Chapter 11
NICK
It’s obvious where Delaney’s mind goes – the flush of her cheeks and her mouth turning into an O. I wasn’t talking about us, of course – but in hindsight, I should have chosen my words more carefully.
‘Sorry, I didn’t to imply that we…’
‘No, no – course not,’ she says, breaking out of her stupor. But I can tell she’s unconvinced – I’ll have to tell her about the screenplay.
‘I’ve written something,’ I say. ‘A love story.’
She shifts from shocked to gobsmacked, tittering nervously before regaining her composure.
‘Okay, and that means what exactly?’ she asks. ‘What have you written, a book?’
‘A screenplay.’
I study her closely, drawing from years of people-watching to translate the nuances of her expression.
Her eyes lighting up, widening slightly, then narrowing again; the gentle upturn of her mouth; the breathy exhale; the double blink as she connects the dots – it all comes together as amazement, then excitement.
‘No fucking way – you dark horse, you,’ she says with unbridled admiration. ‘Well, I wanna read it.’
‘What?’ I burst out laughing – mostly from disbelief. ‘That wasn’t how I thought you’d respond.’
‘What did you think I’d say?’
‘Oh, I don’t know – you’d be polite, considering our… situation – probably ask me to email it to you with some vague promise of getting to it when you had time. Have your assistant’s assistant read it, then maybe – months from now – send me a polite rejection.’
‘Fuck that – and that’s not the prosecco talking.’
‘It can’t be – you spilt most of it down your front.’
‘Bahaha,’ she laughs. ‘You’re a funny guy, Nick.’
‘So I’ve been told – by you – yesterday.’
Apparently, that’s the funniest thing anyone has ever said, because Delaney starts laughing so hard, the only sound coming out of her is a wheezy squeak.
And it’s infectious, because it’s not long before I’m laughing so hard, I can barely breathe and my abs are screaming at me. That’s how the skipper finds us when he comes back on deck.
He stops halfway up the companionway and watches us, his mouth widening into a smile.
‘You have a nice time?’ he asks, stepping onto the deck.
‘Mm-hmm,’ squeaks Delaney, kicking us off again.
We help the skipper pack away the picnic lunch, breaking into sniggers each time we make eye contact (like right muppets), then he draws up the anchor and takes the helm.
And as we speed towards the marina, I couldn’t say what makes me smile more – the incredible day we’ve had or that Delaney Cole, film producer, has agreed to read my screenplay.
* * *
I’m still buzzing when we get back to the hotel, but not for long. Vittorio must have been keeping an eye out for us, because the second we step foot inside the lobby, he hurries over.
‘Signorina Cole, Signor James,’ he says, but the tight smile belies the friendly greeting.
‘Hey, Vittorio,’ Delaney says cheerily, clearly missing the strain around his eyes.
‘Is something wrong?’ I ask, sensing I already knowing the answer.
‘Ah, sì.’ He hesitates, huffing out through his nose.
‘Is it the room at the other hotel?’ I ask.
‘Sì. I’m so sorry. The other guests, they booked a private charter from Capri, but the boat – it cannot come from Naples, so they must stay.’
He gives a lipless smile, holding up his hands to show there’s nothing he can do. And even though I trust him, I ask the next obvious question. ‘And there’s nothing else? No other room on Capri?’
He shakes his head quickly. ‘I’m so sorry – I call everywhere.’
Delaney reaches out and touches his arm. ‘It’s okay, Vittorio, this isn’t your fault, and you did everything you could. We’ll figure it out,’ she adds, glancing at me.
‘Absolutely – as Delaney said, none of this is your fault and we appreciate everything you’ve done.’
He’s visibly relieved and I empathise. In a situation like this, he must feel helpless.
‘But I have something for you,’ he says with a warm smile. ‘I leave it in your suite.’
‘Thank you,’ Delaney gushes, a little tiddly from the prosecco.
‘Yes, thanks.’
We leave Vittorio and as we climb the stairs to our room, uneasy thoughts swarm like gnats at dusk:
You absolutely cannot share a bed with Delaney again.
Pippa will lose her mind when she hears about this.
Delaney in that yellow bikini – total mind-fuck.
At least I’m not in Iceland having to wangle my way out of a wedding.
You’re a total and utter wanker.
We get to the room, and I swipe the thoughts away, not wanting to dive into them right now – or possibly ever.
I reach around Delaney to unlock the door – she still hasn’t collected her key from reception – and when I step back, she looks up at me, her green eyes slightly unfocused. For the first time, I spot the amber rings around her irises. But then, we’ve never stood this close before.
‘I had a great time today,’ she says, her voice an octave lower than usual.
