn’t look very private… In fact, it looks like it might be a great way to get some figures for Oliver… Not that I want to go snooping. No, I’ll just ask her outright. I’m sure she’ll be all too happy to tell me how popular the place is.

‘May I enquire about the purpose of your visit?’ she says cheerily. ‘You’re not reporters, are you? We’ve had an influx of them coming in lately. I don’t know what they expect to find here, but they’re all sent swiftly on their way.’

Rohan hesitates for just a second too long. ‘No, we’re not reporters.’

I can feel his eyes on me and I give him a sideways glance. ‘No, definitely not reporters.’

I don’t like lying to this woman, but there’s a tone of anger in her voice and I get the feeling she’d kick me straight out if I told her the truth. I mean, it’s not a huge lie. When people say reporters, they generally mean tabloids. I’m on their side here. I work for a magazine whose readers are their target audience. I’ll talk to her privately sometime and explain the truth. ‘We’re just tourists.’

‘Oh good.’ She nearly blinds us with a beaming smile. ‘I apologise for asking but I’ve had it up to here with reporter types telling me how much they can help me and how I should want to appeal to their audience to grow my business.’

I gulp.

‘There, now that’s settled, we can get you checked in,’ she says as she scribbles some notes and turns to Rohan.

‘Ladies first.’ He gestures to me, and backs away with a nod to Clara and a smile that could make chocolate spontaneously start melting.

Past the makeshift reception desk is a corridor that leads to a kitchen, judging by the glorious smell emanating from it, and the walls of the corridor are lined with plaques bearing quotes in swirling calligraphy. I watch Rohan as he wanders off, peering at each one.

‘Miss…’ Clara says, starting to fill out a form. She gives me a knowing smile when she sees where my attention has gone and I blush for no reason.

‘Haskett,’ I say. ‘Bonnie. Just Bonnie is fine.’

‘And how long will you be staying?’

‘Er…’ I stumble into an awkward pause. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t planned it out. I just thought—’

‘An open-ended stay,’ she says. ‘No problem. We see it all the time. People feel drawn to the island and catch the boat without making any further plans. You’re welcome for as long as you want to stay.’

I’m half-touched and half-amused by this odd attitude. In fact, I was wondering if they’d have space for me considering this trip wasn’t booked in advance. ‘Are you not busy?’

‘Not this early in the spring, dear. We’re fully booked at the height of wedding season in the summer, but you and your lovely gentleman friend are early enough to be our only guests for now. We’ve got a bridal party coming in next week so we might have to shimmy the rooms around then, but not to worry, we’ll make it work.’

‘I might start getting big-headed if I hear myself being called a gentleman any more, Clara,’ Rohan says, his footsteps echoing on the wooden floorboards as he comes back into the reception area.

She fans a hand in front of her face, her brown curls bobbing up and down. ‘Ooh, if I was thirty years younger and unmarried, I’d call you far better than that! Can I take your name, please?’

‘Rohan Carter.’

Rohan Carter. Even his name is sexy.

‘And are you booking in for an open-ended stay as well, Mr Carter?’

He looks at me and my knees go weak at the intensity in his light eyes. ‘I think I’d like that,’ he says without dropping his gaze, and I try to focus on staying upright. You read about knees going weak at just a glance in romance books, but it’s never, ever happened to me in real life before.

‘Lovely. I’ll put you in room six, Bonnie, and you’re in room seven, Mr Carter, both on the third floor. The bridal suite and the honeymoon suite are our only other bedrooms on that floor and both are unoccupied until next week so you’ll have plenty of privacy and the best views on the island, apart from at the church, and you aren’t going to see them from there unless you’re getting married!’

She chortles as she picks up the keys and bustles past us.

A little seed of dread starts growing in my stomach, the kind of seed that grows into a big plant known as ‘You’re going to be personally responsible for the entire staff losing their jobs and the end of Two Gold Rings magazine after more than two decades’. I try to stamp it down. Surely they’ll understand that an article in Two Gold Rings will be good for them? They’re wedding people and I’m a wedding person. They’ll be keen to reveal their secrets to me. Surely they will.

We follow Clara up two flights of stairs that are covered by blue and pink floral carpet that looks like it’s recently escaped from the Seventies, until she stops on a landing with clashing orange and pink flowery carpeting that looks like it lived through the Sixties – the Eighteen-Sixties. She hands us a key each. ‘Here we go, dears, rooms six and seven. Now, you must allow me to invite you both for dinner tonight. As you’re my only guests, it would be an honour to welcome you to our little island in the best way I know how. Do say you’ll join me at eight o’clock this evening?’

I look over at Rohan, who still looks pale and like his stomach is turning at the mere thought of food. He manages to put on a smile for Clara. ‘I’m in if Bonnie’s in.’

‘How could we refuse such a kind offer?’ I say to her. ‘Thanks, we’ll be there.’

She pats me on the arm. ‘Rightio. I’m downstairs if you need me. You can just yell and I’ll come running as fast as my arthritic hip will carry me. I’ll leave you two to get settled in.’ She waggles her eyebrows as she leaves, and I wonder what and why she thinks there’s anything going on between us, and what exactly ‘settling in’ is supposed to be an innuendo for.

‘Well, I suppose we should…’ I wave the key towards the door of my room.

‘Yeah. I can’t wait to see what the rooms are like. If I didn’t already have a headache, this carpeting would’ve given me one.’

I unlock the door of room six and push it open, trying to think about something other than Rohan next to me, turning the key in his lock.

Inside, the room is small. There’s a dark brown plain carpet, a double bed, and a wardrobe and dressing table. All of them look like they’ve been here for a century too long. There are vases of artificial flowers and bowls of potpourri on every available surface, ornaments of children playing and dead-eyed animals, and framed pictures of couples kissing hung on the walls all round the room.

I dump my bag on the bed and before I have a chance to get any further, there’s a knock on the open door and Rohan’s standing in the doorway.

‘So, is this “charmingly romantic” or just an old lady who hasn’t found the way to the tip yet with all her junk?’

I can’t help snorting at him. ‘Aw, she’s got to put her own stamp on the place, bless her. It’s cute and kitschy.’

‘There are people on the mainland who’d pay a fortune for this stuff.’

‘Antiques dealers?’

‘Scrap disposal merchants.’

It makes me laugh again and he backs out onto the landing and beckons me over with his finger. ‘Look at that,’ he says when I join him on the landing. He’s pointing to another door with a little metal sign on it that says ‘bridal suite’, and then his finger moves towards a staircase in the corner with a sign that says ‘honeymoon suite’.

‘I’d love to see what counts as a honeymoon suite in this place. Can you imagine? It’s probably got bright red carpet and pink walls and rose petals everywhere. There’s probably even a waterbed that will spring a leak halfway through the night and gradually drown your downstairs neighbour. That bloke at the harbour did say it was overpriced here. Do you think they charge extra to keep cockroaches to a minimum in the honeymoon suite?’

‘There are no cockroaches.’

‘Let’s meet in the morning and reassess that assumption.’

I laugh nervously because even though it’s a joke, the idea of meeting him in the morning for any reason is not an unwelcome one. Even if it’s to discuss cockroaches or lack thereof.

‘Well, I suppose we’d better…’ he says, trailing off, and I tell myself I’m imagining that he sounds as disappointed as I am at the thought of not spending more time with him.

‘Hang on, I’m still wearing your coat.’ I shrug it off my shoulders. ‘Thank you so much for the loan of it. You must’ve been freezing coming up here in only a T-shirt.’ I refuse to let my eyes wander to the way that dark T-shirt clings around his bicep muscles.

‘No, not at all. Look at me, I’m all sweaty. I’m still too hot.’

Oh, you can say that again.

I bundle the coat in my arms and hand it back to him, trying to ignore the dash of heat as his arm brushes against mine.

‘Well, thank you for your babysitting-the-seasick services, ma’am,’ he says, tipping an imaginary hat in my direction.

‘My pleasure. Thank you for not throwing up on me.’

‘Ah, I’m a chivalrous gentleman. Clara said so. Chivalrous gentlemen don’t throw up on people.’

I want to laugh but I try to keep it serious. ‘Are you going to be okay now?’

‘Yeah. There’s nothing I can do to get myself out of here any quicker, and that guy on the dock didn’t exactly fill me with hope, so I’m going to go and lie down and have a nap.’ He glances at me. ‘God, that’s really rock ’n’ roll, isn’t it? You must be looking at me and thinking, “Look at this fun and exuberant young guy and what an exciting thrill ride of a life he leads.”’

