Meet Me at the Honeymoon Suite Read online

  Meet Me at the Honeymoon Suite

  CHARLOTTE PHILLIPS

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  HarperImpulse an imprint of

  HarperCollinsPublishers

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  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015

  Copyright © Charlotte Phillips 2015

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

  Cover layout design © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2015

  Cover design by HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd

  Charlotte Phillips asserts the moral right

  to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is

  available from the British Library

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

  The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

  the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

  entirely coincidental.

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  and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

  Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9780008119393

  Version 2015-06-29

  As this is the final book in the series I’d like to take this opportunity to say a massive thank you to my amazing editor Charlotte, who has bailed me out of more head-crashing-on-desk moments in the past five years than I care to think about. Thanks also to all the team at HarperImpulse . With HI anything goes really, in terms of ideas, and that has made writing for them great fun.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  Also by Charlotte Phillips …

  Charlotte Phillips

  About HarperImpulse

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER 1

  Amy straightened the grey jacket with the pink piping, the standard uniform for the Lavington Hotel, London, still unfamiliar against her skin after only a few days’ wear. She adjusted the name badge pinned to her lapel.

  Amy Wilson – Wedding & Events Manager, it said in glossy black letters.

  The M-word. How long had she been waiting to have that job title? Years of playing second-fiddle as she worked her way up from trainee via a string of provincial three-star chain hotels, doing the hard graft to pull together business meetings, courses, then later charity dinner dances, Christmas parties and weddings while someone else took the credit.

  Now she was at the Lavington, the position of her dreams having dropped out of the blue into her lap via a word-of-mouth tip off. It almost felt like being headhunted. The Lavington had been left in the lurch when her predecessor had walked off the job without so much as a by your leave, and by lucky chance Amy happened to go way back with the Head Bar Manager here. They’d waited tables together one summer in the distant past. A word or two in the right ear from her friend and the job was as good as hers. To be fair, the Lavington did have its back against the wall, but that didn’t detract from the fact that she was ready for this promotion. Had been ready, in fact, for years. This was her chance at the big time. This was an up and coming boutique hotel in a fashionable area of London with its quirky décor and a sprinkling of celebrity guests beginning to lend it a bit of kudos. It was a world away from the motorway junction hotel chain she’d spent the last few years in, organising endless cheap as chips buffet events while the manager bandied the phrase ‘squeeze that margin’ about.

  Still, she might have the badge but the job wasn’t quite hers – not yet. There were hoops to jump through in the form of a three month trial period. Not that she intended to need it. She knew all eyes would be on her this weekend for the first wedding of the season, one half-planned by her predecessor before her swift unexpected exit. It was up to Amy to fine tune those plans and pull 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 sm
ile.

  ‘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 of wedding guests turning up at any moment, I. Am. On. Duty.’

  ‘So am I,’ he said. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  She stared down at his hand as he held it out towards her.

  ‘Owen Lloyd,’ he said. ‘Best Man. At your service.’

  ‘You’re the best man?’

  Oh just bloody perfect. She looked him up and down in his casual jeans-and-jacket combo.

  ‘No need to sound so surprised. It’s just a bit of partying with a speech thrown in.’

  She opened her mouth to point out how utterly pivotal that role actually was, particularly in light of the fact the Lavington was hosting not only the wedding but also respective hen and stag nights for the bride and groom, but speech was sucked away by the sound of excited chatter as more guests entered the room. She turned immediately to greet them, pasting on a professional smile that faded as quickly as it arrived.

  What the hell? She almost blurted.

  The reality of the situation bit her squarely on the arse as she stared across the lounge. The champagne bottles, the glassware, the bloody annoying best man all suddenly melted into insignificance against the shock that fell through her stomach. She glanced back at her clipboard again, just to check she wasn’t having some insane nightmare. Then back up. Nope, he was still there.

  It bloody WAS Luke Pemberton. The wedding on which her dream job hung and Mr Marriage-Phobic from her past was the bridegroom.

  In half a dozen strides he was across the bar and clapping an arm around her stiff shoulders.

  ‘Babe! Long time no speak!’

  She gaped at Luke in shock.

  Somewhere in the course of the past year his accent, always working class, had somehow become more exaggerated. His reddish hair was in a thick mop style, Oasis circa 1995, and he wore drainpipe jeans, a slim-fit jacket and (most unbelievably) sunglasses, which he now removed.

  ‘I hardly recognised you,’ he blared, as if she’d had a head transplant rather than just aged twelve months or so.

  ‘Me either,’ she said. ‘You look very…er…Britpop.’

  From the corner of her eye she registered Owen Lloyd grin broadly from his place next to the bar.

  ‘How the bloody hell are you?’ Luke shouted. He gave her no time to reply. Everything was spoken a couple of notches louder than strictly necessary, as if he were addressing an audience. ‘It’s so great to see you. I’m getting married!’

  He took a skipping step forward and waved jazz hands, as if he were making an announcement on stage. Amy blinked at him.

  He took a step to one side and from behind him ushered forward a blonde girl with big hair and a slender figure that somehow coexisted with an enviable pert cleavage. Behind them, a slow trickle of wedding guests began milling into the room and heading straight for the drinks trays.

  ‘This is Sabrina. My fiancée.’

  The blonde met her gaze with narrowed eyes.

  ‘Angel, this is Amy,’ Luke said. ‘Just someone I used to know from my home town.’

  Sabrina’s eyes instan
tly widened at the lack of competition and she offered a perfect white smile that could not possibly be natural.

  ‘Great to meet you,’ she said, holding out a perfectly- manicured hand, the nails painted a glossy shade of black cherry.

  Amy shook Sabrina’s hand politely and swallowed hard to clear the dry indignant sensation that constricted her throat. Just someone I used to know. Could he be more dismissive? Rising resentment mingled with amazement at Luke’s clothes and attitude. What the hell had happened to the guitar-mad but totally normal guy she’d known?

  ‘Are you still in the same job?’ she asked him. ‘Session musician wasn’t it, for that recording studio.’

  He stared at her aghast.

  ‘Babe, you mean you haven’t heard? I landed a recording contract. It must have been massive news back home.’

  ‘I haven’t been back home for a while,’ she pointed out. ‘I managed to land a job here. I live in London now and I’m so busy. I’m obviously not in the loop.’

  He nodded as if it came as no surprise to him that she wasn’t hip to what was going on in the entertainment industry. It seemed that he’d left her behind in Purton because boring old Amy Wilson didn’t fit with his guitar ambitions once they climbed a smidgeon higher than playing the local pubs. Not that he’d bothered to tell her that of course, instead it had been all excuses about focusing on his work and not wanting to be tied down.

  Sabrina excused herself and headed for the bar. As she watched, Owen Lloyd handed her a flute of champagne, his eyebrows raised in a vague impression of disapproval, undoubtedly because it wasn’t some kind of uber-modern cocktail.

  ‘Good news on the job,’ Luke said, and she snapped her eyes back to him. He gave her a cautious half-smile. ‘Sorry things didn’t – you know – work out between us. Back home I mean.’

  ‘So when did you decide that marriage was for you after all?’ she said before she could stop herself, because he’d been so utterly adamant back in the day. ‘An outdated institution, you said. ‘No need for a piece of paper, you said.’

 
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