Meet Me in Tahiti

Chapter Nineteen

No Finn at the gym the next morning offering a tour suggestion.

Nor did he show up for the visit to the pink sand beach Aiata organized under instructions from Finn for any of the media that were interested—but with a cautious smile at Zoe that suggested to her that while it was a group outing it had been arranged specifically for her. Something to tick off her “live like a local” list, she presumed.

Well, a group outing was just fine by Zoe.

She was too busy taking a hundred photos trying to do justice to the shade of pink she was seeing—which managed to be simultaneously pastel and bright—to wonder at the reason for Finn’s absence or to think about lust or about leaping without a parachute or time machines or fairy tales. Too busy making jokes about how her pink rash vest was finally en pointe. Too busy scribbling down notes for her article. Too busy raving over the picnic lunch provided by Gaspard, which featured nothing that wasn’t pink, even the champagne!

In fact, it was a relief not to be trying to work out in what way Finn looked at her or searching for hidden meanings in what he said.

She was a journalist writing about his resort. Full stop. The end.

And strictly speaking, this trip fit under the umbrella of Finn “making it happen” for her. The same way getting Aiata to arrange a visit to Tiare Island’s mini-version of Pape’ete’s famous roulottes tonight for the whole media group could technically be considered “making it happen” for her.

It did not matter who did the arranging or for how large a group as long as she got to see and do everything. And if she could have sworn Finn’s “make it happen” promise was supposed to be something more intimate than getting his PR manager to include her on a tour, then that was on her. Just as it was on her if being part of the larger group made her feel...feel...

Well, how did she feel?

A jumble of things. Bereft that she’d lost the ebullient mood in which she’d woken yesterday morning. Needing a Lost Hours call even though there was nothing actually wrong. Confused by the clutter of darting images in her head. V, Lils, Devil, breaking her out of “Palace de Prison.” Cooking that detestable mackerel on the beach in Hawke’s Cove. Staring at the coastal views from her parents’ house and wanting to fly over the water to freedom. Early morning surfing with Malie. Sharing smiles with Finn at the Crab Shack. Finding that pearl on the beach, making up stories with Finn about it. Flashes of all the trips she’d done. All those returns to her apartment in Sydney. The trip to Hawaii, Malie talking to her about Finn the bad boy. Finn sitting on the beach at midnight...while she drifted in her Gravity way, out to sea, away from him.

She kept going over in her head that conversation with Lily about being in love, telling herself Lily’s ex Alistair was a salutary reminder that for every lucky woman out there with an Oliver (Victoria) or a Todd (Malie) there was a woman who’d had her savings stolen (Lily) or who’d wasted an entire summer mooning over a guy who hadn’t had the courage to ask her out on one lousy date (Zoe).

Hey!

Hey!

Stop. Thinking. About. Finn!

He. Was. Not. Interested!

So they’d done some reminiscing about old times, and he’d told her about his mother, and he’d flirted about vanilla and wanted to know if she was single or living with someone or married, and they’d had fun in Gaspard’s kitchen. There was nothing in any of it. It was just collateral information the same as the number of wheelchair users in the world. He was the professionally charming host of a media group. Nothing more to it. Didn’t mean he was interested in her. Didn’t mean he wanted to have sex with her.

And if he didn’t want to have sex with her then she definitely didn’t want to have sex with him! She certainly wasn’t going to even think about including a reference to him in the email she’d send to her parents about today’s activities. No point since it seemed unlikely she’d ever lay eyes on him again.

All fired up, she went straight to her computer once she was back in her bungalow and furiously started tapping out that no-Finn email, describing the day in detail. She threw in an update on Cristina and Joe’s romance, another about Victoria’s wedding to Oliver, plus one about Todd going with Malie to her next surfing competition, and added the news that one of her Chair Chicks friends had got engaged. It seemed fitting then to mention that Daniel, about whom she’d already told them and who was a great guy, had asked her to sit with him tonight when the media group visited the roulottes on one of Tiare Island’s seven petals.

No, not “petals.” Petal was too romantic a word for her current state of mind. “Peninsula” was the right word. Peninsula.

She made the correction, hit send with unnecessary force, and found that she was breathing as though she’d run a marathon. Harsh, ugly breaths, struggling around a lump in her throat.

No, not her throat. The lump was in her chest. That old sense of suffocation was back, her heart a hot, heavy stone. She suddenly knew the word for how she’d been feeling all day. The word was “lonely.” She was lonely.

