Despite how beery he smells, I love being in his arms. His warm, strong, familiar arms.

He slides one leg between mine and kisses my neck. Is he naked? I have a quick feel for his boxers and realise they came off with his jeans.

‘How was Elliot?’ I ask.

‘Bad. Bridgie’s getting married.’

‘I know. I spoke to her.’

‘Thought you might’ve.’ He kisses my neck again.

‘So Elliot’s in a bad way?’

‘He was. He’s pretty happy right now, though. Fliss took him off to a club.’

‘I didn’t know she was out with you tonight.’ I don’t sound thrilled.

‘Bumped into her and she stuck around.’

I bet she did.

Fliss – Felicity – is a friend of Lachie’s from work. She and her older sister, Georgina, run a catering company and they’ve been putting a lot of weddings his way. I’m sure she wants to get into his pants, but Lachie insists she only sees him as a mate. He reckons I’d like her if I gave her a chance.

‘I thought she was doing this wedding with you tomorrow.’

‘She is. She’s picking me up at six.’

‘She’s driving? And she’s still out drinking? She’ll probably still be over the limit when she gets behind the wheel!’

‘She’ll be fine,’ Lachie mutters, while I have this horrible feeling I sound like his mother. ‘Anyway, George will probably drive.’

‘So Fliss is out with Elliot right now?’ I ask as he kisses my neck again.

‘Mmm.’ The vibration of his lips on my skin makes me wriggle.

‘Does she fancy him?’

Lachie shrugs. ‘I don’t know. He fancies her, though, so that’s a good start.’

‘Isn’t she a bit young for him?’

‘Says the cradle snatcher,’ he snorts with amusement.

Lachie is twenty-eight, the same age as Fliss, while Elliot is thirty-five, just one year older than I am. My boyfriend has a point, but I shove his shoulder indignantly, regardless.

‘Doesn’t she care that she’s his rebound shag?’

‘Can we stop talking about El and Fliss?’ he asks pointedly, rolling onto his back and pulling me on top of him. He runs his hands up inside my top and cups my breasts.

There are other, far more pressing things to talk about, but right now, there are also far more pressing things to do.

I have to drag myself from bed the next morning when Lachie’s alarm goes off.

‘You don’t need to get up,’ he says in a deep, groggy voice.

‘I’ll make you a coffee,’ I reply, stumbling into the kitchen. It’s quarter to six. The shower turns on and, a few minutes later, Lachie joins me, wearing black jeans, a grey T-shirt and a dark-blue beanie pulled over his blond hair. He never wears a suit when he gigs.

He presses a kiss to my temple. I turn and slide my arms around his waist and he pulls me close, engulfing me with his warmth.