One Bed

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

I n the exquisitely decorated cottage, she found the five-foot long and two-foot-wide divan –AKA the horsehair seat from hell – squatting opposite two exquisitely decorated chairs. Where was the Art Deco couch? Bea winced. She’d assumed the fugly divan had been chucked, and not the pretty couch. Dammit. And wasn’t burning it a rather drastic step? Couldn’t Golly have had it fumigated instead?

She rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers; her head was pounding. Did she still have any aspirin? She’d emptied a box this morning, did she chuck another in her suitcase before she left? She couldn’t remember.

Bea looked around, taking in the recent changes to the cottage. The walls were now a delicate sage green, and the two chairs a soft grey. The carpet under the wooden coffee table was new, a swirly pattern of greens and warm creams, a nice contrast to the dark slate floors. If she ignored the boil-like divan, vomit-yellow and blergh-brown, it was a pretty, pretty room. Why redecorate so beautifully but leave the divan? Or, at the very least, why didn’t Golly replace the Art Deco couch? The mind boggled.

The kitchen had also been remodelled and the breakfast bar removed. In its place was a warm wooden table with bench seats on either side. Golly had also bought a new pale blue fridge, and the counters had been replaced with white granite.

Despite beating her to the villa by only ten or fifteen minutes, Gib had already made himself at home. His wallet and phone sat on the kitchen counter, and his laptop on the glass and wood coffee table. She suspected his clothes were packed away in the bedroom cupboard, his toiletries on the bathroom shelves.

Well, he could simply pack them all up again. She wasn’t budging on this. Bea frowned, confused by the strength of her feelings. She genuinely didn’t recognise herself; this wasn’t like her. The teeny-tiny part of her that wasn’t shocked by her uncharacteristic bolshiness was doing high kicks and waving pompoms, proud she was standing up for herself.

Bea turned to face him and looked up into his hard-as-nails, inscrutable face. ‘I’ll help you pack your stuff.’

He had the gall to, almost, smile. Well, she presumed it was a smile because the corners of his sexy mouth lifted a fraction. ‘That won’t be necessary because I’m not going anywhere,’ he calmly responded. ‘I like this cottage, I like the location. I had the best time that summer twenty-five years ago and I’ve been looking forward to being here for weeks . But I am very happy to call my assistant and ask her to find you a room on the island. There should be something.’

‘Of course there is, and you can move, not me,’ she retorted. Scrubbing her hands down her face, she plopped down on the arm of one wingback chair. ‘You’re being ridiculously stubborn, Mr Caddell. This is my home, my cottage. I need to be here, while you are just a visitor to the island. There are many places as nice as this.’

He shrugged, unmoved by her argument. ‘As I’ve said a bunch of times now, I paid Golly a considerable amount of money to stay here, we made a deal. I am not going anywhere.’

‘Well, neither am I.’

She lifted her chin, digging in her metaphorical heels. Why now and why with this man? He was big, intimidating and annoyed but instead of trying to please and placate him, her default mode, she was defying him.

‘You’ll have to kill me while I sleep because it’s the only way you’re going to get my body out of this cottage!’

‘There’s no need to be dramatic. I could always just pick you up, toss you out, and lock the door behind you.’

Ha! ‘The patio doors don’t have locks, and neither does the bathroom window,’ she retorted. ‘I’ll be back inside and in that big bed before your head hits the pillow.’

‘Are you that desperate to sleep with me?’

The air between them changed and started to sizzle. Bea knew he didn’t mean his comment to sound sexually charged, but it hung there, tiny bolts of electricity coating every word. She wanted to mock him, tell him that he had an overactive imagination, but the hell of it was that she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Naked.

He’d be glorious, and she could easily imagine his big muscles moving under tanned skin. The scratch of his stubble against her breasts, between her legs. Those big hands on her skin, sliding under her butt to lift her hips as he positioned himself between her thighs?—

Shit! Shitshitdamn.

What the hell was she thinking? But, judging by his pained expression and his fuller-than-before package, she wasn’t the only one riding this crazy train.

Gib groaned, sank to sit down on a chair and rested his forearms on his thighs, his hands and head dangling. He released another set of creative curses, something about this being a shitastrophy (she couldn’t argue with him there), and ended his imaginative cursing with a deep, loud sigh.

‘Despite sharing a room when we were kids, we barely connected back then. I’m a stranger to you, so why aren’t you running for the hills?’ he demanded, his voice rougher than before.