It makes me laugh again. ‘Actually I was thinking a nap sounds perfect.’

‘Well, I’d ask you to join me, but that would be overstepping the mark. So…’ He leans around the doorframe and peeks into my room. ‘Look, our headboards are in the same place on the adjoining wall, so it’ll be almost like we’re napping together. Look at how young and vibrant we are with our afternoon naps. I don’t suppose you brought a bingo game and a knitting pattern, did you? We could really show some pensioners how to have a good time.’

I’m trying to suppress laughter because all I’ve done today is laugh at him and it’s got to be bordering on abnormal by now. He must think I’ve got a massive crush on him, or that I’m really nervous, or that he’s the funniest guy in the world, or d) all of the above. All it does is make my face contort as I try to hold back the laughter, which is about as successful as trying to stifle a yawn.

‘So I’ll see you for dinner tonight?’ he says.

‘Yeah. How nice is that? That’s so sweet of her to do that.’

‘Yeah, right. You check it for rat poison, I’ll run through the bill to see how much she’s charged us for it.’

‘Oh, stop being horrible,’ I say, whacking the coat he’s still holding, ostensibly whacking him. ‘She was very sweet. She’s probably lonely if she hasn’t got any guests in.’

‘Her husband’s probably chopped up in the freezer ready to go in stews she serves the guests.’

I can’t stop myself laughing again and I have to walk away before I make his ego any bigger.

‘Bonnie?’

I turn back to look at him and he meets my eyes, sudden seriousness in his. ‘I’m really looking forward to it.’ Then he smirks. ‘Even if it’s stew with unidentified meat.’

Oh my God, this guy. I close the door behind me and lean against it, trying to breathe without laughing at something he’s said. The butterflies in my stomach are more like 747s, and I cannot stop smiling. He’s kind, and sweet, and hilarious. He loves his mum, he’s chivalrous, I’m sure he’s single, and he seems to like me too.

Could The Little Wedding Island somehow have found my Mr Right and thrown us together on the same boat with a twist of fate?

Chapter Four

Dinner with a gorgeous man wasn’t part of my plan when I packed for this trip, and every item of clothing I own that even resembles sexy is hanging in my wardrobe at home. The little black dress I wear for dates, with the neckline that’s got just the right amount of plunge, is there too. Not that this is a date. Of course it’s not. It’s just a lonely woman inviting her two guests to eat with her.

I’ve not been lucky in love and there’s no way I’m lucky enough for Rohan to be as perfect as he seems. He’s probably got at least one girlfriend, psychopathic tendencies, or an unhealthy fascination with spiders. All three would be just my luck.

There’s a knock on my door as I pull my tightest black top over my head. Paired with skinny jeans, it’s the closest thing I can do to sexy with only a suitcase full of crumpled clothing.

‘Hi.’ Rohan’s leaning against the doorframe and his face breaks into a grin as I pull the door open. ‘May I escort you to dinner?’

I go all blushy again in an instant. No matter how much I’ve spent the past couple of hours telling myself to remain cool and aloof, my resolve crumbles at the sight of him.

He’s showered and changed, his dark blond hair is pushed back from his face and messily styled enough that it looks done but I still want to run my hands through it, and he’s dressed in jeans and a button-down navy shirt, which somehow makes his eyes look even bluer than they did earlier.

‘I’d like that,’ I say, not quite trusting my voice to remain steady.

He smells of shampoo and aftershave as I slip my hand through the arm he holds out. The butterflies in my stomach have gone from fluttering to zooming around at the speed of light.

Of course, the staircases are so narrow that I only get to hold his arm for a couple of steps before we have to break apart and go down single file.

‘So, how are you?’ I ask. ‘You look better. Did you get any sleep?’

‘Honestly, no…’ He sounds like he’s going to say something else but stops himself. ‘You?’

‘Not really.’ How can I tell him that I couldn’t sleep a wink because I couldn’t stop thinking about him? That I laid on the bed and the only thing I could picture was him lying on the bed next door?

‘I had a shower and a lie-down. I might even be somewhere close to hungry now. Thanks again for earlier. I didn’t mean to be so pathetic.’

‘Don’t be daft. I’ve never been seasick but it doesn’t look like it’d be much fun. You don’t have to apologise for that,’ I say, feeling a bit seasick myself from the butterflies fluttering inside me. I don’t know the first thing about this man – he could be a mass murderer for all I know, and worse, he’s not a fan of weddings, which definitely makes him not my type. And yet, when I glance back at him and he smiles, his eyes twinkling mischievously, it doesn’t seem to matter.

Clara’s waiting at the bottom of the stairs and she beams when she sees us. Well, more specifically when she sees Rohan. He’s definitely charmed the socks off her. Probably some other undergarments too.

‘Hello, my dears!’ she squeals. ‘Oh, you do make such a lovely couple. Are you sure you’re not together?’

‘Quite sure,’ I say, trying not to laugh. What does she think we’re doing? Romantic amnesia? Some form of role-playing game?

‘Bonnie deserves better than a cynical old grump like me,’ Rohan says, making me blush again. He’s got a way of making everything sound like a compliment whether it is or not.

‘Oh, now hush you, I’m sure that’s not true at all, and if it is, then it just means you haven’t met the right woman yet. Love will change even the grumpiest cynic.’

Yes! I like Clara. Clara is my kind of person.

Rohan mutters something under his breath.

‘This way, dears. Dinner’s nearly ready and I’ve got a table all set up in the dining room for you.’

She ushers us down the little corridor, past the door of the kitchen, and into a huge dining room. ‘We often hold wedding receptions here.’

The room is amazing. It’s huge, with wide windows and a high ceiling painted with a rose pattern. There’s a log fire crackling away in an open hearth, filling the room with warmth and a burning wood smell, and a bay window that I immediately go over to. The sun has almost set, and the lights in the room are low so I can see out with no reflections, and the view is spectacular. We’re high up on the island, and below I can see a pathway down to a sandy beach. The tide has come in now and I can hear the waves lapping at the shore. Beyond that, there is nothing but ocean. There’s no other land in sight, not even a lighthouse or a ship on the horizon.

‘I’ve lived here for twenty-five years and I never get tired of that view,’ Clara says. ‘You should see some of the wedding photos we take here. We have a world-class photographer on the island, and even he says that you can travel abroad to get married but you rarely find a view more spectacular than this one to shoot your wedding photos.’

She suddenly seems to realise she’s said too much because she stops so abruptly that she may as well have clamped a hand over her mouth. She flaps us towards a table set back from the window, a red candle burning in the middle of it, a few rose petals scattered on the tablecloth around it. ‘Sit, sit, let me get the wine!’

She rushes out of the room and I look at Rohan who is looking at the empty doorway with a raised eyebrow.

I go to sit down but his hand is on the back of my chair before I have a chance. ‘Uh-uh. I promised I’d pull a chair out for you, didn’t I?’

I laugh as he does just that and I sit in the chair. ‘You try spreading a napkin across my lap for me and I’m going to wallop you.’

He laughs as he walks around the tiny table and sits opposite me, his back to the window. ‘So, we know they have a wedding photographer here…’

‘Why are they being so secretive?’ I say. ‘We know it’s an island for weddings. We know about the church, we know they offer wedding packages, there’s even a signpost for weddings at the top of the steps up from the dock. Why does she act as if mentioning a photographer is like accidentally letting slip the whereabouts of MI5’s secret headquarters?’

‘Maybe it’s exactly that. Maybe it’s, like, a mafia-run island for gang weddings or something?’

‘Yeah. That elderly couple on the beach, that woman weeding her garden, bouncy Clara… They’re all straight out of the mob, aren’t they?’

He grins as Clara comes back in with a bottle and two glasses. She sets one down in front of each of us and fills them with red wine. ‘Won’t be a tick with dinner!’

It’s only then I realise that, as well as only two glasses, there are only two chairs and only room for two people on this tiny table. ‘Aren’t you joining us?’

‘Oh, I had my tea ages ago. I just wanted to make sure you both had something hearty in your stomachs after such a long trip.’

As she leaves again, Rohan beckons me closer and whispers, ‘Do you think she means literal heart? Of her husband? Who’s chopped up in the freezer?’

I couldn’t stop the burst of laughter if I wanted to. ‘Oh, stop it.’

‘Yeah, you’re right. She’s probably defrosted him ready to cook. He’ll be in the fridge by now.’

It makes me laugh even more and I lean back in my chair and our legs bump into each other because neither of us has space to move away.

‘Sorry,’ Rohan mumbles. ‘I think doll’s houses have bigger tables than this.’

