‘Oh, hon, I’m sorry – that was mean.’
I swallow the lump in my throat, blinking back tears.
‘That’s okay. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
I hang up, interrupting hergoodbye.
I wish I was home. I wish I was back in my modest-but-familiar apartment, curled up on my sofa with microwave popcorn and a glass of California Zin, watchingHow to Lose a Guy in Ten Days.
More like, how to lose a guy infourdays.
Because I can’t have Nick – he’s engaged. And while he may not want to get married – something he’s yet to admit, but I’m positive about – he made a promise to Pippa and I am not going to bethatwoman.
There’s also Nicholas. A man who’s madezeropromises and hasn’t asked for any, who treats what I’ve been calling a ‘relationship’ like a casual fling, a convenience. I’m his ‘friend from America’ who he sees from time to time and has sex with. And not even very good sex.
I bet sex with Nick would be out of this frigging world.
‘All yours.’
Nick’s voice is like an electric shock, jolting me back to the present. He’s standing in the doorway, holding a comforter and a couple of pillows.
‘Thanks.’
I hurry past him, then go into the bathroom and get ready for bed.
When I drag the covers over me, the bed feels huge and empty. No pillow fort. No Nick. And it’s more than an hour before I fall asleep.
* * *
I wake early after yet another shitty night’s sleep and climb out of bed, tiptoeing to the window and peeking through the sheer curtains.
Nick’s on one the loungers on his side, curled into a ball. The comforter has slipped onto the tiled floor and he looks cold, which might be why he’s in the foetal position. I consider going out there and covering him up, but only for a second. He’s not mine to look after.
He stirs and I leap away from the window, even though there’s no way he saw me. I don’t want to be here when he gets up – I am nowhere near ready to have the conversation we need to have – so I forage for shorts and a T-shirt, then go into the bathroom to shower. After the fastest shower in history – I barely needed a towel – I brush my teeth, slap on some moisturiser, and scoop my hair into a messy bun.
I crack the bathroom door and peer around the doorframe and – of course – Nick’s sitting on the sofa. So much for escaping before he woke up.
Oblivious that I’m watching him, he rubs sleep out of his eyes, gives in to a yawn, then grabs his injured shoulder and rolls it a few times, his yawn transforming into a wince. He really needs to get that looked at –andnot sleep outside on a crappy sun lounger. I should have offered to sleep on the sofa and given him the bed.
I don’t want him to catch me spying on him, so I go back inside the bathroom, very quietly close the door, then loudly turn the knob and clear my throat as I walk into the bedroom.
‘Oh, good morning,’ he says.
‘Good morning to you too, sleepy head,’ I say like a hopped-up kindergarten teacher. I freeze, clocking the amusement on his face. ‘Sorry.’
‘Now who’s the dork?’ He stretches his arm along the back of the sofa, clearly enjoying the shoe being on the other foot.
‘Yeah, that was lame. So… how was it out there?’ I ask, hitching my thumb towards the window.
‘On par with theDeadfallshoot.’
‘Worse than sleeping on the ground? I’m really sorry.’
‘For what?’ he asks.
Great question, Nick! I’m sorry for shoving my tongue down your throat and lusting after you and maybe even falling for you a little when I have no frigging right to.
‘For not sleeping on the sofa,’ I reply.