Chapter Twenty-Six
The attendants are quick to fuss over us as we barrel into in the lobby of the boat, wrapping us in clean white towels.
I take a seat on a leather sofa, finding I’m somewhere between ‘ouch this hurts’, ‘why is this so surreal and funny?’ and ‘man, I’m out of breath’.
A first aider practically dives on me to treat my ankle, twisting it this way and that.
“Does that hurt?” he asks.
“A great deal,” I respond, straight-faced.
He frowns, trying to read me. “Is it injured?”
“Yes.”
“Have you injured it before?”
“Many times.”
“What is wrong with it?”
“It’s useless,” I explain. “I might as well have it chopped off.”
Again, he frowns, clearly not reading in my humour at all. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
No shit.
“Well, that’s good news,” I say, finally smiling so he doesn’t think I’m completely insane. In all honesty, I don’t surround myself with people who are big on sympathy and receiving so much attention for an ouchy ankle makes me uncomfortable. I would like to go an be in pain all alone now.
Especially because I’m suddenly freezing. The air-con is usually a treat in the centre of the yacht but with the layer of rain across my skin, I find myself shivering. Again – more fussing. You’d never get this level of service in a Premier Inn.
I laugh again at how ridiculous this attention is. All we’ve done is run through a rainstorm in Monte Carlo.
I’ve survived far worse and will again.
I search the room for Gus but he’s already leaving, phone to his ear, he looks me over with darkened eyes, waits for me to nod that I’m ok before heading towards his room. An assumption, of course, since I’m not sure where he’s staying. And why would I?
“I’ll just go grab a shower and I’ll be fine,” I tell the staff, hoping they’ll release me, except the first aider, a tall Italian man about the same age as me, and a female attendant from behind the main desk, insist on walking me to my room, my arm slung around the man’s shoulders.
My overbearing helpers linger at the door and for a worryingly long minute, I wonder if they’re going to stay and watch me shower. I practically shove them out the door then slide down it into a seated position to I examine my swollen ankle.
I run my fingers over it, a bruise already forming. “You know you work really hard at making me seem like the damsel in distress that I am very much not,” I mutter.
“What was that?” my ankle replies, except of course it’s the nosey staff outside my door.
The temptation to scream “BUGGER OFF!” is a hard one to swallow down.
Instead, I crawl away from the door and into the bathroom, switching the water on so they know I’m not talking to them. Once I’m done with my shower, cautiously leaning on walls in case my traitor ankle might betray me again, I lie face down on the massive bed, damp and exhausted.
And then I scream into my pillow because… what the fuck am I doing!?
The kiss replays in my mind. I track the decisions that led us there, pressed into the doorway of some unsuspecting poor old man’s house.
It’s like I’ve lost my calm head. I did it.
I made the next move. Now I’m on this rollercoaster and even though I’m a little scared and a whole lot exhilarated, I don’t want it to end.
I roll over onto my back, my breathing hastened, my heart heavy in my chest, pulse beating in my throat.
I can’t ignore the pressure in my core. I close my eyes when an image of him kissing his way down my stomach flashes into my mind.
Fuck. What even is it about this man? He isn’t my usual type.
But then again, what is my type? I was with Mike for five years.
And he was sensible and yes, a little boring at times.
But safe. And that felt like my type then.
I wasn’t going to waste my energy on a risk. Little did I know.
Before Mike, it was all risks and heated crushes.
I brush it from my mind. Irrelevant.
Gus is desired by thousands of women. He’s followed everywhere he goes. His fame is such, that he might never escape it.
He’s a risk.
A risk I can’t mitigate.
And if the way my heart is crashing about in my chest at the very thought of taking it further with him is anything to go by, I know, despite how my friends and family see me, that I am horrifically breakable.
The sensible part of me would never take that risk. The wild part has her toes over the edge, ready to plunge herself into whatever danger this adventure poses. Screw the consequences.
I bite the end of my middle finger. I feel like the version of me at university. The one who let herself off the leash for once. The one who realised there was nobody watching who could be influenced. No one who needed her right in that moment. Letting her hair down wasn’t going to hurt anyone.
I release my middle finger from between my teeth, letting it run down my chin, neck and front, lower… I close my eyes and imagine it’s Gus. I bite my lip so hard I swear I might draw blood. When I reach my clit, I press down on it, squeezing my thighs together.