‘Me too,’ I answer without thinking. But when the words are out of my mouth, it strikes me that this is what people say at the end of a date.
We stand there, eyes locked for far too long and the gap between us closing. Delaney’s gaze dips to my mouth, then back up to meet mine. The tip of her tongue darts out, wetting her lower lip.
Well, there’s no mistaking that – take it from a bloke who’s written a near-perfect first-kiss scene.
I keep my eyes on hers, the air charging with tiny needles of anticipation. I want nothing more than to press my lips to hers – especially when her eyelids flutter shut – but what the hell am I doing?
I jump back as if I’ve been electrocuted and Delaney’s eyes fly open.
‘Oh, fuck,’ she whispers.
‘Yeah.’
Her chin falls to her chest and she shakes her head.
‘Come on,’ I say, ‘let’s go inside.’
I reach past her again and open the door, and she goes inside. I follow, but I’m not sure what to do with myself. We nearly kissed. We nearly fucking kissed.
‘Excuse me,’ she says, heading into the bathroom.
I put our belongings on the sofa and go out to the balcony, heading for the railing. The sun is beginning to set and I’ve got a front-row seat to the fiery hues of the splendorous sky, but all I can see in my mind’s eye is Delaney’s upturned face waiting for me to kiss her.
‘Fuck.’
* * *
Delaney
I do have to pee, which is why I excused myself, but now I don’t want to go back out there.
‘What the actual fuck, Delaney Rae?’ I whisper harshly, middle-naming myself.
After peeing, I stand at the sink, looking myself in the eye as I wash my hands.
I cast my mind back over the day and try to pinpoint exactly where I made a wrong turn.
Wrong turn – hah! Who am I trying to kid?
This wasn’t a single moment when I veered left but should have gone right.
I’ve been on this trajectory from the moment Nick’s naked torso gave me the feels.
Another man should not be giving me the feels. But that’s what’s happened. That’s what I’ve allowed to happen.
And now we’re stuck sharing this suite until we can leave Capri.
Maybe there’s been a development – maybe the ash cloud is dispersing and flights will resume and I can get the fuck out of Dodge and meet up with Nicholas in Iceland. But I wouldn’t know because I haven’t checked my phone all afternoon and it’s out there in my beach bag.
With Nick.
I eye the bathtub, sizing it up. People sometimes sleep in bathtubs, right? I could lay sofa cushions along the bottom and use the extra comforter they brought up yesterday.
I bunch my mouth to the side. It would suck, but what’s the alternative – sleep in the same bed with Nick again? That’s like letting an arsonist run the fire station.
I seriously can’t wrap my brain around how this has turned out. All I wanted was a nice romantic vacation with my boyfriend.
I sigh, looking back at my reflection. I miss Nicholas. I miss him so much.
Or is that just what I’m telling myself?
My eyes widen in shock, the question hitting hard. Without warning, Megan’s words bring up the rear of the truth-bomb express: maybe this thing with Nicholas has run its course.
I shake my head to clear it. Even if Nicholas and I aren’t meant to be together forever – and how will I know for sure until I see him again?
– he’s my boyfriend and I should not be having almost-kisses with the hot man-mountain.
The hot man-mountain who is engaged and is missing his wedding right now.
There’s a sharp rap on the door, startling me.
‘Delaney? Sorry, but I need the loo.’
Oh god, I’m hiding in the bathroom and the poor guy’s about to pee his pants.
‘One sec,’ I call out.
I turn on the tap and quickly wash my hands. I don’t know what’s worse – Nick thinking I’ve been talking to myself or that I was on the toilet the whole time. I roll my eyes at myself and go and open the door.
‘Sorry,’ I say, ducking past him without making eye contact. The bathroom door shuts behind me and I look for the beach bag. Nick’s left it on the sofa, and I rush over and fish out my phone.
It only takes seconds to discover that I have no missed calls, and the only message is from Megan:
Still crushing on Superman?
‘Not helpful, Megs,’ I mutter, feeling the sting of guilt. But what makes it worse is that I haven’t heard from Nicholas and I’m relieved.
‘Everything okay?’
I didn’t hear Nick come out of the bathroom and he startles me for the second time in as many minutes.
‘Uh, yep,’ I say, giving him a quick smile. ‘So—’
‘Delaney—’
We both stop, gesturing for the other to go ahead. Only I have no idea what to say, so I insist he goes first.
He rubs a hand over his face, which does not instil confidence. It clearly pains him to say whatever’s on his mind, and I’m expecting something like, That was a mistake.
So when he looks me square in the eye and says, ‘I really wanted to kiss you just now,’ my knees nearly buckle beneath me.
‘What?’ I ask, only it gets lodged in my throat and I start coughing.
‘Here,’ says Nick.