She met his eyes. She knew that if she even hinted at her being wary of him, he’d pack up his stuff and leave. It was tempting to use that as an excuse to get her way, to make him leave. But she didn’t want to resort to subterfuge. She felt strong and vital, and was reluctant to taint her burst of bravery by being underhanded.

She wasn’t scared of him, she knew – and don’t ask her how – that he was utterly … what was the word … honourable. Despite the heat in his eyes and the way they kept dropping to her mouth, she was convinced he’d never make an unwelcome advance.

He seemed honest and was very direct. So … clean . No artifice and no hidden meanings and innuendo.

The walls of the cottage seemed to expand and contract along with her ribs. After what seemed like a million years, he lifted his head to look at her properly, and she caught a hint of resignation in his eyes. ‘You’re not going to leave, are you?’

She shook her head. No, not this time. This time, this one time, she was going to do what felt right for her, and that meant sticking and staying.

‘No. I told you, this is where I want to be.’

Another lift of those huge shoulders. ‘I guess we’re just gonna have to share that bed. As Golly said, it could sleep four.’

Oh, wait, hold on a second now . She jabbed her index finger at him. ‘ You need to leave the cottage, you need to find another place to stay.’

‘Not happening.’ He sat up straight, and his silver-blue eyes drilled into and through her. ‘I’m dammed if I am going to be chased out of accommodation I paid for.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘I’m sleeping in that bed. Whether you sleep in it too is up to you.’

Caught on the back foot, she shot up and paced the area between the chair and the fugly couch. ‘That’s not going to work for me.’

‘Tough.’ He didn’t soften his gaze. ‘The way I see it, you have three choices: sleep somewhere else, sleep on that,’ he nodded to the divan, ‘or sleep in the bed.’

She hadn’t shared a bed with a man in nearly five years. She slept like a starfish, and maybe she snored or, even worse, farted, in her sleep.

‘You can?—’

‘Not arguing anymore,’ he snapped. ‘It’s over. Three choices, what’s it going to be?’

She rocked on her heels, biting the inside of her cheek as she ran through her options. ‘I doubt we’ll see that much of each other. I’m organising the weekend so there’s lots to do,’ she said, grasping at straws. ‘I’ll probably be out of here early most mornings. If I’m not, I’ll be working on the deck.’

She was not, not, going to give up her writing spot.

He repeated his question. ‘Bed, that ugly-as-shit thing or somewhere else?’

He wasn’t backing down, dammit, and it was obvious that, despite his hot gaze raising baby blisters on her skin, he expected her to. As the CEO of a huge company, he was used to being obeyed and expected his minions to ask how high and far they should jump when he spoke. But she wasn’t going to cave, not this time.

She eyed the California King through the open bedroom door. The bed was huge, and there were layers of cushions, so if she needed a barrier between them, she could use those. Hell, maybe a barrier would be a good idea, as there was a chance she might, accidentally on purpose, roll over and land on top of him.

She shook her head, annoyed by her casual deceit. As she knew, and knew well , there were no accidents when it came to sex . ‘It happened by accident, Bea!’ was Gerry’s favourite excuse to explain his infidelities. He always rolled his eyes when she reminded him that he couldn’t accidentally trip and fall into someone’s vagina. From the first flirtation, the first text message, the first kiss, infidelity was a series of choices, with sex being the final one.

And when she slept with a man again, it would be because she wanted to.

Pushing away her thoughts about a naked Gib – so hard to do! – she pulled her attention back to the bed.

‘This whole situation would be a lot easier if you were less stubborn!’ she snapped.

‘Right back at you, sweetheart.’

She wasn’t, generally, inflexible. All her life, she’d drifted along with the current, terrified of being criticised, hating herself for not being strong enough to stand up for herself, for making sure everyone – specifically her father and Gerry – were happy. Usually at the expense of her peace of mind and happiness. Not that either of them had ever noticed.

She lifted her head and met his eyes. ‘I’m staying,’ she told him, cursing her shaky voice. ‘And I’m sleeping in that bed, sweetheart .’

His eyes clashed with hers. ‘So am I.’

Well, shit.

But she couldn’t back down now. ‘Fine.’

‘Fine.’

Bea gritted her teeth at the note of amusement she heard in his voice. She wanted to blast him but knew she’d lose any ground – if she’d gained any at all – if she continued to argue. She didn’t have enough facts and hadn’t researched how to deal with intractable, assertive men. She was ill-equipped to argue with a man who, she was sure, had mastered the art of negotiation. He hadn’t given an inch…

But, it was worth noting, neither had she. And damn, she was proud of herself for not backing down.