‘No worries,’ I say, because there are worse things than eating dinner with a gorgeous man’s leg against yours. I just hope my jeans are thick enough not to give away how long it’s been since I shaved my legs.

‘Dinner is served!’ Clara trills, appearing with two plates and setting them down in front of us. ‘A lovely stew, cooked with all locally sourced products.’

Rohan nudges my leg with his and I have to stifle more laughter.

‘Enjoy, dears! I’ll be back with a wine refill shortly, and if you play your cards right, there might be a slice of chocolate cake for afters!’

‘You’re spoiling us, Clara,’ Rohan says, giving her his widest smile.

Instead of melting on the spot like I expected her to, she fixes him with a firm stare. ‘I get the feeling you’re someone who deserves a little spoiling, Mr Carter.’ In the blink of an eye, she’s back to her cheerful self, calling ‘toodle-oo’ as she closes the door behind her.

‘Well, that was creepy.’

‘That was sweet. I think she meant she knew you felt ill earlier and wanted to look after you.’

‘Sounded like a threat to me.’ He yanks on an imaginary tie around his neck while making a choking noise. ‘Maybe that’s why they’re so secretive. Maybe every guest who “deserves spoiling” is the next on the hit list for chopping up in freezer bags.’

‘Well, I’m in the room next door so if she comes for you with an axe in the middle of the night, I’ll hear your screams.’

‘And do what? Lie there listening?’

I giggle. ‘Pretty much.’

‘Look at this,’ he says, poking a fork into his bowl of stew. ‘Talk about meat of unknown origin. What is that?’

‘Chicken.’

‘Looks like forearm-of-husband to me.’

‘You either have an overactive imagination or you’re being funny.’

His face breaks into a wide grin.

‘All right, you’re being funny,’ I say as our legs bump again.

‘Do you get the feeling that Clara is trying to play Cupid? The dimmed lights, the candle, the rose petals, the huge glasses of wine and table the size of a postage stamp?’

‘I think she might be,’ I say. I don’t add that I’m not complaining.

‘I hate that kind of thing. All this manufactured romance. The candle is not romantic, it’s a fire hazard. The dimmed lights aren’t romantic, they’re annoying because I can’t see what I’m eating. What she said just now – my whole personality will change when I find love. I’m so sick of hearing that.’

‘But love does change people. To quote Michael Ball, “love changes everything”.’

‘Maybe for saps like you and Clara, but not for me. Been there, done that, never doing it again.’ He looks up from his stew and meets my gaze. ‘Sorry. The thing I hear more than anything else is “oh, you just haven’t found the right girl yet”. Like one day I’m going to meet a woman who will instantly change everything I’ve ever believed about love.’

‘Which is?’

‘Love is a lie. It isn’t real. It’s a commodity used by people to get what they want. And don’t even get me started on weddings…’

That’s so sad. How can anyone believe that love isn’t real? Even if they haven’t experienced it personally, they still see it around them every day. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him he just hasn’t found the right girl yet, not in a patronising way, just because I think there’s someone out there for everyone and the world will click into place when you meet them, but I bite my lip.

He looks at me again. ‘Sorry, I went off on one again, didn’t I?’

I shake my head. ‘Nah. I was just thinking of a guy on Twitter who you would love.’

He smiles but I feel truly sad as I try not to burn my mouth on the steaming bowl of stew. How can anyone not believe in love? It’s all there is. It’s all we have to look for. We naturally want to find another human we connect with and make a life with them… Work, career, friends, money, all that is fine, but what’s the point if you’ll never find anyone to share it with?

‘So you’re not going to be testing out their church of no-divorces any time soon then?’ I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

‘Hah. I’d have a more enjoyable time throwing myself under a steam roller.’ He grins and the butterflies take off again. ‘Nah, I told you, I pissed my boss off and got myself stuck with the assignment that no one else wanted.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m the forbidden word around here.’ He looks around as if checking there’s no one in earshot before he leans closer and motions for me to do the same. ‘I am kind of a reporter. I mean, I’m not really, I just write for a magazine, but I am here to write an article about the island.’

Warmth blooms inside of me. We’re in the same position. ‘Snap.’

‘You too?’

If I smiled any wider, my face would split in half. ‘Yep. I write for Two Gold Rings, you know, the bridal magazine? My boss wants me to find out what’s really going on here. He thinks the people will be more open to…’ I trail off when I realise his face has gone from smiling to deadly serious. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Two Gold Rings… Are there two Bonnies working there?’

‘No, why?’ I feel my forehead furrow in confusion.

The half-smile he gives me is more of a grimace than a smile. ‘I write for The Man Land.’

‘Oh, great. Not another one. I suppose you agree with everything that awful R.C. Art twat says?’

‘Kind of.’

My stomach plummets because I suddenly know what he’s going to say before he finishes the sentence.

‘I am R.C. Art.’

My chair legs scrape against the floor as I push myself back from the table like I’ve been burned.

Rohan Carter. R.C. Art. I should’ve made the connection earlier. I was so busy being wrapped up in how sexy his name is that I didn’t even notice the similarity. ‘No. No, no, no. You can’t be. R.C. Art is old and hairy and bitter and twisted. You’re nice. You make me laugh. There’s no way you are that hideous bloke who writes those awful columns.’

He doesn’t say anything.

‘You lent me your coat. R.C. Art would never do that. He’s way too horrible.’

‘You’ve spoken to me on Twitter once. You have no idea what I’m like in real life or why I write the things I do. R.C. Art is a pseudonym from my name and I never use a real photo so no one knows me.’

‘I’m not surprised. I’d be embarrassed to be recognised for the kind of bollocks you write too.’ I shake my head. I knew he was too good to be true. I should’ve known from what he said earlier. I should’ve realised he was just as cynical as those awful columns. God, I’m such an idiot. How can I have been stupid enough to think this island had somehow thrown us together in a twist of fate? This whole thing is R.C. Art’s fault, and now he’s gorgeous, funny, and kind Rohan too. ‘You could’ve told me earlier, you twat!’

‘I had no idea you were the same Bonnie! I even said I’d met two Bonnies this week. You never told me your surname or where you worked. How was I supposed to know you were the same one?’

I huff even though he’s got a point.

‘Besides, I imagined the Bonnie who attacked me on Twitter was a middle-aged desperado with a lot of cats, not someone nice and otherwise seemingly sensible like you.’

‘I didn’t attack you on Twitter!’ I start pacing up and down in front of the table, annoyed that he’s just sitting there with a smug look on his face. ‘You’re the one who screencapped my tweets, cut out your own nasty comments, and called me a deranged obsessive bridezilla from Cloud Cuckoo Land! Then you had the nerve to tell all your followers that Two Gold Rings were getting worried if they were resorting to such underhanded tactics, and asked them to enlighten me on a realistic view of marriage. I had a couple of hundred notifications telling me that weddings are crap and the only people to get anything out of them are the divorce solicitors.’

‘Well, if it helps, I had a few of your readers come to your defence and tell me I was a knob and I must be overcompensating for a small penis, so that was nice.’

‘I like my readers. They always make such valid points.’

‘Ha ha,’ he mutters, shaking his head. ‘I can’t believe you’re Bonnie Haskett. You’re the desperate wedding dress who called me a delusional twuntface. Why do you use a photo of a wedding dress when your bio even says that you’re still searching for Prince Charming? You’re not married, are you?’

‘That’s got nothing to do with you, has it, R.C. Art?’

‘Okay, let me put it this way – you’re obviously not married because you clearly still believe in love. If you’d ever been married, you’d have realised that there’s no such thing.’

‘Wow. I don’t know whether to be angry at you or just pity you. No wonder you get off on saying such nasty things. You’re trying to make everyone else as miserable as you are.’ I pick up a paper doily from one of Clara’s other dining tables and start shredding it with my fingers. It’s not quite as good as wringing his neck but it’s a legal alternative.

‘I’m not miserable, I’m just not deluded into thinking that one day someone will appear in a halo of white light with hearts and flowers swirling around them and all my problems will be solved.’

‘I don’t think that. I just think that marriage is something special. Meeting someone you have a connection with and knowing you want to spend the rest of your life with that person is magical. Not that I’d expect you to know that. All you do is tell men how to spot women who want to get married and trap them with a baby! You seem to think that no man on the planet actually wants to find someone they love and have a family.’

‘See, there’s this thing called freedom of speech where I’m entitled to say anything I want, and people are entitled to read it or not read it if they don’t agree. That’s why I posted the screencaps of what you said to me on Twitter. And you saw how many people agreed with me and thought you were a loser.’