There’s something about him. He has that fire in his eyes. The confidence.
That’s when there’s a knock at the door.
I search the room for something to pull on but in a rush, between my ankle nearly giving up on me again (blasted useless joint) and all my clothes tidied away, I wrap the towel tighter and carefully slide off the bed.
I open the door half-expecting it to be first aid man again.
But no. Gus is right there, arm resting on the doorframe. Face so close to mine I can feel his breath fanning across my nose.
His warm eyes flick lower for the briefest of seconds, his gaze trailing along the line of my towel, before finding my face again. He does that secret smile, the one he’s trying to hide. I chew on my bottom lip, crossing my thighs.
“Can I help you?”
A notch forms between his brows. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
I will not laugh. “Oh really?”
“Yes.”
“You must’ve come here for a reason,” I say.
He blinks. “Probably.”
“I would invite you in but…” I shrug like it’s obvious.
He breaks and let’s his smile consume his face, uncrossing and crossing his arms again. Is he nervous? “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“Interrupt me?”
He laughs. “Yeah, you know, from being… naked?”
“How do you know I was naked?”
Gus runs his tongue over his teeth and nods, looking away down the corridor like he’s trying to recalibrate. Half a second later he pushes away from the doorframe, stepping back and swinging his arms. He can barely look at me.
“I think I was going to ask you for dinner. It’s that dance thing tonight. I was going to skip it. You know? Since I’m here alone. But now I sort of don’t feel like I am.”
“I’m not much of a dancer.”
“You don’t have to be. I am.”
“I love how you’re asking me for dinner, but all the food and drinks are already paid for.”
“Yeah, but I’m paying you like ten thousand per cent interest at this point.”
“No,” I playfully whisper. “That’s so unnecessary.”
“Is that a no?” he asks, clutching a hand to his chest. “You don’t want to dance with me?”
I pretend to think it over, wiggling a little to hold the towel up that keeps slipping. Bloody thing is in on whatever flirty game this has become. “Fine, I guess,” I say. “I can do dinner.”
He nods. “I like that dress. You should wear that dress.”
“This is a towel.”
“I said what I said.”
“See you in an hour,” I tell him, shaking my head and closing the door while I’m still holding my composure together.
*
An hour, as it turns out, isn’t enough time.
I’m scrambling to get my dress on at the last minute, careful not to get any makeup on it as I pull it over my head.
I’ve gone for a white and yellow striped summer dress that should keep me cool on the top deck where the dancing takes place.
Paired with my favourite bra, my tits look epic.
I don’t care. I’ve come too far not to dance in the flames.
I pair it with some easy-to-kick-off leather sandals, knowing that after dinner we’ll be barefoot on the deck and do one final check in the mirror. This will have to do.
The knock comes as I’m fiddling with small hoop earrings in the full-length mirror. My dress has discreet pockets which I slide my phone and room key into before heading out the door.
Gus waits, leant once again against the wall. I let my eyes consume him, curls left unruly tonight, a loose-fitted black shirt with sleeves rolled up and smart chinos. He tilts his head, taking me in with that lopsided grin. It’s as I get closer that I notice how extraordinarily good he smells.
I don’t even hide it, breathing him in. “What are you wearing?”
“Lovely to see you too.”
“I don’t subscribe to social norms.”
He laughs; the sound does something unholy to my belly. “I know.”
“You smell like freshly cut grass and bonfires.”
“Funny. I was going for old man gardening on a lovely summer’s day, actually.” I roll my eyes as he holds his arm out for me to take. “Shall we?”
“Where are you taking me?”
“It’s a surprise.”
He pretends to change direction from the restaurant twice, where, if we hadn’t been stranded in Split a week ago, we would’ve spent every night eating dinner alone. Maybe this would’ve never developed, and I wouldn’t feel like I’m on the precipice of throwing my heart directly into the fire.
It’s the most I’ve felt in years.
The safety net I created for myself has been incinerated.
What am I doing?
The waiter greets us. The tables move every night so that each party gets a chance to sit by the windows or out on the covered decking at the back. “Tonight, we’re doing social seating.”
We both smile, Gus with genuine intrigue, me, totally forced, because what the actual fuck is ‘social seating’? Is this Wagamama? There’s a bloody good reason I never go there. I am nothing if not proudly unsociable towards strangers.