But she would still have to share the bed and the cottage with him, and that, for the record, was anything but fine .

* * *

After unpacking her clothes and putting her toiletries in the bathroom – all done in icy silence – Bea told him she was going up to the main house to eat with Golly and Reena.

That suited Gib, so he headed to the beach with his kayak and spent the bulk of the afternoon paddling past the weird pumice cliffs of Vlychada and marvelling at the speckled grey-and-white pebbled beach. He enjoyed a beer and a snack at a laid-back beach bar, before paddling back to where he’d left his rented Jeep. He’d had an excellent workout and his shoulders and neck felt looser, his body less tense.

After a shower at the empty cottage, he’d headed into Oia and had a long, solitary, amazing meal of grilled octopus followed by moussaka. It was now shortly past ten and time to see whether bright-eyed Bea had had a change of heart in the day and moved out. He was surprised by his intransigence. Obviously, it made sense for him to find another place, and despite the wedding of some mega-wealthy guy’s daughter, he knew he’d find something decent, somewhere. He had resources, and when money wasn’t a problem, obstacles tended to melt away.

But the minute he’d stepped out of the Jeep and seen the house again, he immediately relaxed, feeling like, strangely, he’d come home. A memory of him and his dad playing football on the beach flipped over into one of them laughing … he couldn’t remember at what, but he knew his stomach had ached when they were done. Days spent in the sun, eating great food, sitting in the courtyard as a record player played some lame music in the background.

He and his dad had connected during their boys’ away holiday – something he and his mom never did – and it was the best memory he had of the man he’d adored. He hadn’t thought about Greece in years, and now that he was here, he wanted to remember everything he could. He’d love to recapture some of that childish freedom; although impossible, he still wanted to try.

To do that, he’d have to be on the estate and share this cottage with Bea. He supposed history repeating itself gave his visit back here some authenticity. She’d been a strange little girl, quiet and reserved, happy to fade into the background. They’d shared a room, but he barely knew she was there. Her bed was always made, and her side of the room was tidy, while his looked like he was living in a war zone. She’d read her books and left him alone, and he’d considered that a win.

Gib pushed his hand through his hair, remembering their conversation earlier. He was used to keeping his expression unreadable, he rarely gave anyone a hint of what he was feeling, but it took all his willpower to keep his surprise in check when she’d told him they’d be sharing the bed. Huh.

It was the last thing he’d expected. Somewhere along the line, that little mouse had grown a set of balls.

Gib walked down the path to the cottage, thinking that while he didn’t want to share the bed or cottage, he was desperate to have her under him, over him, up against the nearest wall.

He rubbed his hands over his face. He’d been having sex for more than half his life, but he’d never had such a quick, visceral reaction to a woman before. And why with Bea, who was so unlike anyone he’d ever been attracted to in the past? She wasn’t glossy or glamorous, neither was she sophisticated…

She was … what?

Normal. Real. Down to earth. Her face was makeup free, except for some smudged mascara, and her plump, pink lips didn’t need any lipstick. She wasn’t fat, but neither was she rake thin, or a gym bunny. She was a girl who looked like she enjoyed a piece of chocolate cake, a beer, or a few glasses of wine. A girl who ate carbs and who didn’t count calories. Healthy. Someone who wouldn’t give him shit if he wanted to skip a workout to sloth on the couch and binge-watch a Formula One documentary (previous fling). Neither would she invite him over for dinner and serve him a protein-free couscous salad, followed by a yoghurt smoothie for dessert (fling before that).

As easily as he could imagine them rolling around naked together, he could also see himself watching a ballgame, and eating ribs with her, sauce rolling down her chin, her fingers sticky and her smile wide. Along with tasting every inch of her body, he wanted to see what she looked like with bed hair and with sleep in her fantastic eyes, have her fall asleep on his chest as they watched TV.

Fuck . He was in a metric shitload of trouble here. He needed a punch in the head.

Relationships, even quick flings, required some measure of conversation, a little back and forth about who you were, what you did, and what you liked. Even basic, mild, getting-to-know-you questions were sandpaper on his soul.

