Chapter Six
Finn didn’t miss the fact that Zoe’s chin was jutting out the way it used to when she was facing a challenge as she propelled the wheels of her chair forward with revealingly jerky hands.
They reached the lift and he hit the button.
“What are you doing, Finn?” she asked, and although the directness of that question shouldn’t have taken him by surprise knowing that jut of her chin, somehow it did, because it made him realize he had no idea what the hell he was hoping to get out of this cruise.
Which was why his response was inadequate: “What do you mean, what am I doing?”
“You can’t be that interested in the article I’m going to write, so why is it so important to you that I attend this briefing?”
Finn stood aside to let her enter the lift.
“Of course I’m interested in what you write,” he said, stepping in after her and hitting the down button. That was one hundred percent true, even if there were other, darker truths in the mix that he wasn’t willing to confront. “I read a lot of your articles last night. I particularly liked the one about the floor show in New Zealand. Pois, wasn’t it? Very funny.”
“Not so funny at the time,” she said, and then a laugh burst out of her, and his heart kicked a rib because it felt so right. As right as the scent of her, like flowers made of lemon and sunlight.
And in that blinding moment, why he was on the cruise, what he wanted, became clear.
Time.
He wanted time with her.
Time to deal with the memories seeing her had unblocked. To know her life, to be reminded that she was not for him. To say that final goodbye so he could move on. What he wanted, what he needed, was closure. So that if he should happen to run into her in Sydney one day it wouldn’t feel like fate, it would be just a coincidence.
“Well, I hope nobody coaxes you onto any stage this week,” he said, keeping it as light as he could.
“You and me both,” she said, and laughed again. He wished she’d stop laughing...and also, perversely, that she wouldn’t ever stop.
“In fact, based on what I read last night I know you could do justice to a more personal story,” he said, wondering at what moment since seeing her last night that startling notion had taken root in the secret recesses of his brain.
“What kind of personal?”
They came to a stop. The door opened. He exited. Stopped. Waited for her to clear the elevator. “I’ll give you an exclusive if you have dinner with me tonight. Eight o’clock. Bungalow G11.”
“But—”
“Are we ready?” he said, raising his voice and directing it into the cabin where the other two journalists were waiting with Aiata, phones already on the table ready to record.
“Any other questions?” Finn asked as the promised half hour drew to a close.
“Yes.” It was the writer from Hot Destinations—Matilda. “I’ve heard Poerava has a management program to encourage local youth to pursue careers in hospitality. I’d love to hear more about that.”
Finn turned to Aiata. “That’s your baby, over to you.”
He breathed a silent sigh of relief as Aiata started talking, happy to be out of Matilda’s direct line of fire. She’d been interspersing questions with come-and-get-it looks and he was trying to subtly get the “nope, not happening” message out there and it was tiring.
Matilda was smart, she was also gorgeous, but Finn never had holiday flings with hotel guests. When the guest was a journalist the line was doubly uncrossable out of respect for his ex-wife. He and Gina had accepted that their marriage had failed but she didn’t need to see him getting cozy in photos on a travel writer’s Instagram. As far as he was concerned the obligatory handshake he’d exchanged with each of the journalists last night was the sole physical contact allowed.
He pulled himself up there, uncomfortable at the exception he was making for Zoe; she was a guest and a journalist, yet not only had he not shaken her hand last night but he’d made a date to have dinner with her that he hadn’t extended to anyone else.
Well, not a date. It was work. He really was going to give her a story. He was going to give her his story.
It was with a sense of inevitability that his eyes locked on to Zoe at that moment. She was scribbling in her notepad and a glance at the page showed him her handwriting was as atrocious as ever.
A sudden laugh caught in his throat, only just audible and yet Zoe stopped writing and looked at him. He gave a half nod at the page. She looked at the page, then at him again. She smiled as though she knew exactly what he was thinking—and he was transported back twelve years to the time he’d teased her about how such a tiny girl could make such a big mess with a pen. His heart gave one of those rib-aching kicks, and one of the dark truths he didn’t want to confront bloomed in his head like a flower: he still wanted, quite desperately, to touch her. You should have done it last night, he silently accused himself, furious that he’d missed the opportunity. A handshake and you would have escaped purgatory. Now she’s off-limits again.