I twist the doily so hard that I’m surprised it doesn’t disintegrate under my hands. ‘I was doing what I thought was right. What right do you have to grab a random couple’s wedding photos off the internet and make fun of them for your own amusement?’

‘What right do you have to tell me I can’t say something? My opinion is just as valid as anyone else’s. It’s up to me if I want to post that publicly, and up to you if you read it, end of story. You were clearly trying to engage me in an argument to make The Man Land look bad and your awful bridal mag look like the morally superior good guys. A clever tactic. It’s just a shame you resorted to name-calling when I didn’t take the bait.’

‘I wasn’t baiting you. I was trying to do the right thing and you twisted it to make it look like I was being underhanded and petty.’

‘You were trying to turn readers against me.’

‘No, I wasn’t!’ I’ve got a little pile of doily pieces on the empty table beside me where I’m tearing it into tatters. It would have been more satisfying if I’d drawn a Rohan-shaped stickman on it first. ‘It had nothing to do with the battle of the mags. I hadn’t even thought of that. All I was thinking about was how much prejudice that couple must come up against every day and you’re adding to it. Who you wrote for didn’t make any difference.’

‘Why do you care what I write about some random couple? What’s it got to do with you? You don’t even know them!’

‘Neither do you, do you? And yet you still think it’s okay to personally attack their appearance and call into question their love for each other because there’s a bit of an age gap!’

‘She’s fifty years younger than him!’

‘So what? Love can’t count. It doesn’t always strike at the time that twats like you find socially acceptable.’

‘And she’s his fourth wife in five years! What do you think a bloke like that knows about love? Weddings are an annual occurrence to him. Love isn’t something that lasts a lifetime, it’s something that lasts less time than the guarantee on a new microwave!’

‘Other people’s relationships have nothing to do with you. I don’t know how The Man Land let you get away with the bollocks you write.’

‘My boss appreciates me being a realist. He wasn’t happy about the Twitter thing with you though. He was mad at me for posting the screencaps and making fun of you. Said I should’ve gone all Elsa and let it go.’

‘Which you should have.’

‘So should you,’ he fires back.

I let out an annoyed huff. He’s right. Oliver was right. I should’ve known that R.C. Art would use my tweets as a way to gain himself even more publicity, especially with this battle of the mags going on between us and them. I shouldn’t have got involved. But no way am I going to admit that to him of all people.

I sweep my pile of doily confetti into my hand and deposit it in the bin in the corner, and we glare at each other in silence, at an impasse that there is no getting around. I’m not going to apologise and I’m sure his self-righteous ego thinks he was completely in the right and has nothing to apologise for. How can he be the guy I was looking forward to having dinner with tonight? I’ve always had bad luck with men but this absolutely takes the biscuit.

‘Why are you here then?’ I snap when I can’t stare at his frosty blue eyes any longer. ‘What awful things are you going to write about this lovely island and its church of no-divorces?’

‘Nothing.’ He holds both hands up like he’s surrendering. ‘I’m being punished here. I got sent to write the article that no one at The Man Land wants to write but apparently everyone wants to read. I’ve just got to find out if the story’s true and write a bit about the island and why people are so keen to get married here. It’s not for my usual column, it’s just because no one else would do it. It’s your fault I’m here.’

‘It’s your fault that I’m here!’

‘Hambridge should be grateful to us for getting people talking. Our fight has garnered more public attention in one weekend than their ridiculous “only one can survive” marketing campaign has in weeks. They spent a fortune on it and it’s had about as much impact as a flip-flop in a thunderstorm. All we did was send a couple of tweets, and… bingo.’

‘There’s such a thing as bad publicity, you know. I don’t want to be talked about for having arguments online and getting—’

‘Meh. If people are talking about you, they’re talking about you. That’s what sells magazines.’ He gives me a saccharine smile. ‘Of course, if you knew that, maybe Two Gold Rings would have a hope in hell of winning this battle of the mags, no matter how ridiculous a marketing ploy it is.’

I fold my arms and give him my best death stare. ‘What makes you think we haven’t?’

‘Oh, come on. I’m sure your boss has lectured your office just as much as mine has lectured our office. You’re a niche, we’re not. We’re funny, you’re schmaltzy. We have a better online following, we have loyal readers, whereas your readers have an expiration date. The Man Land is clearly going to win, no matter how you frame your story about the church of no-divorces. It’ll be like taking candy from a baby but easier and less fun. At least if you take candy from a baby, you get sweets at the end. I’ll just get to keep my job and wave goodbye to another sappy, starry-eyed monthly issuing of printed dead tree.’

He raises an eyebrow like he’s waiting for an answer, and I can’t take any more. ‘God, how could I have been stupid enough to actually enjoy your company today? You’re just The Man Land’s rent-a-gob. You don’t care how many people you hurt as long as it gets you publicity. I’d say you just haven’t found the right woman yet, but there’s no way anyone’s ever going to love you with that appalling attitude!’ With that, I grab my wine glass and throw what’s left of the contents over him, slam it back down on the table, and stomp out.

The complete and utter knob. How dare he have the nerve to be so funny and sweet and really be R.C. Art all along? I actually felt sorry for him today, and there’s no way R.C. Art deserves even a second of sympathy. Seasickness is among the nicer things people probably wish on him.

Even though I’m fuming, I creep upstairs to my room hoping not to be intercepted by Clara. I’m not sure if I can face questions from her at the moment, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I make it into the bedroom. I don’t realise I’m going to cry until the door clicks shut behind me and tears start pouring down my face without my permission.

I liked him. I really liked him. I know it’s only been one afternoon, but there was something there, something that I’ve never felt on a date before, and it wasn’t even a date. I liked him being close to me. I wanted to spend time with him. I liked Clara mistaking us for a couple because I hoped her mistake was a sign. And then this. This is exactly the luck I have with guys. No sooner do you think you’ve found a good one, than they turn out to be a knob in disguise. Which is marginally better than some of the guys I’ve dated who have been knobs overtly, but still.

And all right, maybe he didn’t deliberately hide the fact he writes as R.C. Art, and maybe if I’d concentrated less on his sexiness and more on his name, I would’ve seen it too, and maybe if I’d introduced myself properly…

I don’t realise how much I wanted him to be Mr Right until I found out he wasn’t.

I have to pull myself together. I get up and peel my skinny jeans off one millimetre at a time and yank the black top over my head. With hindsight, it seems so stupid to have attempted sexiness for him. Of all people, the one guy I’ve actually liked in a really long while is none other than the one who’s caused the biggest problems in my life lately.

Just as I sit down on the corner of the bed and wonder how I’m going to manage to sleep tonight, and it has nothing to do with the army of dodgy ornaments looking at me, there’s a soft knock on the door. It’ll be Clara come to see why I stormed off, no doubt, and I can’t answer it because my breath is still hitching from crying and my face is all red and blotchy.

‘It’s me.’ Rohan’s voice filters through the door.

I freeze.

‘I’m sorry. I was harsh and out of line downstairs. I shouldn’t have said any of those things.’

I’m breathing so hard that I’m sure he’ll be able to hear it through the door. I try to concentrate on cooling myself down, deep breaths, in and out.

‘I know you hate me, but I’ve brought you a slice of the chocolate cake that Clara promised. It’s seriously the best chocolate cake I’ve ever had. I couldn’t let you miss out.’

I don’t reply, even though I really want that chocolate cake.

‘I told her you weren’t feeling well and I’d fetch it up on my way to bed. Apparently chocolate cake is a known cure for all illnesses. Antibiotics and stuff are on their way out, soon all GPs will be prescribing Greggs.’

It makes my face crease up with silent laughter, but I don’t know how to reply without having to answer the door and face him, and then he’ll see I’ve been crying, and he’ll know that I cared, and it’ll just be an even bigger mess than it already is.

After a few more minutes’ silence, I hear him sigh. ‘I’ll just put it down outside your door then. Don’t leave it too long, I can already see a cockroach in the corner eying it up.’

A laugh takes me by surprise and I slam my hand over my mouth and kick myself. He’s obviously heard. I picture his face slowly spreading into a smile.

He taps the door once more. ‘Okay. Goodnight.’

I listen as he unlocks his door and it creaks open, and just as I’m sure he hasn’t gone inside, there’s another gentle knock on my door.

‘Bonnie, I know it won’t make any difference to how much you hate me, but just so you know, they weren’t a random couple. I knew them, well, him anyway.’ He pauses and I know he’s waiting for me to say something. ‘Okay, goodnight. For real this time. Don’t leave this cake too long or I won’t be able to control myself and I’ll scoff the lot.’

