‘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.’
‘Thankyou,’ 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 absolutelycannotshare 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.