Zoe’s smile faltered as though she’d felt his self-directed fury, or maybe she’d seen it in his face. She dropped her eyes to her notepad, and Finn realized he’d used the exact same phrase Ewan had spoken at the Crab Shack when he’d warned Finn away from her: She’s off-limits, and I mean it, Doherty. His gang of bad brothers had all at one point or another used that phrase when they’d seen him looking at her. Mrs. Whittaker, once: Finn Doherty, don’t get any ideas, stick to your own kind, that girl is off-limits. Even his mother: Oh, Finn, my darling, I want you to have whatever you want, but Zoe Tayler is off-limits, you know that.
Off-limits.
Of course he wasn’t going to shake her damn hand last night. He still felt ripples of the rage that had exploded in him at how she’d been unable to mask her disbelief that he wasn’t the manager but the owner of what she thought was two luxury resorts. He’d almost burst with the need to tell her that in fact he owned five, soon to be six resorts—and what’s more he’d self-made his success, unlike Brad Ellersley who’d stayed in that village Zoe had been desperate to escape, content to inherit a career, not build one out of nothing.
Look at me, Zoe! See me as something more than the no-hoper who barged uninvited into your hospital room full of your dreams and how I could help you get them.
Idiot. Had been, still was.
Look at him?
Look at her!
A writer, a world traveler, a good journalist. Poised and professional throughout the QA, asking intelligent questions, listening carefully to the answers, jotting down notes and checking them. As if she’d ever needed his help to achieve her dreams! She’d fulfilled them for herself, despite her parents, despite her wheelchair, despite Brad, despite him.
She had nothing to prove to him.
He was the one with something to prove: that he had nothing to prove, not to her, not to her parents, not to any of those busybodies in Hawke’s Cove who’d tut-tutted at him for daring to go near Princess Perfect. And OK, it was counterintuitive to have the thing you needed to prove be that you didn’t have anything to prove, but it was nevertheless true.
Wasn’t that really why he hadn’t caught the flight to Pape’ete? Wasn’t that why he was on this cruise? Why he’d arranged this media briefing with her as a spectator?
Time with her, yes. Closure, absolutely. But also to show her who he’d become?
Wasn’t that why he was offering to tell her, and only her, his story?
Now that deserved a wince.
What had he done that was so special? If not for his mother’s life insurance money he’d never have been able to afford to leave Hawke’s Cove. If not for Gina half staking their business they’d never have got their first bank loan and he’d still be working for someone else.
Nothing to prove? Nothing worth proving!
He’d have to rescind the story offer. It was too pathetic. He’d cancel dinner.
No, not cancel. Not...that. But he’d find a different story for Zoe. He’d talk to Aiata. She’d said she was working with each journalist to craft individual story angles so it wouldn’t seem weird to ask her to help.
But if he was going to do that he had to get onto it fast. Now.
Immediately.
“Right!” he said, agitated, only to realize that Matilda had just asked another question.
They all looked at him, startled.
“Sorry,” he said, and winced. “But we’ll be reaching our first snorkeling destination in fifteen minutes so you guys might like to get changed and go out to the aft deck to gear up.”
He kept his eyes carefully off Zoe as everyone on board made their way out to the deck. Listened to the safety briefing, then to Tiare Island’s resident marine biologist Gaz giving a rundown of what they’d see. Next came demonstrations of the gear. Dividing into two groups, each with an assigned instructor to monitor them in the water.
Zoe laughed, and he reacted like a Pavlovian dog, wanting to see her, to know what she was thinking, feeling.
Funny, she’d always looked so delicate, so ethereal, you expected her to be the type to sit gazing out of a window reading a novel and eating macarons. In reality she was up for any mischief going. Criminal-in-training, he’d called her once, and she’d been thrilled, confessing that her life was so boringly safe, that she’d been trying to break through barriers, vault over hurdles, leap over fences, drive through roadblocks erected by her parents forever, and she loved the idea of not playing it safe.
Now he wondered what it was like for her living in Sydney, away from those overprotective parents he knew still lived in Hawke’s Cove. He wondered if she lived alone—Google had failed him on that one point, but he felt she would have mentioned a boyfriend in a blog post. Unless the guy liked his privacy?
No rings, so he didn’t think she was engaged or married.
OK, that was confronting. That he knew there weren’t any rings when he hadn’t even been conscious of checking her fingers.
