Page 114 of Rafferty's Rules
RAFFERTY
‘Oh, goodness! What on earth is going on here?’ Lissa pulls on my hand and I stop, turning to see why she isn’t as desperate to get back to the cottage as I am. In my haste, I can physically feel the expression I’m wearing, my brows creased in frustration. But as I follow her gaze, I see what’s stopped her in her tracks.
Byron and Amber. In a barrel full of, I’m guessing, Shiraz grapes. My brows retract, my grin unrestrained.Classic Byron.
‘But what is it they’re doing?’ Lissa’s asks, her question effusive, her eyes sparkling.
‘Looks like Byron’s making his own wedding vintage.’ And copping a feel in front of these fine people, by the looks of things.
‘Isn’t that wine stomping?’ she asks, fighting a small smile.
I nod. Technically, they’re just punching down. Or more technical still, they’re beginning the process ofpigéage.But whatever you want to call it, I call it fucking genius.
Lissa gives into her smile then throws back her head and laughs throatily.God, I could devour her whole right now.Pull her deeper into the gardens, hold her by the arms against, then kiss as much skin as she’d dare to expose.
‘That’s so cool! A wine made to commemorate their wedding day.’
Then we both watch the antics of the newlyweds as Amber holds her dress high up against her thighs to avoid staining the ivory fabric, the train wrapped around one of her forearms. The coupled are laughing, and kissing, and attempting to stomp some grapes, but the whole effect is hampered as Byron slides his hands under her arse, almost making her topple over. As she overcorrects, he gets what he wants as his wife falls in his arms.
‘Can we do that here? Not now,’ she adds hurriedly, ‘but sometime?’
Sometime. We’re leaving for Sydney tomorrow, and her flight is less than forty-eight hours after that. Still, I nod because maybe she’ll stay longer? Maybe she’ll change her flight? But I don’t get to say any of that, I don’t even get to use my quip about splodging kink, not as Roman rocks up, appearing in front of us, the jacket of his tux abandoned somewhere. His bowtie looks long gone, and his shirt is open to reveal a T-shirt with the image of a cockerel on front, which seems to support the slogan,‘rock out with your cock out’.
In other words, my youngest brother is hammered.
‘G’day, gorgeous.’Yep, off his chops.‘D’you fancy bustin’ a few shapes with the best of the Phillips crew?’ As he delivers this piece of shit enticement, he hooks both thumbs at his chest, his legs moving in a way some would classify as a dance.
Fuck me sideways.
‘No, I would not!’ Lissa shakes her head with a bubbling laugh.
‘Come on!’ Roman taunts, ‘You know you want to dance with this big boy.’
‘Oi, are your ears painted on? She saidno.’
‘You’re just jealous of my moves,’ he heckles, pointing at the fowl on his shirt.I know which the bigger cock is, and I’m not just talking about what’s on his T-shirt.‘I’ve already had the bride and Chastity on the floor.’
‘You might want to rephrase that, fuck face.’
‘Chill out,’ he demands, which just has the opposite effect. ‘I had them on the dance floor,in frontof everyone.’
‘It’s okay,’ Lissa says, patting the front of my shoulder, pointing out what a tit I’m being by her tone. ‘I’ll dance with you, Roman, but just one dance.’ She holds up a singular finger as though she were talking to the twins.
‘Bonza!’
I shake my head at his effusive exclamation, a word I haven’t heard since our grandfather was alive. A blink later, he’s dragging her off to the dance floor. Thankfully, or not, I’m not really sure, this is the point in the evening where the band takes a break, their slow mellow music swapping out for a bit of Calvin Harris, thanks to a preselected playlist.
I leave the pair at the edge of the dancefloor, not wanting to look like a jealous loser, but also in the hunt for a bottle of Champagne. I pause as I pass the table allocated to the Phillips crew when Tom leans back in his chair to catch my attention.
‘And they say the quiet ones are always the worst.’
‘Roman couldn’t keep quiet under water,’ I say glancing over my shoulder to see him twirling Lissa under his arm. I find myself frowning as her dress twirls dangerously high.
‘He might not be able to keep quiet, but he certainly can dance.’ This from Chastity on the other side of the table, her husband’s arms draped around her shoulders like a scarf.
‘Yeah, but he doesn’t have my moves,’ he offers up smuttily.
‘That’s maybe just as well,’ she says, patting his cheek a little indulgently. ‘The world can only take one of Flynn.’
