***

"Can we have toast for breakfast?" Viola asked, dangling her legs, sitting on one of his tall bar stools.

She considered going back to the bedroom to find something else to wear - her bottom felt rather cold in just her knickers, the tee she'd borrowed from him not covering it - but she was enjoying her coffee too much to move.

"Toast?" Rhys looked at her over his shoulder. "But I bought the currant bread, you liked it last time." He pointed at the slices with his bread knife. "I was going to pop them in the toaster oven."

"Sure," Viola said and pressed her lips stifling a giggle.

He gave her another confused look and continued making their brekkie. Viola took a sip of her coffee and ogled the man. He was dressed in a soft tee and his pants, and Viola threw an appreciative look at his strong calves, then up at his thighs and hips, at the waist and along the muscular back, at the wide shoulders, and the mop-like head of thick silky curls.

"So, regarding that idea I had yesterday," she drew out.

He put a plate with eggs, beans, and sausages in front of her, another one on the opposite side of the island, and sat down. He hummed to show he was listening and started eating. He must have exerted a lot of energy the previous evening, most of the night, and then some more in the early morning, Viola thought, quite pleased with herself. He needed sustenance.

"I assume you'll find out soon, and she did give me the permission to tell you, so here's the news. Fiona and Will are getting married in June or July," Viola said, and Rhys froze and slowly looked up at her. "She asked me to help her to organise the wedding. She wants a large, Fleckney style wedding, with flowers, drinking, dancing, and... the Clash," Viola added and laughed at Rhys' expression of utter shock.

"The Clash?" he repeated.

"Yes, and the Stranglers, and I believe she named a few other bands. I don't know much about this music, I'll have to look into that. But yes, a large, noisy, mad Fleckney wedding."

Rhys chewed his food and slowly swallowed.

"Which is exactly the opposite of what I would choose," Viola said.

He continued watching her silently.

"Which brings me to that idea of mine that I got when I was driving here," she said. She studied his stone face, but of course it was virtually impossible to gauge his reaction when he didn't want to show it. Viola took a calming long breath, exhaling purposefully. "I think I'd like to marry you again," she said firmly. Rhys blinked and still didn't react in any other way. "But I don't want a wedding," she finished and then gave him an expectant look.

"You want to marry me," he repeated in the same bland voice.

"Yes. And I want my rings back," she said.

"I have your rings, I didn't give them back to Nana," he answered.

"I know. Why didn't you?" she asked greedily.

"I don't know." He shrugged. "I just didn't."

Viola laughed softly.

"You've just wasted an opportunity to be romantic and to say that you'd always hoped I'd come back," she said.

"But I didn't," he said, his expression growing more and more confused. Viola giggled. "I just– OK, say it again. You want to get married but no wedding. Like, what? Just sign the papers in the Town Hall?" he asked.

"Or in Abernathy," Viola said. "Rhys, I want to be your wife. I want to be Mrs. Holyoake again, except I'm still going to be Dr. Holyoake," she added with a chuckle. "I want to live with you, to be your wife, to have the rings, but I don't want a wedding. I don't want yet another white dress, because it's preposterous, and all people will say is how it's the third time I'm trying to find myself a husband."

"What does it matter what they say?" he grumbled, and Viola nodded, because she knew he'd say it.

"Look at it this way," she said. "A wedding is about celebrating two people being in love and finding each other and the happy life they have ahead of them. We've had that. And everyone knows we're back together. So what's the point?"

He frowned slightly, and she realised he was actually pondering what was the point of it. Sometimes - not all the time - Viola truly enjoyed his practical, straightforward mind.

"Photos," he said. "We'll have no photos to frame."

Viola gave out a surprised bark of laughter. "That's an unexpected argument," she said. "But on the other hand, we have photos. We've got the photos from our first wedding."

"That marriage didn't work out," he said, his frown growing only deeper. "We can't display those photos."

Viola was going to burst into laughter, but then she saw he was serious.

"We can have a photoshoot. Do you want to hire a photographer and have a photoshoot?" she offered half-joking. "I can put on a nice dress, you can wear a dress jacket."

"Why would we need a photoshoot?!" he exclaimed. "We aren't some celebrities."

"Then we can have a nice photo taken when we sign papers," she said. "Would that be a good compromise?"

