Chapter 12
NICK
I shouldn’t have said that thing about tucking her in; it was playing with fire – a bonfire, if that look on her face is anything to go by.
But part of me wanted the reaction – the self-serving arsehole part.
And no matter how hard Delaney tries to convince me otherwise, much of my behaviour today places me squarely in that camp.
I’m engaged. And blokes who are engaged should not be kissing cute Americans – or wanting to kiss cute Americans. Especially not cute Americans who wear lingerie to bed and might one day make your film.
‘This might sound completely mad after the lunch we had,’ I say, deliberately steering us into safer waters, ‘but I’m hungry.’
‘Oh my god, me too – starving!’ she exclaims and I stifle a laugh. I don’t want her thinking I’m laughing at her. ‘Do they have room service?’ she asks, dashing to the bureau by the door.
‘Probably, but wouldn’t you rather go somewhere?’
She holds up a folder. ‘Menu,’ she declares victoriously. ‘And no – to going out, I mean. I’m zonked. I want food, to chill out, then bed.’
‘Sounds good,’ I say, ignoring that bed could mean a multitude of things.
I peer through the doorway to the super king in the next room. Housekeeping’s been in – the bed’s made, its bedding tucked tautly. The pillow fort, as Delaney calls it, has been dismantled, the pillows now propped against the bedhead with the others.
Our bed resembles a bouncy castle.
Our bed – gah!
‘How about pizza?’ she asks.
I break from my wayward thoughts and look over. ‘Sure.’
‘They’ve got two kinds – Caprese, with fresh mozzarella, tomato, and basil,’ she says, leaning heavily into her vowels – mozzarellahh, tomaytoh, baysil – also cute, which is not helping matters. ‘And there’s prosciutto e rucola.’ She looks up. ‘Rucola?’
‘Rocket – you’d say arugula.’
‘Ah, got it.’
That’s another thing – if Delaney is unsure about something, she says so.
She doesn’t pretend, she doesn’t care if she sounds ignorant…
She embraces confidence and humility equally – a trait I couldn’t admire more.
Because the person who admits they don’t know everything, the one who asks questions – they’re often the smartest person in the room.
Her eyes continue scanning the menu and I observe her, enthralled, as she mouths words to herself while contemplating other items on the menu. I’m still watching her when she looks up.
‘Let’s get both pizzas,’ she says. ‘I mean, isn’t this, like, the birthplace of pizza?’
‘That’s Naples.’
She shrugs. ‘Close enough. It’s only twenty-five miles away. Surely some of those secret family recipes made it across the water.’
‘I guess we’ll find out,’ I say with a double raise of my brows.
She makes a face like she’s tasted something sour.
No fucking flirting, James – what did she just say?
I clear my throat. ‘So, do we call down or…’
She holds up her phone. ‘QR code.’
‘Right.’
She gets on with ordering, and I go to the bar cart in search of wine.
Should we keep drinking, considering everything that’s happened? Probably not. Do I give two shits? I do not.
Ignoring that my mind is in conversation with itself, I kneel in front of the cart and pick up a bottle from the lower shelf, a Nero d’Avola from Sicily.
Sicily got us into this mess, Sicily can get us— Stop. That makes absolutely no sense.
Geez – how much prosecco did I have?
‘All done,’ Delaney declares, looking pleased with herself. ‘Should be a half-hour or so.’
‘Great. Red?’ I ask, holding up the bottle.
‘Sure.’
She comes over to the record player, shooting me a smile that makes my pulse kick up a notch.
While she puts on Billie Holiday, I busy myself with opening the wine and pouring two glasses, doing my best to ignore that she’s right next to me.
Thankfully, when I’m done, she’s back on the armchair, her feet tucked under her right side.
I walk over and hand her a glass, then sit on the sofa.
‘Salute,’ I say, lifting up my glass.
‘Salute.’
We both sip and I revel in the way the wine coats my tongue – it’s juicy on the front palate, balanced with a hint of smoky chocolate on the back palate.
‘God, that’s good,’ she says.
When I look over, Delaney’s licking her lips and regarding her glass with reverence. ‘Don’t ya think?’ She takes another sip without waiting for an answer, closing her eyes as she lets the wine roll around on her tongue, then swallows.
It takes every ounce of my resolve to stay put.
She opens her eyes. ‘It reminds me of a Napa Merlot – only less oak.’
I laugh, caught completely by surprise. ‘You know your wines.’
She scoffs. ‘Uh, yeah. Hello? I was raised in California – we know our wines.’
‘Sorry, I should have realised.’
‘Yeah, I thought you said you’ve worked in LA.’