It made no sense—she’d been with people all day. And yet it was the truth.

She would feel lonely even if she called V, Devil and Lils. She would feel lonely if she checked in online with the Chair Chicks gals. She would feel lonely tonight.

Tonight.

She sighed at the thought of sitting with Daniel tonight.

Unfair. He was a nice guy, really. It was just that he wasn’t...

No. Not finishing that thought.

Whoever Daniel wasn’t, at least he was interested. And since she’d designated L.U.S.T. as her key driver, why not see if she could engineer a fling with Daniel?

Daniel was big, buff, handsome. Not the type to be afraid of a little passion judging by the overly enthusiastic way he manhandled her wheelchair.

Finn, on the other hand, looked tough but hadn’t even come close to reading her “touch me” signals this week—on the contrary, he’d deliberately avoided touching her, even accidentally. He probably thought he’d bruise or break her. He’d only ever touched her (not counting the easily bruised frangipani because that was not her) once, twelve years ago—and even that had been just two tentative fingers on her hair. He hadn’t even grazed her ear! And he’d pulled his hand back so fast he’d probably got whiplash of the wrist. He’d probably never looked at her like he wanted to strip her naked and have his way with her, so that whole Zoe and Finn sitting in a tree, K.I.S.S.I.N.G. thing the girls used to chant at her had always been ridiculous. She wished, how she wished, the girls could be here so they could see someone did indeed look at her like he wanted to strip her naked and that it wasn’t Finn Doherty, and she was so stupid for starting to think anything different, and she would stop, stop, stop immediately, and conquer the ridiculous shivering that came over her whenever she thought about him while she was at it.

So. Freaking. There!

In a militant frame of mind she donned a shimmery gold dress and metallic-gold sandals, leaving her hair loose and weaving gold beads through the strands. Her version of Lust Goddess. And if she wondered whether maybe someone would report back to Poerava’s owner that the journalist in the wheelchair was not only independent and gregarious and charming and fearless but also gorgeous, so what? Such reports would be out of her control. She’d rather die than ask anyone to pass on an observation about her to Finn.

Finn Doherty was her past.

She was focusing on a Finn-free future as of now.

You need a fling, Zoe reminded herself, as Daniel wolf-whistled when he spotted her and hurried to her side.

“What do you feel like eating?” he asked as they approached the cluster of brightly colored caravans parked across the sand. “Each van has a speciality. Grilled mahi-mahi, chow mein Tahiti-style, Japanese-style soba noodles, rotisserie chicken. But I hear the poisson cru here is—”

“Not poisson cru,”Zoe snapped.

“Er... OK?” Daniel said. “Then how about—”

“Crepes,” she said. Because yes, she was going to eat those crepes Finn Doherty had told her about. And she was going to make sure Finn Doherty knew she’d eaten crepes and that she’d eaten them with Daniel even if she didn’t know precisely how she was going to achieve that given she’d rather die than ask anyone to pass on an observation about her to Finn. And she was going to enjoy every bite, even if she had a humongous lump in her throat and her heart still felt like a chunk of battered stone.

“How about I get the crepes and you and Cristina grab a table?” Daniel suggested.

“How about I get the crepes and you and Cris grab a table?” Zoe said, the snap in her voice still there because dammit! Just...dammit!

“Zo, how about I get the crepes?” Cristina, playing referee, no doubt wondering at Zoe’s uncharacteristically combative mood. Well, Cristina could suck it. Everyone could suck it. The entire world could suck it. Because Zoe Tayler was allowed to be in a bad mood occasionally.

“No,” Zoe said shortly. She wheeled herself toward the crepe truck, cursing under her breath when one of her wheels went fractionally off the ramp, then cursing some more when she heard Cristina’s indrawn breath. Cristina had better not rush to help her or she’d...she’d explode. Yes, she would explode.

She got herself back on course, shifted slightly to give Cristina a peremptorily crisp version of their royal wave I’m OK, as you were signal, and saw that Cristina was looking not at her but past her, at the crepe truck.

And Zoe knew, because that shiver was running through her even before she saw him.

Finn.

Actually in the food truck. He was making the crepes.

Not looking at her. As in deliberately not looking.

She maneuvered herself into a turn and came back to Daniel and Cristina. “Actually,” she said to Daniel, “the ramp’s not firm enough for my wheelchair so yes, please get the crepes. And Cris, why don’t you go and sit with Tilly? I’m sure Daniel will be able to help me if I need anything.”

And that was definitely an order!