But was it confronting? Really? He wasn’t going to marry her. Wasn’t going to sleep with her. Was determined not to touch her. All he was going to do was face his past with her and put it in perspective. See it for what it really was: a juvenile unrequited love story.
Anyway, what did the absence of such rings actually mean?
Maybe she had them tucked away for safekeeping. Maybe she didn’t wear any rings anymore; all the glitter he’d seen on her last night and today was in her hair and on her feet. He and Gina had never worn wedding rings and he hadn’t given Gina an engagement ring because she’d said if he wasn’t wearing rings neither was she. And Gina was still a Berne, so the fact that Zoe was still a Tayler similarly meant nothing.
Uh-oh.
Gina.
He hadn’t told her he’d been delayed.
Time zone calculation. It was 6 a.m. tomorrow morning in Sydney and Gina’s flight was at 7 a.m. She’d be at the airport, thinking he was already in Pape’ete, wanting a report on how last night had gone.
He went into the cabin and pulled out the phone he’d had on silent during the QA. Two missed calls. Automatically, he hit the return-call button and Gina answered before the first ring had finished.
“Finn!” she cried, sounding frantic. “Are you on your way?”
“I’m still at Poerava. On the snorkeling cruise. There are media on board Pearl Finder so I... Well, I decided to do it.”
He felt the chill wafting over the Pacific Ocean. “We had a deal, Finn. Poerava for the UK,” she said.
He winced—he really wished he could stop doing that. “It’s just a delay.”
“A delay?” She sounded incredulous.
“A postponement.”
“What’s the issue? And don’t tell me you’re playing tour guide for the media—unless Aiata’s quit between last night and this morning?”
“Something’s come up that I need to...investigate.”
“Again I ask, what’s the issue? Maybe I can help. Two heads, you know?” Pregnant pause. And then, impatient, “Well?”
“I can’t explain,” he said. Wince.
“Usually the phrase is ‘I can explain,’” she said dryly. And then she laughed, exasperated but throwing in the towel. “Promise me you’ll go through the updated information I emailed on the two properties.”
“Promise.” Stoic, because he didn’t want to do it.
“Go through it carefully.”
“Yep.”
“Look at the photos, assess the locations, get comfortable with the financials. I’ve included Jed’s 3D architectural renderings to give you a sense of how the internal layouts could look. Just... I don’t know...do your precious SWOT analysis, OK?”
“SWOT analysis, photos, locations, financials, renderings. Roger that. Anything else?”
Finn knew he sounded flippant and half hoped Gina would laugh again, but the pause that followed his words didn’t feel amused. He could sense Gina’s reticence. And he knew what it meant.
She cleared her throat. “This new delay—”
“It’s just one day.”
“Is it about your mother?”
“Ah no, Gina, not that, not now.”
“You always say that: not now. But however many times you put off this decision it’ll still be waiting for you. She’s been gone a long time, Finn.”
His heart squeezed. Guilt. Regret. Grief. “I know.”
“Don’t you think it’s time to talk to someone about it?”
“I did. I talked to you.”
“And look how that turned out, right?” She sighed. “I get it, I forced the issue. And in retrospect I’m glad that discussion brought everything to a head. Divorce isn’t the end of the world, and we... Well, you know how we were. But I still care about you, Finn, not just about the business. Which is why I can say that even though I’m not the right one you have to find someone. A professional? Or perhaps just someone who knew her, who knew what you were going through. Someone who knows you in a way I never did, a way I never could. A way you never—” She broke off.
Finn finished the sentence for her: “A way I never let you.”
Another sigh. “It’s OK, Finn. Water under the bridge.”
“I’ll think about talking to someone, OK? Pinky swear.”
“Idiot!” she said, and this time he was rewarded with the laugh. “Gotta go. Boarding.”
She disconnected and Finn, feeling pressured purely because Gina hadn’t pressured him, pulled up Gina’s newest email about the two properties. He should open it. He really should.
“Hey, Finn!” Ms. Hot Destinations, dangling a snorkel from one hand as she entered the cabin. “You coming in?”
He smiled—a perfunctory effort he knew she’d accept as genuine; people always did, because of that babyish chipped tooth—and shook his head. “Work to do, I’m afraid.”
She shot him a sultry moue. “I was hoping you’d answer a question for me.”
He looked down at the email that was waiting for him and shoved his phone in his pocket. “Fire away.”