the weekend off seamlessly.
With enormous effort she reined in the squiggling butterflies of excitement in her stomach as she walked down the thickly carpeted hallway toward the lounge bar where a welcoming choice of champagne or fruit juice should be set up and ready to go for the…she ran a sensibly short, nude-lacquered fingernail down the page on the top of her clipboard…Pemberton Wedding.
Pemberton.
Her quick pace faltered momentarily as the name sent a curl of nostalgia folding through her. Here was that mental stutter that has the ability to stop you in your tracks when you hear a name that takes you back to the past. Not that far into the past in this case. It had been just over a year since Luke Pemberton had left her in the back of beyond that was Purton, Wiltshire. What had seemed a happy enough relationship that would one day be taken to the next level had been stopped in its tracks when he’d had a job offer that meant moving away.
It was only the briefest of mental stutters.
Amy resumed her steady tread down the hallway, secure in the knowledge that whatever Pemberton happened to be getting married here in the plush surroundings of the Lavington, it most definitely wasn’t Luke Pemberton, formerly of Purton. Because Luke Pemberton didn’t do serious relationships. He’d made that crystal clear when he ended things between them. He was a free spirit who couldn’t be tied down – he had far too many ambitions and dreams to follow first. And when he did eventually decide to settle (probably when he was drawing his pension) it most certainly wouldn’t involve the need for a worthless piece of paper.
Luke Pemberton didn’t believe in marriage. Any more than Amy Wilson believed in happy ever afters.
Amy entered the quiet lounge to a comforting surge of relieved satisfaction when she saw the silver trays of champagne flutes just waiting to be filled and the platters of posh nibbles that were lined up at one end of the glossy bar as per her explicit instructions. A perfectly-turned-out contingent of waiting staff should be along imminently.
All she needed to do was turf out the dark-haired bloke in the jeans who was currently leaning over the bar and scrutinising the bottles on the backlit shelves at the rear. In one hand he brandished the hotel wine list, which he’d obviously swiped from one of the tables. Drink sales rep or stray hotel guest, she really didn’t care which, she only cared that he was ruining the first impression for the most important wedding party she’d handled thus far in her career. Amy glanced around, frowning. The bar attendant was nowhere in sight.
‘Excuse me, sir?’
She crossed the lounge at speed, eyes ticking off sparkling glassware and beautifully displayed flower arrangements as she went. She reached the bar as he turned to face her and wasted no time in pasting on her standard professional I-mean-business smile.
‘I’m afraid this lounge is reserved today for a private function, sir,’ she said. ‘Coffee or drinks can be ordered in the lobby, or there’s a second bar further along the hall.’
‘You know you could up your game considerably by serving a welcome cocktail,’ he said, totally ignoring her. ‘Fruit juice is just so heavy and unimaginative as a non-alcoholic option these days.’ He waved a hand at the line of bottles on the counter. ‘How about something light and refreshing like elderflower cordial? And straight champagne is so bog-standard and predictable. I’d do a twist on it. A Kir Royale, perhaps. Got to make sure you use Crème de Cassis, though, no cutting corners with syrups. Or perhaps a Bellini.’
He might as well have been speaking a different language. She stared at him.
‘A what?’
‘Champagne base again, but blended with fresh ripe peaches. Delicious and a real show stopper. Or you could use raspberries if you prefer.’
He had perfect chiselled cheekbones and blue eyes that creased at the corners as he smiled at her expectantly, as if in some laughable universe she would ever scrap the requested drink plan of the bride and groom on nothing more than the whim of a passer-by. She shook her head lightly to get it back on track. Her instincts were clearly right: bloody drinks rep. If she gave the slightest hint of encouragement he’d no doubt launch into his sales spiel.
‘Look, you really need to make an appointment with the Head Bar Manager,’ she said, knowing perfectly well how exasperated Conrad would be if she referred some random wine rep to him, but prepared to do anything to get rid of him, pronto. ‘The Lavington doesn’t accept unsolicited sales visits.’ She had no idea if this was true or not and neither did she care as long as he vacated the lounge right this second.
He grinned broadly.
‘Sales visits,’ he repeated.
‘I could have a quick word with Reception and see if they can help you.’
Anything to get him out of here in his tatty jeans and T-shirt-beneath-jacket ensemble.
‘That’s very kind of you…’ he took a step into her personal space and scrutinised her name badge ‘…Amy Wilson, Wedding and Events Manager.’
She nodded, biting the inside of her cheek to stop a smile bubbling up. Hearing the job title out loud gave her an inner tiny squee of satisfaction.
‘It’s this way.’
She made a move toward the double doors.
Owen Lloyd gazed after her, amused. Having arrived early, he’d been doing a quick recce of the hotel bars before the party started. From what he’d read in the press, the Lavington Hotel was becoming quite the celebrity hangout, and although he liked to think he already had hip and trendy London Cocktail Bar sewn up, it didn’t hurt to keep your eye on what the competition was up to. Now within five minutes of meeting the wedding manager he had apparently managed to inadvertently land himself a sales pitch. Who knew what he might achieve given another five minutes.
At the very least, she was extremely cute to look at with her Miss Professional attitude and sparring with her was much more fun than making a mental note of the Lavington’s range of house wines.
‘Shame not to have a drink first,’ he called after her, not moving an inch.
She turned back to him. She had honey-coloured hair that didn’t want to be pinned up, with soft tendrils escaping to curl around her face, and wide hazel eyes, currently sporting an expression of exasperated disbelief. There was a sprinkle of freckles covering her nose and a pink blush rising high on her peaches and cream cheekbones that perfectly matched the piped edging on her uniform.
He nodded toward the array of drinks on the bar.
‘Like to join me? I could even get behind that bar and mix something a bit more interesting if you like.’
‘No I would not like to join you.’ she snapped. ‘This room is reserved for-‘
‘A wedding. I know. You said. It all looks perfect.’
‘I can’t believe I’m getting sucked into an argument about drink choice. The guests will be arriving at any moment.’ She flung an exasperated hand out. ‘A wedding is, by its nature, a logistical nightmare. My position here hinges on there being a classy, beautifully welcoming atmosphere to get the weekend off to the perfect start. I simply cannot have random members of the public or salesmen wandering in wearing jeans and criticising the drink choices. Weddings and champagne go together. It’s that simple. Gin and Tonic just doesn’t cut the celebratory mustard.’
‘I didn’t say Gin and Tonic,’ he interrupted. ‘I’m talking classy, palatable, funky celebratory cocktails that get the guests talking. Champagne is so overdone.’
He reached for one of the bottles.
‘Put that down!’
He spread his hands, unable to stop a grin. She was wound up like a coiled spring.
‘Relax,’ he said. ‘Have a drink.’
‘For Pete’s sake, how many times. Even if I didn’t have a gaggle