Chapter 3
SAMMIE
This was mad.
Even though it’d been weeks since I’d received the email from the Love Hotel offering me a place at their resort in Puglia, which was a region in southern Italy, it still hadn’t sunk in that I was actually going.
Like Stella had recommended, I’d replied to the email and paid the balance straightaway. I’d spent the weekend ordering loads of clothes online and chatting with her about what to expect. Then on the Monday morning I’d begged my boss to give me the time off and thankfully she’d agreed.
I was currently sitting on the back seat of the swanky Mercedes the hotel had sent to collect me from Bari airport and according to my chauffeur (look at me!), I was now less than fifteen minutes away from arriving at the resort.
And most importantly, minutes away from meeting the love of my life.
Honestly, I didn’t think I’d been so excited in my whole life.
I wondered what he’d be like.
The questionnaire I’d completed when I applied was really detailed and as well as answering a gazillion questions about myself, my hobbies, personality and relationship history, I’d also told them about the kind of man I was looking for.
That part was easy. One advantage of dating a lot was that you got to find out all the things that you didn’t want in a partner.
I was self-aware enough to realise that I always went for the same type of guy: good-looking, charming and emotionally unavailable.
Somehow I was drawn to the players and pretty boys with the banter and sweet talk, who were around the same age as me or sometimes younger, who couldn’t or wouldn’t commit.
Shamefully, my type was the guys who knew they had options and weren’t ready to settle down. The men who inevitably stopped messaging me whenever someone prettier or better came along.
Before I applied, I’d done a lot of reflecting and realised that I couldn’t keep going after the same type of man and expect a different result.
What I needed was a man that was older than me. I was thirty-two, so ideally someone in their late thirties or early forties. At that age they would’ve had time to screw around and would be ready to settle down.
I needed a man that was okay-looking. Dating the super-hot guys always ended in tears. The last thing I needed was a bloke who attracted attention and had women queuing up around the block to date him.
And I needed a man who was a decent human being, had a good job (he didn’t have to be rich, just able to pay his own way) and someone who was easy to talk to, who I had a lot in common with.
Although that wisdom lasted long enough for me to fill out the questionnaire, unfortunately, by the time I’d given up hope of getting the place at the hotel and logged back on to the dating apps, it’d evaporated and I’d ended up falling back into the same habits.
Hence my last disastrous date with Rude Ronald.
But I didn’t have to worry about that any more.
The Love Hotel matchmakers had chosen my soulmate for me so there’d be no more bad decisions.
My stomach bubbled with a mixture of excitement and nerves.
The sound of my phone vibrating came from my bag. When I tapped the screen, I saw it was a message from Stella asking if I’d arrived yet. Instead of replying, I hit the call button. Speaking to her would help calm my nerves.
‘Hi!’ She answered on the first ring. ‘You there yet?’
‘Almost. The driver, sorry, my chauffeur,’ I added in a posh voice, ‘said we should be there soon, so naturally I’m shitting bricks.’
‘It’s normal to be nervous, but don’t worry. These people are the matchmaking experts. I bet they have someone amazing lined up for you.’
‘Does Jasmine know who I’ve been matched with?’
‘No. If you were going to the Spanish resort, then yeah, she would, but she doesn’t get to see matches in their other locations.’
‘Don’t they have some kind of centralised database she can hack into or something to give me a heads up? Not that I want her to risk her job or anything, but the suspense is killing me. I just want to meet him already!’
‘Sammie, you’ve waited most of your whole adult life to find your soulmate, so waiting another hour or whenever you two will be introduced today isn’t going to make a difference.’
‘You’re right.’ I blew out a breath.
‘I know it’s easier said than done, but try to relax. You’re in good hands.’
‘Okay. I’ll let you know how it goes.’
‘Good luck.’
Just as Stella ended the call, the chauffeur turned into the resort’s driveway.
Wowsers.
My jaw dropped.
I’d looked up the Italian Love Hotel online hundreds of times, but as slick as the website was, it didn’t compare to being here in person.
The large white stone building was surrounded by lush manicured gardens, plus a pretty mixture of olive, palm and fruit trees. I even spotted a glimpse of the sea in the distance.
As the chauffeur opened the door and I stepped outside, I noticed the shift in temperature straightaway. The car was beautifully air conditioned, but now I felt the warm Italian sunshine heating my skin.
The scent of lemon trees mixed with the salty sea air surrounded me and I inhaled deeply. This definitely beat the eau de pollution and car fumes stench I was used to smelling in London.
