Turning back to meet my gaze tenderly, he asks, “For me?”
My heart squeezes. “Yeah, Jay, it’s for you.”
He grins when he sees the tiny outline of a heart I’ve stitched into the fabric, rubs his finger over it, but doesn’t breathe a word. His silence speaks volumes. Next he starts to try it on. A minute later he’s fully dressed and I come to stand in front of him and smooth out the collar.
“You look good, husband-to-be,” I smile up at him.
He smiles hotly and growls with satisfaction as he scoops me up into his arms before throwing me onto the bed. He crawls up my body, his eyes dark with lust, “I want to be your husband now. I don’t want to wait.”
I giggle. “How soon do you think we could get Dad and Jessie over here? You know they’d go crazy if we had a wedding without them.”
Jay tilts his head to the side, like he’s thinking about it. “Hmm, a couple of days maybe?”
“That’s frighteningly soon, Jay. Are you sure about this?”
He leans down and bites lightly on my neck. “Never been surer about anything in my life.”
His words make me melt. “Okay, then. I only have one rule.”
“And what’s that?” he asks, not really paying attention as his mouth works its way down my neck.
“We’re not getting married by Elvis,” I state firmly.
He pauses and chuckles loudly, looking at me now. “Okay, it’s a deal. Sooo…how do you feel about ministers who wear deerstalkers?”
I point a finger into his chest, a laugh bursting forth. “We’re not getting married by Sherlock Holmes either, Jason. No way in hell.”
His smile deepens. “How about I go as Sherlock and you go as Watson?”
“You’re trying to annoy me on purpose now,” I scold but I can’t stop smiling. “Clothes are my business. I’m going to wear a beautiful dress to my wedding, Jay. There will be no compromises.”
“I suppose I can live with that,” he murmurs in my ear, his hand inching up under my skirt. “At least I can look forward to stripping it off you.”
When he buries his face in my chest, I forget all about wedding dresses, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Elvis, and randomly appearing diamond rings. I lose myself in this glorious man who’s turned my life into an adventure and shown me wonder in the miraculous.
With Jason Fields by my side, the world is a pretty magical place.
END.
About the author
L.H. Cosway has a BA in English Literature and Greek and Roman Civilisation and an MA in Postcolonial Literature. She lives in Dublin city. Her inspiration to write comes from music. Her favourite things in life include writing stories, vintage clothing, dark cabaret music, food, musical comedy, and of course, books.
She thinks that imperfect people are the most interesting kind. They tell the best stories.
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Thank you for reading Six of Hearts
Read on for an excerpt from L.H. Cosway’s contemporary romance, Painted Faces.
Myself and my best friend Nora have been living together for almost three years now in our two bedroom apartment in the city. Not as glamorous as it sounds, let me tell you. In those three years we've lived next to a junkie couple, a single mother with two obnoxious children, and a young husband and wife with a baby who, when the baby wasn't crying the building down, would have noisy rows at two o'clock in the morning. The couple moved out about three weeks ago, providing myself and Nora with some much deserved peace and quiet.
The man I'm currently staring at looks like he belongs in this place about as much as an Indian tiger belongs in the Dublin Zoo. He has jet black hair, sort of midway between long and short, ice blue eyes and a classically beautiful face. His physique is lightly muscled in that kind of athletic way, and when he smiles at me politely his whole face lights up. His eyes are all shines and sparkles.
“Hello there,” he says, shutting the door behind him and locking it with his key. His accent is mildly Australian, not Irish. He steps toward me, holding his hand out for me to give it a shake. I give him a look that's probably somewhere between confused and exasperated, as I clearly can't get my hands free for the shake he's waiting on.
“You must be Freda, your flatmate Nora invited me in for a cup of tea earlier. Lovely girl.” He says.
Oh, I'm sure she did. Nora is quite the opportunist when it comes to men, and I'd say she thought this fellow was a fine specimen. Even within this short conversation, I've noticed something sort of electric about his personality, something addictive. His eyes pull me in, like they hold secrets that could make my boring old life so much more exciting. You don't come across men this alluring very often.
“Fred, you can call me Fred,” I tell him stupidly, placing the plastic bags down on the floor so that I can finally shake his hand.
Our palms touch, our fingers entwine, and I can't believe I'm admitting this, but the tiniest tingle goes through me at the contact. Of course, he doesn't know that, and thank fuck, because he'd probably think I was some kind of a pervert. I mean, who exactly gets tingles when they shake a person's hand? You might as well say, Hello, you'll be starring in my dirty dreams tonight, Mr Blue Eyes. Not creepy in the slightest. Perhaps it's been too long since I last had a boyfriend.
I let go first and try to ignore his magnetism. He laughs, a wonderfully low sound that vibrates through to my toes. “Okay Fred, you can call me Vivica.”
Our eyes connect and we both smile at his joke. It's funny, but not funny enough to solicit a laugh. “Cool, if we become close friends can I call you Viv?” I respond.
He mock flicks his hair over his shoulder, a very feminine gesture, and puts on a sweet Marilyn Monroe voice. “You can call me whatever you like, Frederick.” The gesture suddenly opens my eyes to a certain fey aspect in his demeanour. Maybe he's gay. He certainly dresses well enough.
“Why thanks, I'll keep that in mind, Viv. It was a pleasure to meet you. I hope you're finding the place to your liking.”
“Oh it's a palace fit for a queen, Freddie, a real find.”
I take note of his obvious sarcasm. He still faces me, walking backwards down the hall, twirling his keys around his fingers. Clearly he has somewhere he needs to be.
I laugh. “Well, that's good to hear. Drop in for tea any time.”
He nods and leers at my wet top, where my purple D-cup bra is blatantly visible through my cream t-shirt. “Damn it,” he says humorously. “Did I miss the wet t-shirt competition, again?” The way he's staring at my top makes me 99% sure he isn't gay.
“Ah, you did I'm afraid, in Dublin we put on some great ones too. We all gather down by the river Liffey and dive in with our clothes on. When we climb out the junkies on the board walk give us marks out of ten.”
He smirks at me. “If that's the case then you must have gotten an eleven. Sounds like a real classy affair Fred, I'll make sure I don't miss the next one.”
“Come along whenever you like. We always welcome newcomers.” I tell him, running with the joke.
He salutes me then, smiling at me fondly, and disappears around the corner. It's only at that moment that I realise he still hasn't told me his real name.
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