That’s what happened when you were raised by the parental equivalent of the National Security Agency. His German mom had no concept of boundaries, and because he was an only child he’d been the complete focus of her attention. He knew she loved him, but her love was all-consuming and overwhelming. Dr Mom—she was a psychologist—needed to know where he was every second of the day, and if he deviated from his routine, she freaked. She demanded to know who his friends were, why he liked them, why they liked him.

Every aspect of his life was open for analysis, from girls to exercise to schoolwork to his friends. His life was dissected and discussed, frequently the only topic of conversation. Her constant prying and her follow-up pseudo-therapy sessions telling him why he shouldn’t feel that way, or asking him why he reacted one way and not another, or whether he could’ve handled a situation better, left him feeling exposed and judged. His mother’s personal science experiment.

His father never told her to back off, or supported Gib’s right to privacy. His dad was a completely different person around his mom to the person he had been in Greece; in the States he was quieter, harsher … sadder.

Gib hauled in some air. He still felt extraordinarily guilty about his initial rush of relief when he’d heard his parents had died. For a minute, or maybe just seconds, he revelled in the idea that he’d never have to explain his thoughts and feelings again and would never be judged for feeling one way and not another. Then reality sat in and he realised he was, at sixteen, an orphan.

After his grief faded a little, he realised how much he owed his Uncle Hugh – a long-divorced, single dad – for taking him in. At sixteen, he would’ve been OK on his own – hell, kids in the First World War went to fight at that age –but Hugh gave him stability and security. Gib was grateful to him for giving him a home, and a few more years to be a kid. Gib’s going to school and earning his MBA, working a thousand hours a week at CI, and running a huge, successful company, went a little way to thank his uncle for his unquestionable support.

And the best thing about moving in with two guys, Hugh and Navy, had been that they never made him have heart-to-heart conversations. They ran with him, sat with him, and, when things got bad and he needed to release pent-up anger, hopped into the boxing ring with him. What they didn’t do was pry and poke and scratch around his mind like a poor, panicking prospector looking for gold.

His mom’s unrelenting demands to crawl inside his mind had made him wary of friendships and intimacy, and he never shared his true self with others. Navy and Hugh got more of him than most, but Gib had sky-high walls around his heart, convinced that revealing his innermost thoughts and feelings could, and would, only lead to criticism and pain. It was safer to keep feelings and emotions locked away.

Gib walked into the cottage and tossed his phone, wallet and keys into the bright turquoise bowl sitting on the table next to the front door. Bea’s closed laptop stood on the breakfast counter, her phone charging next to it – and both meant he was about to share a bed with the most attractive woman he’d met in a long time.

He banged his forehead against the nearest wall. Freaking fucking fabulous.

Taking a deep breath, Gib walked to the closed bedroom door and knocked lightly. When he didn’t get a reply, he eased the door open and looked into the room. He saw Bea leaning back against the huge headboard on his side of the bed – he always slept on the side closest to the door – her eyes fixed on the book resting on her knees. She wore a loose white T-shirt, and he could see the outline of a tank top or sports bra beneath it. No doubt she was wearing panties or, more likely, pyjama shorts. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail and her face was scrubbed clean, but her lips looked a little glossy.

‘Are you wearing lip gloss?’ he demanded.

She didn’t look up or acknowledge him. Right, he was getting the silent treatment. Excellent. If he had to share a cottage with someone, he far preferred a silent someone than a chatty, have-to-make-conversation someone.

He should feel happier than he did. Was he looking for a reaction from her? And why? Yes, and he didn’t know. How old was he? Eleven again and looking to pick a fight?

Gib sighed, pushed open the door, and stepped into the room. When he’d first inspected the cottage earlier that day, the California King was stacked high with pillows – four rows at least, including one as long as the bed was wide. The pillows now precisely bisected the bed, forming a barrier between her side and his.

OK, then. They were doing this.

Her eyes didn’t leave her book, though he doubted she was doing any reading. She was ignoring him, and that didn’t bother him at all. Whistling, he reached back to pull his shirt over his head and tossed it toward the chair in the corner. He missed and it fell to the floor. Oh, dear.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her watching him. She frowned and started to speak, before biting her lip to keep her words from escaping.

She so wanted to tell him to pick it up, to hang it up. Smiling, he turned his back to her and undid the belt to his chinos shorts and unzipped, stepping out of his flip flops and kicking the shorts in the direction of his shirt. He heard her gasp, and her low rumble of annoyance. Oh, she had no idea what was coming next…

Still whistling, he walked into the bathroom in his briefs and flipped on the taps to the shower. Deliberately leaving the door open, not enough for her to see him, but enough for any sounds to carry, he shucked his underwear and stepped into the glass cubicle.