‘I have,’ I reply. ‘But not a lot of drinking when I’m on a shoot – actually, no drinking at all. I like to stay sharp, focused.’
‘Disciplined.’ She eyes me over the rim of her glass.
‘Disciplined, right.’
‘Well, that explains it,’ she says, waving her forefinger at me.
‘What?’
‘Your… physique.’
She looks away, her tell-tale cheeks colouring, and I smile to myself. Although, we’re skirting close to those imaginary boundaries again – while drinking wine in our shared hotel room. Maybe we should have gone out for dinner.
‘Tell me about Nicholas,’ I say, catching her off guard this time.
She looks at me, her lips pursed to one side. ‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure. How did you two meet?’
Her expression shifts – the strain lessening, but not disappearing altogether.
‘I was in London scouting locations for A Little Bit Single – have you seen it?’
I shake my head.
‘It’s cute – a romcom based on a book that was a huge hit a few years ago.
Anyway, I was staying at this hotel in Soho and it was a Friday, and I stopped at the bar to have a drink, and there was this good-looking guy sitting at the bar, dressed to the nines – I mean, tails – the whole shebang.
And I never do this – I’m not the super confident woman who approaches hot guys in bars – but I was curious about the outfit, so I sat next to him and asked why he was all dressed up. ’
‘And why was he?’
‘A wedding – he was killing time between the ceremony and the reception, which I’d never even heard of until that day.
In the States, they’re usually back-to-back.
Anyway, we got talking and it was weird, you know, but in a good way – like opposites attract – nothing in common, but we couldn’t stop taking.
And when it was time for him to go to the reception, neither of us wanted to say goodbye.
But he had to go, and I was supposed to be flying out early the next morning…
So – also totally out of character – I changed my flight so we could spend the weekend together.
And we’ve been doing long distance ever since,’ she says, capping off the story with a sip of wine.
I appreciate being spared the details, but I can’t help wondering what she sees in a bloke she has nothing in common with. Though, I’m one to talk. Isn’t that what Pippa and I have become?
‘And how long ago was that – when you met?’ I ask.
‘Couple of years,’ she replies, her expression turning pensive.
‘Long distance can be tricky,’ I say, venturing closer to my own situation.
‘It’s so hard,’ she wails, perking up again.
‘I mean, Megan and her husband, Gabe – they get to spend every night together. They get to do all that couple stuff – like load the dishwasher and tell each other about their day and sleep next to each other. They get to fight about stupid stuff, then make up after fighting about stupid stuff.’
‘And that’s what you want?’
‘Not the fighting, necessarily, but the togetherness – being a real couple.’ She sits up straighter and faces me. ‘Actually, no – I do want the fighting. Not to be one of those couples who bickers all the time, but…’
She sighs, her forehead creasing as if she’s corralling her thoughts.
‘The only time I see Nicholas is when we’re on vacation together or I’m visiting London,’ she says, looking at me again.
‘And they’re these tiny pockets of time – a few days, maybe a week, rarely longer – so we never argue – ever – because that would be a waste of the precious time we do have together, right?
So, if he’s being super annoying, I don’t say anything.
If I disagree with him, I don’t say anything.
And I’m sure there are times he disagrees with me, or that I’ve pissed him off, but he never lets on – not really.
I mean, he’ll complain about stuff, but we don’t fight. ’
This is a huge revelation and so much of it resonates that I’m not sure where to start. Only, I don’t get a chance to dive in because there’s a knock at the door.
‘Pizza!’ Delaney jumps up, her wine nearly sloshing onto the tile floor. ‘Oops – hold this,’ she says, shoving the glass at me. I take it before it ends up all over both of us.
She opens the door and the waiter brings in a tray, setting it on the coffee table. I’m about to dig out my wallet to tip him but Delaney beats me to it, holding out a ten-euro note and saying, ‘Thanks.’
‘Grazie.’ He gives us a polite smile and closes the door behind him.
Delaney whips away the cloches, stacking them on the floor by the table, and sits cross-legged next to them. She inhales deeply. ‘Oh my god.’
The pizzas look – and smell – incredible.
‘Huh – they’re not sliced,’ she says, frowning.
‘Here.’ I hand her a knife and fork from the tray. ‘It’s DIY.’
‘Oh, duh.’ She smiles, not taking herself too seriously – something else to admire – and hacks into the Caprese pizza, stuffing a huge bite into her mouth.
‘Oh my god,’ she says again, only this time with her mouth full.
‘Good?’ I ask, sniggering. I’ve never seen anyone this excited about pizza.
‘Mm-hmm.’ She swallows and cuts off another piece.
‘I’d better be quick,’ I say, cutting into the prosciutto pizza.