I listen as he opens the door and closes it, and this time his footsteps sound from the other side of the wall. I know he could be tricking me. Maybe he’s waiting for me to get the cake so he can jump out and catch me, but I’m sure he doesn’t care that much. I’m just another woman he’s upset, and I’m sure that someone like R.C. Art is used to upsetting women. And men. And animals. And microorganisms. If aliens exist, he probably even offends them.

Even so, he apologised, and more importantly, he brought me cake. I tiptoe to the door and turn the key in minute movements, trying to open it without him hearing. I feel like a superspy as I inch the door open, scout around the landing to make sure he’s not hiding somewhere, grab the plate from the floor in front of me, and pull it into the room. I slam the door shut and let out a whoop of victory, completely forgetting I was trying to be silent.

From the room next door, Rohan laughs.

Great.

I perch on the edge of the bed and dig the fork into the gooey layer of chocolate fudge and the softest, moistest sponge cake I’ve ever tasted. God, this stuff could end wars. And he’s brought me a really decent-sized slice too, none of these little slivers that people try to pass off as proper slices of cake.

As I eat, I try not to listen to him on the other side of the wall. I can hear water running in his bathroom and I try not to picture him in the shower, naked. Water drops sliding down his torso, dripping off his wet hair, gliding down those solid arms… Coming out with a towel wrapped around him…

Oh, for God’s sake, Bonnie. I force myself to remember R.C. Art’s column and his arrogance downstairs. That’s what I’ll have to think about when I want to picture him naked. That’s who he is. Not the guy he seemed today, but the guy who gives men tips on avoiding women who want to get married and who thinks it’s okay to make fun of random people’s weddings. Even if they weren’t random and he knows them.

Even as I think it, I wonder what that means. He didn’t elaborate, so what was he trying to say? That it’s okay because he knew them? That they deserved it? Maybe he just said it because he knew it’d wind me up all night if I let it.

I try to concentrate on the cake instead. It’s rich and thick and the chocolate fudge is possibly the best thing I’ve ever eaten, and all I can think of is Rohan saying it’s probably made with bits of Clara’s chopped-up husband and it makes me laugh to myself. Then I have to give myself a severe talking-to. This is ridiculous. He isn’t funny. He’s horrible and I have to remember that. There’s no way I felt anything for him. He doesn’t believe in love and he hates weddings. He is so far away from my type that he might as well be in the Outer Hebrides.

I finish the cake and clean my teeth, and when I get back to the bedroom, all is quiet from Rohan’s side of the wall. I get into bed and wriggle around, trying to get comfortable. As I lie there staring at the ceiling, all I can picture is him doing the same on the other side. It shouldn’t be this easy to picture a guy in bed. And it shouldn’t be this hot.

The low volume of his TV comes on, reverberating softly through the wall, and I pull the duvet over my head, determined to ignore the noise as he flicks channels. Eventually he settles on something and I hear the canned laughter of a comedy show. I sit up and lean back against the headboard, my ears straining to figure out what it is.

The worst part is I can almost feel him on the opposite side of the wall. Our room layouts are the same in reverse, and I just know that he’s sitting in bed too, his back against mine with a wall between us.

After a few minutes I’m about to give up and put my own TV on when there’s a knock on the wall. ‘So, was that the best chocolate cake you’ve ever had or what?’ he calls through, his voice muffled.

The nerve of him. I could’ve been asleep for all he knows. I hate that he knows I’m sitting here too. He probably even knows that I’m trying to figure out what he’s watching. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of replying.

‘It’s okay, it was a pointless question anyway. The answer is obviously yes. I think that might’ve been the best cake that’s ever existed.’

I clunk my head back against the wall, so tempted to say something that’ll make him laugh, to go back to the easy flirtation we had going earlier. That’s what I want – to un-know what I know now.

He’s quiet for a while and I think he’s finally given up, until he speaks again. ‘I know I deserved it, but would you happen to know how to get red wine out of a shirt?’

I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘That was my favourite shirt too. It’ll probably never be the same. Clara’s going to get some oxy-powered stain thingy on it for me. Apparently she’s seen some stains in her time after cleaning the honeymoon suite for twenty-something years.’

I clamp a hand over my mouth to stop myself laughing. This isn’t fair. He has no right to be this adorable after what he did online. This has got to stop.

I do a loud snore in the hopes he’ll get the hint.

‘That was the worst fake snore I’ve ever heard!’ he shouts. ‘You sound like a pig hunting for truffles on a whoopee cushion. Two out of ten, and one was for inventiveness!’

I roll my eyes and thunk my head back again. He’s quiet for so long that I’m sure he’s given up this time. I’m just thinking it might be time to lie down and actually try to sleep when he speaks again.

‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for posting the screencaps. I deleted the tweet the next day but loads of people had already RT-ed it by then. I went to DM you to apologise but you’d already blocked me. I am sorry, Bonnie, really.’

‘That’s not the point, is it?’

‘Ah-ha! So you are awake!’

Oops. I didn’t think that one through. ‘No, I’m talking in my sleep. I’m having nightmares about you.’

‘Aw, don’t be like that. Can’t we start over?’

‘No, Rohan, we can’t because you still don’t get it. I don’t care that you posted screencaps of me calling you every name under the sun – that’s my own fault. I should’ve known better than to try to reason with a troll on Twitter. I don’t care about the argument earlier. The main issue is still the same. What you do is horrible. Other people’s weddings have nothing to do with you. You can’t publicly ridicule them just because you have a sharp tongue and a way with words.’

‘Firstly, if pictures are posted on the internet then they’re in the public domain, and secondly, this was a one-off. I don’t usually ridicule random weddings. Sometimes I do investigations into what divorce lawyers earn or in-depth explorations into celebrity break-ups, and my last column was about how men can win at the gift registry.’

‘How romantic. Most of my job is covering real weddings. It’s our most popular section of the magazine. I get to go to all these amazing weddings and interview the couples and do little write-ups about them and the venue and the dress and the flowers, and—’

‘And you haven’t died of boredom yet?’

‘It’s not boring, it’s amazing. I have the loveliest, most privileged job in the world. People let me in to their special, private days and share their love with me and our readers. And if I’m not doing that then I’m writing about bargain dresses or the best eyebrow shapes to compliment an up-do or how to DIY your own place setting cards.’

‘Cor. I bet paint watches you dry.’

I shouldn’t laugh, I should be insulted, but I let out a guffaw so loud that I’ve probably woken people back on the mainland. I have to get a hold of myself. Twitter was bad enough but actually validating him when he thinks he’s being funny is much worse. ‘I spend my days trying to make people’s weddings better. You spend yours trying to destroy them. We’re complete opposites, and one of us is going to lose our job this summer, and no matter how complacent you are, it isn’t going to be me.’

He goes quiet again and I think I’ve finally got my point across and he’s going to leave me alone now. We have nothing in common and I want nothing to do with him or his alter ego. I really don’t.

‘Do you like Some Mothers Do ’Ave ’Em?’ he says after a blissful silence.

‘What?’ I ask in confusion.

‘It’s an old show from the Seventies.’

‘I know what it is.’

‘If you put your TV on channel nine, it’s on all night. I love it. It’s an absolute classic, and this is a great episode.’

I’m not going to. I’m going to ignore him. I know the show well enough, I don’t need to put it on now just because he likes it. Even as I’m telling myself that, my hand sneaks out towards the remote control on the nightstand.

I settle back and get comfortable against the headboard, leaning my head on the wall, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s doing the same. It’s probably the weirdest thing I’ve ever done with a guy – sat and watched a TV show together, back to back, in different rooms – but I can’t bring myself to care as I laugh at Frank Spencer getting into his usual pickles, listening to Rohan’s laughter through the wall.

‘We laugh at the same things,’ he calls out when the adverts come on. ‘I don’t think we’re that opposite after all.’

‘Oh, we are,’ I say, but from the lifeless pile where they’ve landed like rocks in my stomach, one butterfly wing twitches.

Chapter Five

When I wake up in the morning, there’s silence from Rohan’s room and I get the feeling he’s already gone out. And then I have to give myself a stern telling-off for my first thoughts being of him.

He’s R.C. Art, for God’s sake. I’ve only seen bits and pieces of his columns, but I’ve heard enough about him over the years I’ve been working at Two Gold Rings, colleagues sniggering over his articles like kids passing a banned book around the school hallways, comments and discussions about how The Man Land can let him get away with it, and now this stupid competition between the magazines.

