‘Fewer messages involved.’

‘Get all the responses at once.’

‘Don’t accidentally forget to WhatsApp someone who you should have remembered.’ I was certainly leaning towards the second option. ‘Okay, this weekend? I can text the group chat and suggest …’ I reached for my phone and Rowan pushed my hand away. ‘Tomorrow, I can text the group chat tomorrow and suggest drinks for this weekend. Friday?’

‘Perfect.’

‘I’m sorry …’ The intrusion erupted from behind Rowan again and from the brash tone of it I guessed the man wasn’t really all that sorry at all. ‘But you’re engaged, like, to be wed?’

‘Smithy,’ the barwoman cautioned, and I was glad of it. She spoke with the curt tone of a woman who handled drunk men all too often. ‘Leave it alone.’

‘Come on …’ He’s not leaving it, I thought as I pulled in a big breath. ‘They’re engaged,’ he reminded her before he turned back to us. ‘You’re mid-twenties at a push, like, and you’re engaged to be married already in your lives. By Christ.’ He paused to wet his lips with beer. ‘Are the pair of you sure you’re thinking straight?’

‘Smithy,’ Rowan answered, using a tone surprisingly like the barwoman’s, ‘I’ve never thought straighter about anything in my life.’ He turned around and kissed me square on the mouth. It wasn’t exactly the stuff of Notting Hill, but it’d do …

Chapter 2

The morning after, I woke with a dull feeling of tiredness still. The bubbles and excitement of our quiet celebration had kept me and Rowan awake until the early hours of the morning. We’d stayed at mine – to avoid his noisy, nosy housemates – and as the sunlight flooded in through wildflower-print curtains, I thought everything in the world was a bit perfect. I rolled over to face Rowan’s side, though, and saw that perfect or not, I was waking up alone. The bathroom door was wide open, too, so that ruled out him disappearing for a morning wee. It crossed my mind for the flicker of a second that he might be making breakfast for us both, but I laughed the thought away.

‘Not that future husband of mine,’ I said quietly into the room to try the phrase on for size. It didn’t taste right yet, though, and I thought that was even more reason to keep trying. ‘Future husband, dear future husband …’ I kept going until I broke out into a gentle hum of music, my bum moving in sync to my song as I danced flat against the bedsheets.

‘It is bloody connected to the Wi-Fi.’