She didn’t ask him to close the door.

The water slid over his head and down his back. He pushed his hair back and looked at the range of toiletries she’d placed on the shelf. He picked up a bottle of shower gel, lifted it to his nose – nice – and squirted some into his hand. He scrubbed his face with it, before rinsing off.

Enjoying the unisex scent, he washed the rest of his body before reaching for his bottle of generic, much less interesting shampoo. He quickly washed his hair, rinsed off and shut off the taps. He saw her towel hanging on the rail and wrinkled his nose.

‘Hey, Bea, where can I find a towel? Can you toss me one?’ Her silence was an unspoken ‘no’ and not unexpected. Shrugging, he reached for her still damp towel and rubbed his wet head. He pulled it down his chest, between his legs, and up his back before wrapping it around his hips. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll just use yours.’

Still no reply. She was tougher than he thought.

After brushing his teeth, he pushed his hair off his forehead and hung the towel up on the rail to dry. Grinning, he walked back into the room, as naked as the day he was born.

As he expected, Bea slapped her hand over her eyes and released an anguished wail. ‘For God’s sake, put something on!’ she shouted.

The one good thing about being brought up in a house where nudity –mental and physical – had been encouraged was that he now had no compunction about walking around in the buff. Compared to his mom’s mental mind-probes, being physically naked wasn’t that big of a deal. He pulled back the light cotton throw covering the bed, then the sheet, and climbed into bed. ‘I sleep naked,’ he informed her, turning his head to look at her.

She was an interesting colour, hot pink in places, scarlet in others. One hand still covered her eyes.

‘You can look now,’ he told her, amused.

She lowered her hand and fixed him with a cold, hard stare. ‘You are not sleeping naked,’ she informed him. ‘Put on some shorts. And a T-shirt.’

He bent his knees and folded his arms, looking at her across the shoulder-high wall of pillows. ‘Not happening,’ he told her. ‘But feel free to leave and sleep somewhere else if you don’t like it.’

She growled, actually growled. Unfortunately for her, she sounded like a puppy and wouldn’t intimidate a grasshopper. He grinned.

‘You also left your clothes on the floor and the bathroom and bedroom door open,’ she said, her voice colder than a Siberian witch’s tit in the dead of winter. ‘And, you bastard, you used my very expensive Creed shower gel! Golly bought it for me last Christmas! Judging by how amazing the room smells, you used half the bottle.’

Maybe a third. And she was right, the smells wafting in from the bathroom were incredible. If he remembered, and he probably wouldn’t, he should take a photo of the stuff and order the same brand when he got home.

‘Do not mess with my stuff,’ she told him, her posh English accent becoming more pronounced as her irritation levels rose. ‘And. Pick. Up. Your. Clothes. I won’t be able to go to sleep knowing they’re just lying there.’

Normally he would, he wasn’t a slob, but annoying her was fun, and a means to an end. If he did it well, and he did everything well, she’d leave and give him the solitude he craved.

‘If it bothers you, please feel free to do something about it.’ He slid down the bed, bunched his pillow beneath his head, and she disappeared from view. He yawned, surprised by his exhaustion given it wasn’t even eleven yet. Normally he’d still be at his desk, blowing through reports or spreadsheets.

He wasn’t used to sharing his space, and he thought he’d be more keyed up, more annoyed than he was. All he felt was tired. Mentally and physically drained.

‘Get up and pick up your stuff! And close the damn doors!’

Not a chance. This bed was incredibly comfortable, and he was struggling to keep his eyes open. Hell, even if she got naked and asked him to do her, he might choose sleep over sex. Might being the operative word.

‘Not happening. Besides, if I do, I’ll still be naked and you’ll get another eyeful,’ he replied, around a long yawn.

He heard the sound of covers rustling and lifted his head just high enough to see her sliding out of bed. She stomped her way around the bed, it was ridiculously big, and he eyed her long legs peeking out from short tartan sleeping shorts. He took in her round ass as she bent over to pick up his shirt and shorts, stomping into the bathroom to dump them in the laundry basket.

Neat freak. That hadn’t changed. She slammed the bathroom door closed, then the bedroom door, her body stiff with annoyance. He felt the bed move as she climbed back under the covers, heard her adorable huff of irritation and with one last yawn, slid into sleep.