He gave it a thought.

"OK," he said. "I need to think about it."

"Sure," Viola said and grinned. "I can't say that's an answer one wants to hear to their proposal, but I suppose it'll have to do."

He tilted his head and gave her a sardonic look. "This wasn't exactly a proposal, was it?"

"I wonder what answer Fiona got. Something in the same line, I assume. Maybe even less words," Viola drew out, picked up a sausage, and mannerly dunked it into the tomato sauce.

Rhys chewed, giving her a glare, and she bit off the end of her sausage and widened her eyes at him.

"So, you just want to drive to Abernathy, sign the papers, and come back, like nothing happened," he said carefully.

"Pretty much," Viola said. "Oh, and I would move in with you, obviously, in this scenario," she added nonchalantly.

"You will move in with me in this cottage, if I marry you," he said, narrowing his eyes at her.

That lowered voice, with a growl added to it, the squint, and the slightly pursed lips - Viola knew this expression. Excited tingles ran down her spine.

"Isn't marriage a social contract?" she said with a shrug. "You give me what I want, and you get me, in your cottage, every night."

He slowly put down his fork, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and pinned her down with a stare of his darkened eyes. Viola squirmed on her chair.

"And what do you get out of this social contract then?" he asked. "You said 'no' to getting married about two dozen times in the past month."

He was exaggerating, of course. There hadn't been any actual proposals or any sort of open discussions of a marriage, but the topic had risen in conversations, in the same manner as it had during the weekend they'd spent in the B'n'B.

"What I get out of it is never having to think about it or talk about it again," she said. "And the rings."

"Oh?" He raised his left eyebrow, and Viola squeezed her knees.

"They are mine. I already have your name, and I'm agreeing to tolerate your clutter and your disorganised kitchen cabinets. I want my rings back," she said and wiggled her fingers in front of his nose.

He caught her hand and flipped it palm up.

"I have conditions," he murmured, keeping their eyes locked, and leaned down. He placed a slow deliberate kiss on the inside of her wrist.

"You don't get to bargain. You get a better deal out of it already," she said, her voice level.

Excellent poker face, Viola. Except your heart is drumming, and your palms are sweaty.

The right corner of his mouth curled slowly in a lopsided smirk, and Viola swallowed a knot in her throat.

"You see, love, one should always bargain. That's how they know they can't bollocks you up."

A hard tosser, indeed.

"Well, let's hear your conditions then," she said and watched him kiss higher on the inside of her forearm. Goosebumps ran down her back.

"We tell the family after we come back," he said.

"Alright, that's fair," she said. "But only after the fact, so we don't take away from Fiona and Will's celebration."

"We announce it in The Fleckney Gazette," he said with another kiss.

"I'll think about it," she said. "I need to know other conditions, so I can make this concession if I can't accept the other ones."

He smiled, his lips on her skin, and she felt the tickle of his whiskers.

"You're a tough negotiator," he murmured approvingly. "And there are only two more left. I need you to redecorate the cottage, and you move in today."

Viola froze, and he chuckled low in his throat. She felt his breath flutter against her arm, and she slowly pulled it back.

"I don't want to redecorate your cottage," she said.

"It'll make you feel better," he dismissed. She continued gawking at him, and he sat back and picked up his fork. "You put everything where it goes, so you don't have any anxiety. Just give me a drawer or two, where I can dump my things."

That - was the epitome of Rhys thinking.

"This won't–" She stopped herself. To think of it, it very much could work!

Acute insecurity flooded her - what did she know about interior decorating? - but on the other hand, the furniture and the linens in his cottage couldn't look any more uncoordinated, no matter what she chose. Their cottage, she suddenly realised.

"So, should I get a van then?" he asked, looking at her over the rim of his mug.

"I need to discuss it with Alan," she said haughtily and picked up her coffee.

"I'll pay the rest of the rent if needed, but I'm not budging on this one. You're moving today," he said and sent a forkful of beans in his mouth.

"I can pay my own rent," she stated with a scoff. "I'm a doctor, we're disgustingly overpaid, didn't you know?"

He chuckled and saluted her with his cup. Viola gave it a thought and nodded.

"Get a van," she said. "But first we need to celebrate you accepting my proposal."

He readily put down his fork, and Viola laughed and jumped off her stool.