Chapter Twenty-Nine
I sleep in Gus’s room that night, lose track of time in the morning and have to rush back to mine – wearing his clothes like an absolute hussy – to shower and change in time for the tour of Cannes.
After the drama at Monaco, Gus decides to stay on the yacht.
He doesn’t want me in any kind of danger and the risks of him being hounded by fans is too high in an area where he’s been known to frequent.
I take this as my opportunity to do some last-minute gift shopping.
My favourite part of the tour is strolling through the narrow streets of Le Suquet and feeling as if I’ve been immersed into another time with its provincial charm and tiny, privately own trinket shops.
Restaurants spill out into the narrow alleyways, covered tables becoming obstacles.
Everywhere I look there’s so much more colour – the shutters, doors and walls painted in a mix of pastels.
After consuming my weight in macarons at a quirky café in our free time at the end of the tour, I buy another box and return to the cruise with a forbidden hop in my step. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about last night.
I keep getting flashbacks of his tongue doing unseemly things and having to bite my lip and breath steadily.
When I board the yacht again, I head back to my room, not wanting to seem too keen. Anyway, he’s probably dealing with important popstar things – whatever those are. Maybe he’s taken my advice and finally reached out to one of his band members.
To kill a few hours, I end up sunbathing on the sundeck in my skimpy, black bikini, opening the thriller novel I bought with me, for the first time since I arrived.
There are a few people milling about the jacuzzi out here but it’s a serene atmosphere with soft European pop music playing in the background.
I’m barely through the first chapter when I hear him clear his throat from behind.
Because I’m adept at playing hard to get, I pretend not to notice him, flicking a page. And so, imagine my disappointment when I hear his footsteps retreating. I peek around my sunbed, my sunglasses sliding down my nose.
He’s so onto me.
Leaning against the bar, he watches me with that amused half-smile.
When he returns, he places a fresh fruit smoothie on the table beside me, takes a seat on the neighbouring sunbed and leans across to grab my book.
“Hey!”
“You weren’t reading it anyway.”
“I was!” I lie.
“How was Cannes?”
“Beautiful.”
“She is.”
I glance at him, but his expression tells me nothing. “I got you a present.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
I lean down to my bag beside me and pull out the cardboard box of macarons, handing it to him. He doesn’t take it right away as he’s been distracted by the way my body was twisted, giving him a full view of my arse.
“You, Sir, are not very subtle.”
He takes the box. “I’m not trying to be anymore.”
“What do you mean anymore?”
“You think I haven’t been distracted by you this whole time?”
“This whole time?”
“Come on now. If I wasn’t famous—”
“You’re famous?! You never said.”
“—you’d be way out of my league.”
I laugh, tipping my head back. “What a load of crap.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No. I don’t. I think you’re trying to woo me.”
“Did I not already woo you?”
I shrug, pushing my sunglasses back up my nose. “No comment.”
“Thank you for the gift,” he says. “How much was it?”
“I’m not telling you because you’ll try to pay me back.”
“If it isn’t money you want, I can repay you in other ways.”
And that’s how we end up booking room service from Gus’s suite.