I have to remember who he is. The funny, sweet guy from the boat yesterday is the same man. He is not someone who makes my knees go weak and butterfly wings beat in the pit of my stomach. He is a man who hates everything I love. My first thoughts in the morning can’t be of him. I’m going to lose my job if I don’t nail this article. All of my colleagues are going to lose their jobs. I have to think about all of the women who have turned to Two Gold Rings as they’ve planned their weddings, who will one day go to pick up a copy for their daughters as they plan their own weddings, and the magazine just won’t be there any more.

It’s not just about me losing my job, it’s about losing the whole magazine. And keeping the awful, controversial men’s magazine who think that employing people who get their kicks out of insulting others is a good thing. That is what I have to concentrate on, not Rohan Carter, no matter how sexy his name is. And the rest of him.

Why was he so nice to me though? Before he knew who I was, he was kind and sweet. And even after I threw my wine over him last night, he still seemed to care. He wanted me to talk to him afterwards. He even brought me cake. Why? What did he want? It’s not like he’s looking for love, is it? It’s not like he actually liked me. I get the impression that R.C. Art is not someone who likes people very much.

I scrub my hands over my face. I have to stop thinking about it. He’s a jerk who can turn on a nice-guy act when it suits him. It’s probably how he gets most of his column topics – by pretending to be someone he isn’t. I can’t let him spoil my time here. What I saw of this island yesterday looked beautiful and I can’t wait to explore it.

I owe Oliver a damn good article about this place, and I’m going to give him one, and it’s going to be better than Rohan’s. He’s obviously here to get the Edelweiss Island story and beat us, and I can’t let him. I have to do this better than him. And even if Two Gold Rings go out, we’re going to go out on a positive note, spreading love and happiness, unlike the kind of thing he’s used to spreading, which is generally more useful for fertilising farm crops.

***

Clara is hovering as I sit in the dining room, pulling apart a Danish pastry and looking out over the spectacular view. She’s offered me at least ten coffee refills, six pieces of toast, three full Englishes, and she keeps coming back to check if I need anything. I know she’s itching to say something. She probably wants to know why I threw wine over Rohan last night and then went up to my room in tears. She probably wants to know why I was ‘feeling ill’ but somehow managed to demolish a huge slice of chocolate cake.

‘He’s been hurt, hasn’t he?’ Clara eventually blurts out.

‘Who?’ I say, feigning indifference.

‘Mr Carter. I can tell these things, you know.’

‘I have absolutely no idea.’ I take an uninterested sip of coffee. ‘And if he has then I’m sure he thoroughly deserved it.’

‘Oh, do you think so?’ She pulls out the opposite chair and plonks herself down. ‘He seems like a lovely chap to me, but he’s definitely had his heart broken. He hides behind that humour and endless sarcasm but he’s hurting really.’

‘It’s probably muscle strain from carrying his gigantic ego around.’

She looks at me in surprise. ‘You too?’

‘Me? No, I’ve never been hurt.’ I glance down at my empty ring finger. ‘I’ve never had a chance to be hurt.’

‘People use humour as a barrier to protect themselves.’

‘Not me.’

‘I clocked him yesterday, you know. When he was reading my inspirational quotes about love on the walls, I saw him trying to laugh at them but I could tell they made him sad.’

I give her a sombre smile. She really does see the best in him. ‘I think you’re overestimating him. He was probably just genuinely laughing at them. That’s what he does.’

‘That’s what a lot of people do until they meet the person who makes them make sense.’

I think about the little plaques lining the walls of the hallway to the dining room. They’re sweet little quotes about love, well-known sayings written in pretty calligraphy on heart-shaped wooden boards. Some of them are a bit sappy even for me, but knowing what I know of R.C. Art, there was nothing false about his laughter at them. They’re all nice sentiments and something warms in my chest at the idea of one day meeting someone who makes me feel like that.

‘I’ve seen men like him so many times. They don’t know how to deal with their emotions so they just shut out their pain and make a joke of it. I’m sure he’s a lovely man underneath whatever it is he’s done to upset you.’

Either Clara is a mind reader or she saw much more of what happened last night than I thought she did.

‘He hasn’t done anything to upset me. I don’t even know him. He’s a complete stranger to me.’

‘He likes you though.’

‘Oh, he really doesn’t, trust me on that.’

‘And I know you like him too.’

‘Oh, I really don’t,’ I say, wondering if she really is a mind reader. Maybe that’s why there’s nothing on the internet about The Little Wedding Island. Maybe it’s just sort of conducted via Jedi mind tricks.

‘I’ve owned this place for twenty-five years. I’ve met hundreds of young couples like yourselves, people who come to get married, people who come to honeymoon, people who return year after year for a little holiday. I’ve seen relationships begin and end. I’ve seen couples head over heels in love and couples who hate each other. Trust me when I say he likes you, and you know as well as I do that you like him too. There’s no point trying to deny it, it’s as clear as day every time you smile at him.’

‘I don’t know what gives you that idea,’ I mutter. ‘I don’t even know him, and what little I do know, I assure you I don’t like.’

‘He was really concerned about you last night. After you went off ill.’ She puts an emphasis on the word that leaves me with no doubt of how untrue she thinks it is. ‘He seemed really upset. And he comfort-ate masses of my chocolate cake. And so clumsy too. Quite how someone manages to pour wine down their own neck is beyond me.’

He didn’t tell her the truth. Part of me thinks that’s really nice. He’s saved me from her undoubtedly endless questioning, but the other, more logical part of me thinks that if he’d told her the truth, he’d have had to tell her why I’d thrown my wine over him, and that would’ve led to having to admit to being a reporter.

‘Are you certain that you feel better this morning?’

‘Oh yes, fine, thank you. I’m sure it was just a bit of residual seasickness that didn’t hit me until later. A good night’s sleep has sorted me right out.’ I don’t know why I’m bothering to lie. She can see right through me. But whatever the reason is that Rohan didn’t tell her the truth, I’m interested to see where he’s going with it, because if I know one thing about R.C. Art, it’s that he’ll stop at nothing for a story. It makes me wonder what exactly he’s trying to get out of Edelweiss Island. Is it really as simple as a punishment for arguing with me online, or is he going to put his own – horrible – spin on the church of no-divorces?

When I’ve finished my breakfast and left Clara disappointed at getting no gossip out of me, it’s way past time I started looking around this beautiful island. The sun is dazzling as I step out the door of the B&B and squint in the early April brightness. I close my eyes and breathe in the saltiness of sea air and the smell of flowers wafting on the breeze.

‘Good morning!’

I open my eyes to see Rohan. He’s leaning on the gate of one of the cottages further down the path, chatting to the woman with long grey-highlighted hair down to her waist who was pottering around in her garden when we reached the top of the steps yesterday.

I didn’t expect to see him so soon. I give him a tight smile and a nod, and he straightens up and looks like he’s excusing himself from talking to the woman. He’s going to come over and I don’t want to see him. I don’t know how to handle seeing him.

I do the sensible, adult thing and pretend I haven’t noticed him making his way towards me. I duck my head and hurry around the back of the B&B away from him. I pass Clara’s neat rose garden and stop on the coastal path, standing in the shade of the building, trying to catch my breath. I didn’t realise I was walking that fast but something has taken my breath away, and it definitely wasn’t his blond hair blowing across his forehead in the gentle wind.

I have to get a grip on myself. I’m bound to see him eventually. We’re in rooms next door to each other, unless by some miracle he’s leaving today, which he won’t be because I’d never get that lucky. He wants the same thing that I want, and I don’t think it’s a story that can be uncovered in the few hours before the next boat home.

I have to be professional about it. Civilised. Nothing happened yesterday. Nothing that meant anything, anyway. He’s just another reporter here to report on the same thing. If I happen to see him in passing, I will remain polite, professional, aloof. I can do that. Not doing that has already got me into trouble.

I keep expecting him to appear on the coastal path, and I’m not sure if I’m pleased or disappointed when he doesn’t. Did I make it obvious that I was running away from him? Good. R.C. Art should be used to being so offensive that women flee at the mere sight of him. I should be glad if he’s gotten the hint.

When he doesn’t come round the side of the B&B, I try to calm myself. I brush my top down and pull my straight hair back. Professional. Aloof. I repeat the words in my head like a mantra. I’m here to write an article. I love my job and Two Gold Rings and I’m not about to lose either of them because of him. I get to come to gorgeous places like this and call it work, and without Two Gold Rings, I won’t get to do that any more. That is what I have to concentrate on.

