But Alex is.
He’s sitting waiting for me at our usual table, which is heaped with so many plates it looks like he’s expecting more than just the one of me to be joining him. My heart gives an unexpected little flutter of pleasure at the sight of him, which I do my best to ignore, because it’s just too confusing.
Maybe I’m coming down with whatever it is Chloe has? That would certainly explain the whole ‘racing heart’ thing in a way that doesn’t involve me suddenly liking Alex…
“I know you like to have dessert first,” he says as I sit down.“But I still think that’s weird, so I got you some normal starters, too.”
“Wow,” I reply, looking at the spread in front of me, which, sure enough, contains both sweet and savory. “Thanks. You didn’t have to get me all this, though. I could have gone up myself.”
“Thought I’d save you the trouble,” Alex says, grinning. “It’s like feeding time at the zoo up there. And I’ve noticed it always takes you ages to choose.”
“Oh. Yeah. Well, there’s a lot to choose from.”
I don’t want to tell him the reason it always takes me so long is that I’m normally trying to avoid him, so I sit down and pick up my napkin, double-checking that it is, in fact, a napkin this time, and not the tablecloth.
“I’m going to take a leaf out of your book and try the dessert-first thing tonight,” declares Alex, selecting a slice of chocolate cake from the selection in front of him. “Live dangerously. Why not, after all?”
“Um, well, probably because it’s just a bit weird,” I admit, laughing at the expression on his face. “I guess there are good reasons we don’t normally do it that way around.”
“Aha!” he says, putting the bowl back down again. “I knew it! I knew you were justpretendingto be the wild and crazy type.”
“I think it’s more that I was trying to convince myself that’s who I was,” I confess, handing him his usual salmon starter. “But it wasn’t really me.”
I pick up a bowl of Canarian potatoes instead, relieved not to have to continue the facade of being someone less basic than I really am.
“So, what were you and Whatshisface talking about earlier, then?” asks Alex, as I reach for the mojo sauce to go with them. “It looked like a proper heart-to-heart.”
“I think you should stop pretending you can’t remember his name, now that you’ve actually met him, don’t you?” I reply, not really wanting to get into my complicated feelings about Jamie — especially not with Alex.
“OK,Jamie, then,” he shrugs, making the name sound like it tastes bad. “Your turn to answer my question now.”
“You’re very interested, all of a sudden,” I reply, still stalling for time.
“Of course I’m interested,” he says. “Your love life is of the utmost importance to me, Summer. I live for these updates on it. And trust me, I could be doing with the distraction.”
“Really?” I pause, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Why’s that? What do you need to be distracted from?”
He hesitates for just a moment, then shakes his head, as if he’s talking himself out of whatever it was he was about to say.
“Nothing,” he says instead. “My turn with the questions again. So, come on, out with it. Were you telling him about the diary?, and your list?”
“Nuh-uh.” I put my cutlery down in an ‘I mean business’ kind of way. “You’re not getting away with that,” I tell him firmly. “You don’t get to tell me you need a distraction, then refuse to tell me whatfrom. Is it the same thing you were thinking about on the balcony last night?”
“Leave it, Summer.”
Alex’s face darkens, like the sun going behind a cloud. I pick up my fork again and fiddle with it thoughtfully. I really want to know what’s going on with him, but he’s got that whole ‘tortured poet’ thing going on again, and even though the moody, intense look suits him, it’s a sure sign that if I push any further, he’s probably just going to get up and storm off again, like he did at breakfast that time. So I file it under ‘Things I’ll Come Back to Later’, and go back to my potatoes.
Alex looks like he’s about to ask again about me and Jamie, but before he can get the words out, Emilio the waiter appears, carrying a large silver tray, and carefully avoiding my seat — presumably in case I end up breaking something again.
“For the happy couple,” he says, deftly removing some of the empty plates in front of us, so he can replace them with the one on his tray. “Compliments of the hotel.”
“Morefree stuff?” I say, amazed. “Okay, this is starting to get weird now. What have we done to keep getting things ‘compliments of the hotel’? This can’t all just be a coincidence, surely?”
By way of answer, Emilio lowers his latest offering to the table with a dramatic flourish. It’s some kind of fancy pastry, presented on a large white plate, with two forks beside it. A chocolate sauce has been drizzled over the top, and then out onto the plate, where it’s been carefully poured to form two words in large, looping letters:
HAPPY HONEYMOON!
“Oh my God,” I say, slapping my hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh. “Sorry, Emilio, but you’ve got the wrong table. This isn’t for us. We’re not married.”