And, blimey, look at the sky! It was so blue anyone would think it was painted.
Just as I was taking in the breathtaking views my eyes popped. And this time it wasn’t because I was still in awe of the hotel’s amazing exterior.
It was because of the tall, dark and ridiculously handsome god that was walking towards me.
‘Samantha?’ he asked, stretching out his hand for me to shake. ‘ Benvenuta . Welcome to the Love Hotel, Italia.’
I blinked, then blinked again.
Holy macaroni.
Standing in front of me was the fittest guy I’d ever seen. He was about six foot three, with short, slightly wavy black hair, deep olive skin, a neatly trimmed beard, light brown eyes, framed by long lashes, gorgeous thick eyebrows, full lips and a body that looked like it’d been carved by angels.
He was the spitting image of that actor Michele Morrone in those steamy 365 Days films.
As I thought about how many times I’d got myself off whilst watching those films, my cheeks flamed.
‘Samantha?’ Mr Smokeshow repeated and I almost melted into a puddle as I listened to how he pronounced my name in his divine Italian accent.
It was only then that I remembered that he’d said something.
‘Shit. Sorry. I was miles away. I’m Samantha,’ I replied, my eyes still transfixed on the Italian stallion in front of me. Then I realised that he already knew my name because he’d said it. Twice. ‘Doh! You just said that! Bloody jet lag.’
Jeez Louise.
What the hell was wrong with me? The flight to Bari was less than three hours and Italy was a miniscule one hour ahead, so I was hardly suffering from sodding jet lag.
‘Jet lag?’ Mr McHottie Hot Stuff laughed. ‘You came from London, no? The flight time is normally around two hours and fifty minutes.’
Okay, smart arse.
I knew what I’d said was dumb, but he didn’t have to point it out.
‘Yeah, obviously it wasn’t the jet lag.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘It was probably all the wine I had on the plane.’
All the wine?
Nice, one Sammie.
‘I just had one bottle,’ I said, attempting to clarify what I meant.
‘Not a whole proper big bottle, obvs. I’m not an alcoholic.
Not that I’m judging alcoholics. I know it’s a disease.
I just meant that I’m not one. Because I only had one teeny weeny bottle of wine.
Actually, it was more like half a bottle because to be honest, it tasted like vinegar.
Not that I’m insulting Italian wine. I’m not even sure if it was Italian.
It probably wasn’t. Then again it was a flight to Italy so maybe it was, but it could’ve been out of date or something. ’
Oh. Dear. God.
I should’ve just called it quits with the stupid jet lag comment. Now not only would he think I was one of those stereotypical Brits who got pissed on planes, he’d also think I was insulting his country.
‘I see. So you like to drink…’ He raised a judgemental eyebrow. ‘But not Italian wine, because it tastes like vinegar.’
‘No, I didn’t say that! I said that particular wine tasted like vinegar, not all Italian wine.’
What was his problem? I even said I wasn’t even sure if it was Italian wine, so why was he trying to make out like I was dissing his country?
What was it with these good-looking guys? Why did they always have to be such dicks?
He was supposed to be welcoming me to the hotel, not judging me. Okay, yeah, I admit that everything that’d come out of my mouth so far was a pile of crap, but still.
‘Has anyone told you that you look like?—’
‘ Sì ,’ he jumped in quickly, then rolled his eyes and sighed like I was the millionth person to mention it.
I was going to tell him that he looked like that hot actor to lighten the mood and try to steer this conversation out of the disaster zone, but now I’d changed my mind…
‘Oh,’ I said casually, ‘so I’m not the only one who thinks you look like Mr Bean?’ The corner of my mouth twitched.
‘Mr Bean?’ His face dropped, creased with confusion, then contorted in a million different directions.
Gotcha.
That’ll teach you to mess with me, you arrogant little fucker.
I barely knew him, but it was obvious who he looked like. Instead of taking the compliment graciously and saying thank you, he got all arsey and acted like it was a hardship to look so hot.
Poor thing. Must be so difficult resembling an Italian god.
Boo-fucking-hoo.
He thought it was okay to laugh at me, so I was going to have fun messing with him.
‘Yeah! Mr Bean’s a character from a really famous old British comedy show. You’ve got the same dark hair and thick eyebrows. The resemblance is uncanny. You two could pass as brothers!’ I smirked. ‘Don’t tell me no one’s mentioned it before?’
‘N-no,’ he stuttered. ‘No one has ever said that.’