With that in mind, I straighten myself up and start following the sandy path that runs past the back of the B&B and continues around the edge of the island. Once I step back out of the shadow of the building, the sun is bright again and Rohan is nowhere to be seen. Good. Now I can concentrate on the island, not him.

It’s quiet this morning, a world away from the constant noise of traffic at the office in London. There’s no one around and I wander along the meandering path, taking in the picture-postcard little cottages and the steep drop of the cliffs below me. There’s a sturdy metal safety barrier along the edges of the coastal path – the only thing that looks modern among the picturesque thatched roofs and perfect little gardens.

I follow the path a bit further inland and crouch down to admire a patch of the white flowers that cover the space between paths. I don’t know what they are, but I run my fingers across silvery grass-like foliage and let them trail up to the furry white flowers. They smell beautiful too and I take a deep breath and inhale the scent that seems to waft across the island all the time.

‘Unusual, aren’t they?’

I jump at the sound of his voice.

Across the island, Rohan has popped up from behind a grassy hill with a white flower in his hand.

‘You’re probably not meant to pick them,’ I call over. ‘I’ve never seen them before, they might be a protected species or something.’

He grins and holds his hands out in front of him, crossing them at the wrists. ‘Well, you’d better come and arrest me then. I bet Clara’s got some pink furry handcuffs you can borrow while we await the arrival of the police helicopter to whisk me off to prison for this terrible crime.’

‘You’re hilarious,’ I say without cracking my face, even though the idea of prim and proper Clara owning pink furry handcuffs makes me want to smile, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.

‘Actually I didn’t pick it. My new friend, Amabel, gave it to me from her garden.’ He points to the cottage across the island and the woman he was talking to earlier waves to him.

‘Been using your false charms to gain the islanders’ trust already then?’

‘If I choose to ignore certain parts of that sentence, you think I’m charming.’

I do an exaggerated fake laugh. ‘Or just false.’

‘I like my version better.’ He grins like he’s waiting for me to reply.

‘You would,’ I snap, at a loss for what else to say. I can’t be standing here trying not to smile at R.C. Art. He’s the opposite of everything I love. I shouldn’t even be giving him the time of day. I flash a tight smile at him. ‘Have a nice day.’

I try to pretend I didn’t see the look of hurt flash across his face as I shove my hands into my pockets and duck my head, wishing I had a hood I could pull up so I didn’t have to feel his eyes on me as I march towards the village, not willing to hang around for him to catch up with me. Or for me to go back and apologise because I did see that look of hurt, and I’m not sure which is worse – the fact R.C. Art might have actual human feelings or the fact that Rohan cares enough to let one sentence hurt him.

Village isn’t the right term for the area I’m walking towards. As I get closer, the paths widen into a cobblestone street lined with old-fashioned black streetlamps, waist-high brick flower beds brimming with colourful buds, and a row of shops on either side.

As I enter the street, I walk through an arch strung with white fairy lights and a sign hanging from it that reads, ‘Welcome to The Little Wedding Street, your one-stop-shop to make your big day as special as your love.’ They really don’t mind a bit of sappiness around here. I bet Rohan’s seen it and had a good laugh. The thought is enough to spur me on. No more distractions. I need to take pictures, talk to some shopkeepers, and find out exactly what The Little Wedding Island is all about.

I’m the only person on the little street of shops and I look around in awe. It’s so perfect that it doesn’t look real. It’s like a set from one of those gorgeously romantic Hallmark movies. The cobblestones are sparkling in the sunlight, and pink and white bunting is strung across the front of each shop, above open wooden shutters and vintage awning. The doors are open and inviting, and nearest to me is a café with the most delicious smell of coffee and baked goods wafting out the door. I’m definitely going in there later.

For now though, I decide to have a mosey around the shops and see what they’re selling. Oliver will definitely want that in my article. Near the café, there’s a florist shop with a few potted roses outside, red buds just starting to form. There’s a large area of flat paving stones with the worn circles of flower buckets stained on the concrete and I imagine the florist probably displays her flowers outside most of the time. The shop front is painted pastel pink and there are soft curtains at the window edges with cherry blossom and strawberries on them, and even with no flowers outside, it looks so inviting. I walk towards it, but just as I get to the door, it closes with a bang and there’s the rickety sound of the wooden shutters dropping down inside.

It makes me jump so much that I nearly topple over. I look at the shop in surprise. The lights are suddenly off inside, and with the shutter down over the door, it looks closed. It must be the wind. A gust has probably blown it shut from the inside.

I take a tentative step towards it and try the handle, but it’s locked.

I look up at the shop like I’m losing the plot. Two minutes ago, the door was open. It’s like they saw me coming and shut up quickly.

‘Rude,’ I mutter to no one in particular. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. It was probably a gust of wind that slammed the door with such force that the lock clicked into place and the blind fell down. It’s not that windy today but we’re on a tiny island in the middle of the sea. The weather is probably unpredictable out here.

Well, there are plenty of other shops on the street if the florist doesn’t want me. There’s a bridal boutique on the opposite side of the street, a double window display inside it with three mannequins in each window, each dressed in beautiful wedding gowns. I smile at the sight, but as I take a few steps across the cobbles towards it, the window display starts to disappear from view as a blackout blind is lowered. They can’t be shutting up too. It’s not even close to lunchtime yet. I jog across the wide street, hoping to catch whoever’s inside, but I find that door locked too when my hand closes around the handle.

It’s not even eleven a.m. Where are they all going at once? Or do they just not want me to see inside?

Which is weird. Why would they not want me to see inside?

I glance behind me, suddenly feeling alone and unwelcome on what looked like such a warm and inviting street less than five minutes ago. It looks like a ghost town now. Apart from the café, every shop door is closed and every window has their blinds down. The florist has even drawn her pretty curtains.

Surely this isn’t because of me? I must be imagining it. Maybe none of the doors were open earlier. Or maybe they just close up for lunch really early here.

Two doors up from where I’m standing is a bakery. I can see the reflection of the cakes in the closed window of the shop opposite it. The door is still open and I decide to make a run for it. If I can grab just one shopkeeper, I’m sure they’ll have a simple explanation for the sudden mass exodus.

I stretch my calf muscles like I’m starting a marathon and sprint towards the open door of the bakery, and the very second I get there, just as I’m about to get one foot on the step, a woman slams the door shut from inside and I jump back in surprise.

She stares at me through the glass pane of the door, and keeps eye contact as she slowly and deliberately turns over the ‘open’ sign and pats it against the glass with a severe-sounding tap. The word ‘closed’ mocks me.

I step forwards and rap on the door. ‘What are you doing? Let me in!’ I say, wondering if they think I’m going to rob them or something. Do I look like a burglar?

Through the glass door, she looks me straight in the eyes, lifts a hand, and wags a finger at me like she’s scolding a toddler. She doesn’t break eye contact until a dark blind gradually lowers between us, blocking the view. A curtain has lowered inside the window too, shutting out the display of cakes.

This is ridiculous. What have I done to these people to make myself so unwelcome here? Why would any shopkeeper close their shop when a customer comes along? Doesn’t that defeat the object of having a shop? What’s going on?

I wander to the other end of the street, another metal arch strung with fairy lights and a sign saying, ‘Thank you for visiting The Little Wedding Street.’

Hah, I think as I lean against the arch and kick at a cobblestone, half expecting the shops to open up again now I’ve gone past, but there’s no movement. It really is like a ghost town, and I think of Oliver’s words about reporters coming here and still never knowing anything about the island. Is this why? Do they close down at the first hint of a tourist? I thought this was meant to be a place that relied on tourism. According to the cynics of the world like Oliver and Rohan, they’ve invented their church of no-divorce story to drum up tourism, and if that’s the case, this is surely not the way to go about it.

I sigh and turn my back on the street. I’m at the bottom of the hill leading up to the church. The cobblestones fade into neatly mown grass, and there’s a narrow path winding up the hill towards the grey building. Even from this angle, it’s still almost completely obscured by trees. There are other ways to get up to it – a wide tarmac path twisting around the coast edges and upwards in a circle around the hill – but I’d have to go back through the ghost street to reach it, so I take the little path.

The shops’ closing has upset me a bit. It’s made me feel like an intruder here, but I have to start my article somewhere and The Little Wedding Street certainly wasn’t very successful. I may as well get right to the heart of the matter and find out about the church.

I reach the top of the path and follow it around the hill to the coastal side of the island where it joins up with the wider road. I stop and lean against a tree to catch my breath, hoping no one is watching me feeling the effects of always taking the lift and not the stairs at work.

