‘You look nice,’ I say, downplaying my reaction.
‘Yeah?’ She looks at the dress. ‘I’m not sure this is me.’
‘No, it’s… nice.’
Againwith the ‘nice’. You’d never think I had a knack for writing dialogue.
‘Thanks,’ she replies, seeming uncertain. ‘Not sure this is me either.’ She reaches up to smooth the loose tendrils at the nape of her neck and turns to eye herself in the mirror. ‘I’m not really an up-do kinda gal, but…’ She tilts her head to each side.
‘It suits you,’ I say, our eyes meeting in the mirror.
She holds my gaze for a few seconds, gives me a shy smile, then looks away, rifling through her makeup bag.
‘Mama would freak seeing me like this,’ she says with a laugh. ‘She’s always giving me a hard time, saying I should dress more like a girl –herwords, not mine.’
I have no idea what to say to that. I’ve seen Delaney wear all sorts – too-big pyjamas, that yellow bikini, shorts and T-shirt – and she looks great in all of it.
Not that I’d say so – it’s not my place to tell her she’s gorgeous.
Her eyes flick to meet mine again, yanking me from my stupor. Wonderful, I’ve been caught staring at her while she does her makeup – not creepy at all.
‘I’ll uh…’ I jerk my thumb over my shoulder and leave her to it.
* * *
Delaney
Not gonna lie – Nick looking at me like that –hot. Almost as hot as him writing a kick-ass screenplay.
I know you’re not supposed to judge a book by its cover, but I would never in a million years have guessed that the rough and rugged stunt guy had it in him to write with that much heart. And not just heart butskill. A lot of screenwriters can tell a decent story, but not all of them can write with such honesty and clarity of voice. Nick understands those characters inside and out, and everything about them is truthful – every contradiction, every lie they tell themselves – it all rings true.
But it’s one thing to lust after an objectively handsome man – it’s another to be turned on by his brain. Becausethatcan lead to feelings. And when trapped by happenstance in a foreign country with a stranger, you absolutely shouldnotcatch feelings.
‘Megan would rip you a new one,’ I mutter to myself as I dust on peach-coloured blush.
My phone starts ringing in the next room – Megan’s ringtone.
‘No way,’ I say to myself with a laugh. I rush to answer it before the call goes to voicemail, but when I get to my side of the bed where it’s charging, Nick opens the bathroom door wearing only a towel. A low-slung towel sitting right below his V.
I look up and we gawk at each other, open-mouthed.
‘Sorry,’ he says, snapping out of it. He steps back and slams the door. ‘I forgot to bring my clothes into the bathroom,’ he yells, his voice muffled by the door.
I shake my head. No good – that image will be burnt on my brain forever.
‘I’m going outside,’ I yell back, snatching my phone off the nightstand and running out to the balcony. By the time I get there, Megan’s call has gone to voicemail. I call her right back, but thenIget voicemail – probably because she’s leaving me a message. Argh – I hate playing phone tag.
I plonk onto a sun lounger and count to ten – more to calm myself down than fill time, but it does both.
Ten seconds later, I tap thecallbutton.
‘Hey, did you get my message?’ she asks, not bothering withhello.
‘No,’ I reply, ‘I called you straight back. What’s up?’
‘You left me hanging!’
‘What do you mean?’