Oh my God. I’m in Kingi Davis’s bedroom.
I stand there for a moment, looking around me. Kingi is wealthy, powerful, and gorgeous, and he’s one of the most eligible bachelors in New Zealand. How many women would kill to be in here? How many have alreadybeen inhere?
To be fair, there’s no sign of a woman around. Even though it still features a few plants, including a single orchid on the bedside table, the room is decidedly masculine, from the colors of the bedding—navy with burgundy stripes, to the accoutrements—a suit hanging on the front of the wardrobe; a large, expensive Patek Philippe watch on the dressing table; a biography of Edmund Hillary on the bedside table. The smell of his cologne hangs in the air.
I swallow and cross to the ensuite bathroom in the corner and go inside.
It’s clean and neat; I’m guessing a member of housekeeping has already been in. The towels are folded on a wooden rack, and the items beside the sink—deodorant, hair product, a couple bottles of cologne, a mug with toothpaste and toothbrush—are all neatly lined up. A beautiful, largeChlorophytum comosum—a spider plant—hangs from a holder in the corner, trailing its stripey leaves almost to the floor.
Feeling oddly shy, I go over to the cubicle and turn the water to hot.
I shower quickly, because my arms and legs and even my neck are covered in mud, using the shower gel in the tubes on the wall that smell of orange blossoms. I don’t wash my hair, but it’s still damp when I come out, so I take it out of its ponytail to dry while I soak up the drips with a towel.
I pick up one of the bottles of cologne, undo the top, and have a sniff. Immediately it takes me back to the moment I slipped past him in the stairwell. That huge chest and those biceps…
I put the bottle down hurriedly. No, no, no. I’m not going to have sexual fantasies about Kingi Davis. That way lies madness. I’ve always known that.
After dressing in my clean clothes, I turn the dirty ones inside out and put them in my bag, then go out. “That’s better,” I say, going into the living room. “Thank you so much.”
He’s standing by the window, checking his phone, and he looks up, then does a comedic double-take as he sees me. His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh,” he says.
“What?” Self-consciously, I look down at myself. I’m wearing a short plain green tunic dress, kind of like a long T-shirt, and my legs and feet are bare. Of course I’m not wearing makeup, and my hair is loose. Ohhh… I must look very different from the models he’s had walk out of that bathroom, in designer outfits, having spent hours on their hair and makeup.
I wait for him to tease me about looking like a gardener’s daughter. Instead, he says, “Your hair’s very long.”
I pick up one of the strands that falls to my chest and twirl it in a finger. When I was young, I used to wear it in a pixie cut, mainly because I hated the color. The truth is that I haven’t been able to afford to go to the hairdresser for ages. But I don’t tell him that. “Right back atcha,” I say, smirking at his shoulder-length locks. “I bet your dad just loves that look.”
He grins again. When we were kids, his father repeatedly nagged him to get a haircut, but Kingi always preferred to wear it long.
“I’d better have a shower,” he says. “Can you get the door when room service arrives?”
“Sure.”
He nods and heads off to the bedroom.
I wander around the living room, trying not to think about him in the bathroom, stripping off and letting the hot water wash over that expanse of brown skin.
The plants here are well cared for, beautiful and luscious—aFicus lyrataor Fiddle Leaf Fig with its large glossy leaves; a tallStrelitzia reginaeor Bird of Paradise, its dramatic leaves toppedwith gorgeous blue and orange flowers; aSenecio rowleyanusor String of Pearls with its quirky, cascading green beads; and aPhilodendron Brasiltrailing heart-shaped leaves from a high shelf.
The room would of course have been designed and decorated by a team, not by Kingi himself, but it still features items that suggest he had a hand in the decor. One of his sister’s stained-glass artworks hangs in the window, casting jeweled light onto the kauri-wood floorboards. And on the left-hand wall, there’s a large photograph which Kingi would definitely have had a hand in choosing, of Aoraki Mount Cook, beautifully colored, to show the green and brown plains below it, the blue and purple of the mountain itself, and a pink and orange sunset in the background. It’s the highest mountain in New Zealand, and he climbed it a couple of years ago, after extensive training. I saw the achievement pop up on his Instagram page, and I commented how proud I was of him. He replied withThanks, Chess!It’s probably the most words we’ve exchanged over the past few years.
A knock on the door makes me jump. I run across to open it and smile at the guy in the white shirt and black trousers who’s holding a tray.
Surprise flickers in his eyes as he sees me, but he hides it quickly. “Morning, Ma’am,” he says, “would you like me to put this on the table for you?”
“Oh, please.” I step back to let him in. He walks past me, over to the small, circular dining table, and places the tray there, then says, “Have a great day.”
We don’t tend to tip in New Zealand, but for a moment I wonder whether the staff is used to foreign guests slipping them a note at times like this. I don’t have any cash on me. However, he doesn’t wait and heads for the door, goes out and closes it behind him.
I go over to the table, choose one of the coffees, and sip it. Mmm, piping hot latte. The tray also bears a plate with two large chocolate muffins. When I pick one up, I discover it’s warm and it smells wonderful… ohhh, lovely.
“Oh good,” Kingi says, coming out of the bedroom. “They’ve arrived.” He’s wearing jeans and a navy polo shirt. His long hair and beard are damp. He looks gorgeous.
“Come on,” he says, picking up the tray, “let’s sit outside.”
He walks across to the sliding doors, opens them, and places the tray on the round table on the small private balcony. I join him, taking a seat next to him so we’re both looking out at the view of the gardens. They’re quiet at the moment, although to one side near the bridge over the stream I can just see a group of guests taking part in a Tai Chi class, moving slowly through the careful poses.
We break apart the muffins, releasing a small cloud of steam, and take a bite. “I’m ravenous,” I say, sighing as I chew the moist chocolate cake. “Oh, that’s so good.”