“Oh my god, did you fuck him?” Wow, his mind went straight there.
“No, of course not.”
I haven’t fucked anyone since we met. I haven’t needed to. Not that I would tell him any of this.
“But we got chatting about you, and I casually dropped into the conversation how awesome you are, and beautiful, and how big your cock is.”
Harry snort laughs. He and I both know his cock is distinctly average for a man of his height, but he’s as much of a compliment whore as I am, so he laps it up.
“Anyway, he’s going to message you next week or whenever and ask you out on a date. I hope that’s all right?”
He stares at me. Blinks a few times.
“I mean, if it’s not, you can always just tell him no. Or I can suggest I got the wrong end of the stick.”
Still, he’s quiet.
“Harry?”
“Um . . . What did he say about me?”
Okay, phew, at least he’s talking. “He said that you’re very cute, and that he’d always assumed we were together and didn’t want to step on any toes,” I say. Harry’s still processing, and it’s unnerving. “He said he wants to take you to Casks.”
He nods, very slowly at first, then a little less slowly, but still too glacial for it not to be entirely unsettling. “Why did you do this?”
“Because . . .” I’m going to be honest with him. Lay everything out. Tell him the complete truth. Well, the complete truth except for that one teeny weeny thing at the end. “You’re literally my most favourite person in the entire world, and I really, really want to see you happy.”
He swallows. “Lando . . . What about us?”
“What about us?”
“Is . . .” Harry looks off into the distance, to a crowd of white students playing reggae through a Sonos. He looks back at me without seeing them. “Is . . . there ever a chance for . . . us?”
Ouch. Fuck. Shit. My heart.
What do I say to that?
“Harry—”
“Boys!” Daisy yells, peering her head through the gaps in the boat’s bodywork. “Photos!”
“Come on, losers!” Serasi calls out, sitting herself on the edge of the deck, her legs dangling down the hull.
Harry spares me one last look before dragging himself to his feet to join them.
We snap some pictures, the girls all smiling and giggling. Harry fixes his face into his perfect “media day professionally cheerful” expression, but he keeps catching my eye, and I know there is meaning behind those glances.
All four of us stay out on the deck until the sun has well and truly set. Parties are still raging on the shoreline, and we’ve chatted about everything and nothing, and yet somehow, Harry and I have managed not to speak to each other directly.
He’s right there, within arm’s reach, but I keep my hands to myself, and I don’t touch him, no matter how much I want to.
Need to.
Eventually, after the girls have put away four lots of fifty-quid-a-piece champagne, they start talking about retiring to their stateroom.
I kiss them both on the cheeks and send them off to their beds. Then, outside the kids’ stateroom, I make a big show of bidding Harry goodnight, loud enough to be heard in the cabin at the front of the boat, and I shut myself in my room. Lana del Rey plays through my room’s Bluetooth speaker system, because the moment calls for Lana del Rey and only Lana del Rey.
My heart is beating in overdrive, and I’m sweating, adrenaline setting fire to every single cell in my body. I pace for five, six, seven minutes.