It’s like a forestry up here. Although the wide road is lined with uniform tree trunks, the branches above me are thick and unkempt with greenery and meet in the middle, not letting much daylight through. I’ve been to a lot of weddings in my time and I can safely say this is the most romantic walk to a wedding venue I’ve ever seen.

‘The proper road is a lot less steep, you know.’

I look up to see Rohan coming towards me, grinning.

Great. I’m sweaty and gasping for breath, and he looks just as gorgeous as he did earlier. Why is it that the hotter a guy is, the more of a state I look in his presence? Not that him being hot matters when he’s got the values of an immoral pond-skater, but I’m trying to be professional and aloof here, not the panting mess I currently am. My jeans have got grass stains on them from the climb up, my jacket snagged on every branch I passed, and there’s got to be at least half a tree attached to my hair.

‘Are you following me?’ I wheeze, trying to retain some dignity.

‘Of course not. I try to stay away from people who clearly don’t want to see me. Otherwise you get labels like “stalker” thrown around and there are all sorts of restraining orders and stuff. It’s not fun.’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me if you knew that from experience,’ I mutter.

‘Oh, come on. I write tongue-in-cheek columns that take the mickey out of weddings. I don’t do anything illegal and I’m sorry I’ve offended you so much that you think that badly of me.’

I feel myself softening as I look at him. He seems genuine and his calm but amused way of speaking makes me think I’m being irrational. R.C. Art is probably just an exaggerated character that he uses for his job, like Ali G or Keith Lemon. It doesn’t mean Rohan is really like that. ‘Sorry, that was a bit harsh considering you brought me cake last night.’

A wide smile breaks across his face and I suddenly feel even more out of breath than I already was.

‘So, are you heading for the church?’

I nod and he continues. ‘So was I, but if I’ve really upset you that much and you want me to leave, I’ll go and come back later.’

‘No, of course not,’ I say instantly, taken aback by how considerate he is. I would never ask him to do that and the fact that he’s offered – that he’d be willing to go away just because I’m here – makes me feel warm all over. No one who was truly as horrible as R.C. Art would care about my feelings that much.

‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ he says, smiling again. ‘And we haven’t had our meeting about cockroaches yet. I definitely heard some scurrying in the night. What about you?’

I laugh despite myself. Talking to him makes it very easy to forget everything apart from the ice blue of his eyes and the way they sparkle as he grins at me. ‘No. There are no cockroaches.’

‘Oh well, maybe it was just mice and rats then,’ he says as he falls into step beside me and we turn the next corner so the church gate is in sight.

‘You just think you’re being funny. The B&B is very clean and Clara’s lovely. All right, her taste is a little… not-of-this-century… but there are no cockroaches and definitely no mice or rats. If you heard anything last night, it was probably those awful china ornaments with the blank eyes. I reckon they’re possessed. There’s definitely something not right about them.’

‘Oh, tell me about it. There’s one of a little boy playing with a dead bird on the chest of drawers in my room and it’s looking directly at the bed. I had to get up in the night and turn it round to face the wall so it wasn’t watching me. I was surprised to find it hadn’t turned back around by itself this morning.’

‘Enough to stop anyone sleeping.’

‘Actually, I couldn’t sleep because I was horrible to this girl on Twitter last week and she deserves a proper apology.’ He nudges my arm. ‘I am sorry, Bonnie. Genuinely. Not just because you’re here or because my boss told me I should be sorry approximately thirty thousand times while he was ripping my head off on Monday morning. I shouldn’t have screencapped your tweets or tried to bring the magazine battle into it, and I definitely could’ve been nicer over dinner last night.’

Goose bumps creep across the back of my neck and a lovely tingle goes down my spine. I shake myself. ‘Apology reluctantly accepted.’

‘Good, we can at least be civil to each other, can’t we? We’re both working on the same thing and this island is less than two miles wide – we’re bound to run into each other.’

‘I guess.’ I sigh. I never expected R.C. Art to be so reasonable. ‘Rohan…’

He cocks his head to the side as he looks at me, his mouth curving up at one side like he’s trying not to smile.

‘I’m sorry too,’ I say. ‘I shouldn’t have thrown wine over you last night, and I should’ve just ignored you on Twitter.’

‘Nah, you’re okay. I write stuff that’s always going to get a reaction. I’ve been at it for years and I still haven’t learnt to ignore my critics.’

I want to ask him more, but we reach the church gate and he whoops in victory. ‘Well, would you look at that? I told you there’d be an arch of flowers.’

I stop in awe of the little lane beyond the gate. ‘That’s not an arch of flowers. It’s more a tunnel of trees.’

The church is still out of sight, nothing more than the occasional glimpse of grey bricks between greenery, but the lane leading up to it is incredible. Huge trees are evenly spaced along each side of it, but rather than the wild forestry of the road leading up here, their branches are all twisted and plaited together so they meet in the middle and form a tunnel. The branches are starting to burst with the green buds of spring, and to say it looks magical would be an understatement.

‘It’s plant life. It counts,’ Rohan says. ‘You can’t say they’re not predictable here. They may as well have ordered that straight from the catalogue of romantic things.’

‘Oh, come on. That’s incredible. It must’ve taken years to construct that. They must’ve let the trees grow and then spent years training them into that shape so it looks fantastic but doesn’t hurt the trees.’

‘Hmm,’ he mutters noncommittally.

‘Can you imagine walking down here as man and wife? A father and daughter walking through this as he goes to give her away? Running through it with your new partner? Stopping here for your wedding photos? It’s perfect. I’ve never seen a more beautiful entrance to a church.’

He looks up at the trees and back at me. ‘I suppose you go to enough weddings to make a fair judgement so I’ll take your word for it.’

‘Doesn’t it feel special to you?’ I put my hand on my heart and close my eyes. ‘It feels like you can… sense how many couples have been married here. There’s such an incredible atmosphere.’

‘I think it’s called being away from city traffic.’

When I open my eyes, he’s looking at me with a raised eyebrow.

‘Know what I can hear?’ he continues. ‘The cha-ching of how much money this place must be dragging in from people who think they can sense romance in the atmosphere.’

I ignore him and try to open the gate instead but it doesn’t budge. It’s a wooden farm gate at around armpit height, but there’s a heavy chain binding it to the gatepost, and a hefty padlock that leaves no doubt about how welcome visitors are.

‘Seems warm and inviting.’ Rohan pushes the gate to see how steady it is. ‘I could climb that.’

‘Yeah, if you want to break your neck.’

‘Excuse me.’ A man clears his throat and we both look up to see a bloke in a black shirt and clerical collar coming down the lane towards us. ‘There will be no climbing of gates or breaking of necks today, thank you very much.’

He stops on his side of the gate and gives us a look that says he’d be more thrilled to find a hyperactive baboon with a box of matches and a fondness for pyromania waiting to come in. ‘Is there something I can help you with that may change your current plans for trespassing onto private property and possible mortal injury?’

‘We’ve heard a lot about your church,’ I say before Rohan can say whatever sarcastic comment is itching to spill out of his mouth. ‘We just wanted to come in and have a look at the place. It sounds magical.’

‘Ah, I see.’ The vicar nods knowingly. ‘Have you, perhaps, missed the giant padlock? Does the “keep out” sign translate to you as “come in, visitors welcome”?’ His voice is upbeat but there’s a hint of steel behind his words. ‘Reporters again, I presume?’

‘We’re just tourists,’ Rohan says. ‘Come to explore Edelweiss Island. You can’t stay here without having a butcher’s at the church, can you?’

‘Are you here to get married?’

‘No!’ Rohan sounds more alarmed than is probably normal to sound at the mere mention of a word.

‘Then I’m afraid I can’t help you,’ the vicar says with a shrug that looks more condescending than apologetic. ‘And if you get any further ideas of breaking and entering, I would like to advise you that I have a guard dog.’

‘Aww, I love dogs. What breed is he? Can we meet him?’ Rohan doesn’t wait for an answer before he lets out a shrill whistle to call the dog.

I expect to see a large, angry Doberman racing down the path hungry for a taste of blood. What actually happens is a little black pug comes waddling out of the woodland and sits down beside the vicar’s ankles.

‘Oh my God, that’s the cutest dog I’ve ever seen.’ Rohan drops to his knees and shoves both arms through the gate and starts cooing at the dog. I’m convinced he’s about to lose his fingers, but the dog wags his whole body as he wanders over, gives his hand a sniff, and promptly throws himself upside down on the grass and wriggles around for Rohan to tickle his belly.

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