And The Bride Wore Prada. Katie Oliver

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      He grabbed her arm and hissed, ‘I’ll like anything that gets me away from that wedding-obsessed harpy! Please, Nat ‒ I can’t listen to another word about Prada gowns or monogrammed silver bottle-openers or custom-dyed shoes!’

      She nodded in sympathy, having been through the very same thing with her sister, Caro, not so long ago. ‘All right, Dom. You’re welcome to come along.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘But you’re going sledding, mind, you’re not standing round texting Max on your mobile the entire time.’

      ‘All right, all right,’ he grumbled, having planned to do just that. ‘But you’d better hope I don’t break my bloody arm. I need it to play guitar, you know.’

      ‘In that case,’ Rhys said dourly, ‘I hope you break both your arms.’