She leans in, deadly serious. “Banana. Lighthouse. Kilt.”
“Fascinating!” I fake-laugh like she’s just told the joke of the century.
Patrick’s getting closer.
“Can I reach for a mussel,” Fee murmurs, hand hovering over the bowl, “or is that too wild for you?”
“Fine. Great. Do it,” I whisper through a grin so rigid my cheeks are starting to cramp.
And then he’s there.
Walking past our table without slowing down.
“Ladies,” he says with a polite nod, like we’re random hotel guests he’s professionally obligated to acknowledge.
No smile. No pause.
My heart does a weird stuttering thing, but I keep the smile plastered on. He’s just being professional.
Fee watches him disappear toward the lifts with those two glossy women, then turns back to me with a sympathetic wince. “You know what? Kitchen staff really are the way to go. You know exactly where you stand.”
But I don’t want kitchen staff. What I want is the complicated man who just walked past with a curt nod, like I was any other employee in his hotel. Not the man who went down on me for the first time.
And now he’s back, and instead of answers, all I’ve got is a stomach full of knots.
Is it all in my head or is he actually being a jerk here? It’s difficult to say.
Maybe this is just the reality of being with someone like Patrick. Sometimes you’re feeling like the only person who matters. Other times you’re just part of the scenery while he escorts beautiful magazine editors to their suites.
It’s Saturday morning, and my phone is stubbornly silent. I told myself I wouldn’t care, that I’d sleep like a Zen goddess.
Instead, I lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, inventing scenarios in which he was wining, dining, and inevitably bedding one of those glossy helicopter women. Maybe both.
By seven, Fee drags me onto the front lawn for what she calls “gentle morning yoga.” Gentle, my arse. I try not to topple into the flower beds while Fee flows through the moves like she’s auditioning for a Lululemon advert.
“Focus on your breathing,” she intones serenely. “Let go of whatever orwhoeveris cluttering your mind.”
If only it were that easy.
My phone pings and I fly out of warrior pose.
She doesn’t open her eyes, just sighs dramatically. “Georgie, the whole point is to disconnect from technology and connect with your inner—”
“It’s him!”
Her eyes flick open.
One word glows on the screen.
Busy?
That’s it?
“What does he want?” Fee asks.
I show her the screen. “What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Tell him you’re swamped with important downward-dog commitments.”