* * *

For the second night in a row, Bea didn’t sleep well. At all.

At around one a.m., or it might’ve been two, she sat up and looked at Gib on the other side of her Great Wall of Pillows. He lay on his stomach, his hands under his pillow, the sheet and light cotton throw barely covering his world-class ass. The moon was half full and bright, and beaming light into the room from the open window – she’d forgotten to lower the shade – and she could see him clearly. She took in his big arms, and his muscled back tapered into narrow hips. Because he went to bed with his hair wet, it resembled a bird’s nest, and the thick scruff on his jaw looked soft.

He slept silently, deeply, utterly relaxed.

At one point, almost in tears because she was so tired, she considered putting a pillow over his face and sitting on it. A judge familiar with the psychotic effects of insomnia would understand her struggle and would probably only sentence her to a year at a sleep clinic.

Now sitting at the small desk on the deck, her laptop in front of her and a blank Word document mocking her, she placed her elbows on the table, and wondered if a third cup of coffee was indulgent or necessary. It might make her feel reasonably human. But she couldn’t muster the energy to walk to the kitchen. Just like she couldn’t find the energy to write or check her emails. She’d spent the two hours since dressing zoning out by staring at the amazing view of the sea between the olive trees, doodling in her notebook and scrolling social media.

She’d had, maybe, two hours of sleep last night, three the night before and Bea felt like a walking zombie. She couldn’t spend another night in that bed, not sleeping. She’d been super aware of Gib both nights. The room was five degrees hotter than normal from the heat rolling off him and images of his naked body – better than she’d imagined and she had, according to the professionals, a damn fine imagination! – kept flashing up on the big screen of her mind. Huge shoulders, ridged stomach, a very fine bum.

The jerk knew he had a good body and wasn’t afraid to show it off.

Unlike her. She’d never undressed in front of Gerry, and sex, back when they were both interested enough to bother, happened under the cover of darkness. Bea suspected Gib was a ‘do it in bright sunlight’ and ‘on the nearest flat surface’ type of guy.

Gib was the first guy, in a long, long time, to make her ovaries sit up and start chittering. Like over-excited meerkats, they were on their hindquarters, their heads swivelling, telling each other that their girls were desperate to meet his boys. Or, at the very least, that they wanted to see some action, of the naked, horizontal kind. Of any kind.

She didn’t like feeling out of control, at the mercy of her sexual urges. Feeling like this made her wonder whether she was more like her mother than she wanted to be. In her weekly column, sex was one of Lou’s favourite topics, and she wasn’t shy about telling the world how much she loved it and how difficult it was to limit herself to one sexual partner at a time. We’re not supposed to be monogamous, people! We need variety! Was that something Lou learnt from Golly? Maybe.

Lou’s oft-stated position was that women who had hangups about the act (and their bodies) were weak, old-fashioned, and foolish. Bea was the exact opposite of her sultry, earthy, pleasure-seeking mother. And Gib was dangerous because he made her want to explore that hedonistic (albeit tiny) part of her personality, the side that she normally ruthlessly pushed down and away…

She, the thirty-year-old who hadn’t had sex for the last five years was desperate to roll around naked. With Gib. That was why he was dangerous, why having him around –sharing that blasted bed!– was problematic. She liked her life the way it was, she liked the normality of it, the ease of it, the worlds she controlled, both IRL and in fiction. She did not need a six-foot-something, sexy man to upend her carefully constructed apple cart!

But she was in deep danger of flipping tits over arse…

Would you please get a grip, Bea? The Urban Explorers, who’d unexpectedly returned to occasionally dance on the edges of her mind, stuck their fingers down their throats and gagged. Their hormones hadn’t kicked in yet and, thank God, never would.

Right, she’d been contemplating her lack of sleep, and she’d veered off into thinking about Mr Muscles again. Pride and stubbornness be damned, she couldn’t spend another night not sleeping next to him. So what were her options? She could drive to Fira and buy a camping mattress, or she could pad the fugly divan with blankets and sleep on that bed of nails.

Or she could rent another room…

What she wouldn’t be able to do was get Gib to move. Displacing him would require an SAS team and, possibly, a horse tranquilliser. Sleep was necessary for her to human and to adult, and she wasn’t going to keep sharing a bed with him. So –dammit, shit, and fuck – she was going to have to back down.

