I plopped onto the bed, spinning the bangle around my wrist. A glint of light caught my eye and I held my wrist up to the bedside lamp. This wasn’t a silver bangle, I realised on closer examination. It was platinum and set with tiny diamonds.
I read the card again.With love, Julian. Oh god, was this aromanticgift? If so, it complicated matters (to borrow words from hubby number one).
‘Oh, Jules,’ I sighed wearily. ‘Are you trying to win me back?’
I took off the bangle and set it on the bedside table. Regardless of Julian’s intentions, I’d need to find a gentle way to return it.
My stomach rumbled again and I got up and went to the minibar where I conducted a quick inventory. There were all sorts of delicious Greek goodies. Hooray, I wouldn’t starve to death before morning!
I was just about to open a packet of dried figs when there was a knock at the door. I froze. Hubby number one or hubby number three? I drew in a breath and held it, keeping perfectly still, which was ridiculous. Whichever husband it was knew I was in there.
‘Just answer the bloody door, Ally,’ I chastised myself.
I crossed the room and swung it open, something that took considerable effort. But it wasn’t a husband. It was Christos, the Adonis from the restaurant.
‘Oh, hello,’ I said, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.
He presented a tray with a silver cloche on it. ‘Mr Cushing asked me to deliver this. He thought you might be hungry after travelling for most of the day.’
I lifted the cloche and eyed the assortment of food – a bowl brimming with plump olives, a plate of creamy dip sprinkled with chopped parsley, and a stack of pita that, from the aroma, was fresh off the skillet.
‘That’smelitzanosalata,’ he said, pointing at the dip.
‘Which is?’
‘It’s made with smoked eggplant.’
‘Ah, well it smells delicious.’ I lowered the silver dome and stepped aside. ‘Come on in.’
He hesitated for a sec, then entered. As I closed the door behind us, he walked over to the sitting area and placed the tray on the low coffee table.God, he has an incredible arse.
He straightened and turned, catching me checking him out – something I probably wouldn’t have done if it weren’t for the shitty,shittyluck of running into Tommy.
Sex with a stranger can soothe a heart that’s held together with Pritt stick, tape, and chewing gum. But seducing the hot waiter would have been little more than a consolation prize – gorgeous as he was, Christos wasn’t Tommy.
‘Well, enjoy,’ he said, his grin lingering a fraction too long to be professional.
I saw him out, and he gave me one last look before the door clicked shut. I turned to the tray of food. Forget Tommy, forget Christos – what I really needed was dinner. Easier to feed a growling stomach than mend a broken heart.
4
Thought of the day…
If you feel out of sorts, wear your favourite outfit or slick on some bold red lippie.
‘Fake it till you make it’ really does work!
(And if it doesn’t, at least you look good.)
Despite being well-fed (I devoured every morsel on that tray), exhausted from the day’s journey,andwrung out from the emotional upheaval brought on by Tommy’s appearance, I barely slept that night.
I simply couldn’t get Tommy out of my mind. And I tried every trick in the book.
I even tried counting sheep, but that just reminded me of the Hebridean sheep that Tommy and I saw in the Scottish Highlands during a mini break.
Wide a-fucking-wake.
I tried meditating, but every time I cleared my mind, Tommy came marching back into it. Tommy on our wedding day, beaming as I walked down the aisle towards him. Tommy asleep on a lazy Sunday morning, rumpled but so,sohandsome. Tommy charming the old women at the bus stop with silly made-up stories about treasure hunting in Peru. Tommy stopping to help a young mum get her pushchair down a set of steps. Tommy coming in from a run, shirtless and sweaty, and chasing me around our flat trying to rub his sweat off on me, making me scream with laughter.