Not move out, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of doing that . She still needed to be able to work at this desk, to escape here when Golly became too demanding, when she felt overwhelmed. Despite Gib’s presence, this cottage was still her safe space. But tonight, she’d spend the night on the floor on a mattress, or on the divan getting poked and prodded by God knows what.

Also, she couldn’t spend the next week trading barbs with Gib, fighting him every step of the way. Fighting wasn’t what she did, who she was, and arguing with him drained her mental batteries.

It took two to fight, and she could’ve been nicer, and less … abrasive. A lot less confrontational. More like her normal self.

She didn’t want him leaving Santorini thinking she was a bitch on wheels. Neither did she want Navy Caddell to hear that Golly’s niece had the personality of a rabid porcupine. That was something Gib’s agent cousin would remember and repeat.

That reminded her, she wanted to know more about Navy Caddell. Opening her computer, she banged his name into a search engine, added ‘literary agent’ and within seconds her screen flashed with results. She clicked on the link and landed on his agency’s website, her eyes raising at his profile picture. The Caddell men were attractive; it was obvious they’d hit the good-looks jackpot.

She skimmed through his bio, read his wish list, and whistled when she took in his clients. He’d managed to net some big names in a short time, and she was impressed. He was clearly a man who was making waves in the literary world.

‘Why are you stalking my cousin?’

Bea jumped a foot in the air and her elbow knocked over her mug, spilling her cold coffee over her open notebook, the one holding her notes on her new series and book ten.

She rushed inside to grab a dish towel to mop up the coffee and came back out to see Gib holding her notebook upright, coffee dripping from the pages onto the wooden deck and splashing his bare feet. He’d pulled on a pair of plain black, board shorts that hung low on his hips, just a fraction off indecent, and yet again he was shirtless.

Holy hotness. Hand her a fan!

‘God, your handwriting is terrible,’ Gib commented, peering at her scribbled notes.

Jerked back to her senses, she snatched the notebook out of his hand and grimaced when she read what she’d written. GMC , circled three times. Series arc. Riding the rapids. Hettie falls, Pip reacts! She’d also made a note to send out a newsletter. Thank God her writing was awful.

Seeing that her laptop was still open, Bea slammed it shut before wiping the coffee off her notebook, cursing when she saw several pages had stuck together. Normally, she’d be in tears, but her notes were drivel and most of the ideas on those pages were unusable.

Bea mopped up the coffee, and remembered her resolve to be nicer to Gib and looked for something to say. ‘Sleep well?’ she asked.

He scratched his chest, his finger sliding into the thin layer of hair covering his pecs. ‘Much better than I expected to,’ he said, squinting as he looked out to sea. ‘What’s the time?’

‘A little after nine.’

‘That’s the latest I’ve slept in years.’ Gib walked to the edge of the deck and gripped the railing, lifting his face to the morning sun, and closing his eyes. Muscled, good-looking, masculine … the Greek gods would approve. Anybody with a pulse and a fondness for hot, half-naked men, would.

Really, Bea? Enough now.

‘Can I get you some coffee?’

He slowly turned and arched one thick eyebrow. ‘Why aren’t you shouting at me for startling you and causing you to spill your coffee over your notebook? And why are you offering to make me coffee? Who are you and what did you do with shrew you?’

Shrew? That was a bit harsh. ‘You haven’t been all goodness and light, either,’ she pointed out.

‘I rented the cottage, you’re the usurper.’

Bea tightened her grip on the dish towel, refusing to take the bait. He was looking for a fight, but she wasn’t going to give him one. ‘Do you want coffee or not?’

‘Yeah, black and strong. Thanks.’

Of course, he took his coffee without anything that made it taste good. He probably ripped the heads off bats and drank the blood of virgins…

Bea stomped back into the cottage and walked over to the coffee machine, another of Golly’s recent purchases to bring the cottage into the twenty-first century. Since coffee was as important as oxygen, Bea very much approved.

While the machine made its coffee-making sounds – was there anything better than the sound and smell of grinding beans? – she scowled at the divan. Why was it still in the cottage? Why was Golly holding on to it? She made a mental note to ask her godma.

Talking about notes … was there anything in her notebook that directly linked her to Parker Kane? Unless Gib picked up one of her books –and why should he, he didn’t fall into her ten-to-fourteen demographic –he wouldn’t recognise the characters or link them to her series.

She was pretty sure he wouldn’t make the connection. Parker Kane-wise, she was in the clear. Sleeping wise, sharing this cottage wise?

She was still in the weeds.