“Wow, you almost sound like you know what you’re doing,” he says.
I'm blushing because it's true. All that scrolling of recipes was the most productive thing I did all day.
“Oh, God. Are you falling in love with him?” My brother asks, which promptly wipes the pink right out of my cheeks as I freeze, arms and chest tight.
“Jake, I barely know him...”
“All the more reason why it's entirely possible. I never fall in love with people I know well. In fact, that seems to make me fall out of love rather quickly, so I try to avoid it at all costs.”
“Let's have a conversation about that one day, please,” I say. Although we have before, many, many times.
“Don't dodge the topic. State your case that I'm not speaking the truth,” he says.
I sigh. “He lives in Dublin. I live in London.”
“Let the parish council minutes reflect she neither confirms or denies the accusations.”
I pull my eyebrows together. “Parish council meetings are not places for accusations, Jake.”
“You clearly have never been to a parish council meeting. Vicious gatherings.” He leans over the bar and his voice is lower and softer when he practically whispers in my ear. “You know it's okay to fall in love with him.”
“It's been three days, Jake,” I tell him but I'm talking to myself, especially the already simmering hot waters that swim in my gut whenever I think about any of the moments Marty and I have shared.
“And so fucking what? Please tell me you believe in love at first sight? You of all people should.”
I'm about to answer but he's pulling a ringing phone out of his pocket.
“Sweet child of my straight ex-boyfriend, it's reservations again. That's the third call in an hour,” he says.
“Problem?” I ask and he answers, shaking his head at me.
“Jake speaking.” He's all charm, even if the frown crinkling his brow remains.
I go back to taste-testing my third attempt at making the perfect mocktail, dipping a straw in what I just mixed. It's good but not quite right. Something’s missing. I bend down to look in the juice fridge another time.
“But that will mean the resort is full?” I hear Jake say, all his calm replaced with shock. “For five weeks!”
He turns around to face the restaurant, rubbing his forehead. I follow his gaze towards the kitchen where one of the usual wait staff is manically gesturing at Jake while wearing a chef's shirt and trousers about five sizes too big. My brother gives him a wave back that could easily mean,Come here,Stay there,Piss off, or all three.
“Okay, well, do it,” Jake says into his phone, turning back to face me, a little dazed. “And then we need to start looking at optimising where everyone goes so we have more availability. Put a freeze on the free upgrades for the foreseeable future and send me an updated bookings schedule for the next two months before you log off for the day. Please.” He hangs up but keeps his eyes fixed on his phone.
“That sounds like you're about to get very... busy?” I say tentatively.
He looks at me, still bewildered. “Something has happened. We've completely packed out the resort for the next month and a half. We've taken more new bookings in the last two days than we have all year. After the Bouras’ told me I had to increase positive organic reviews by 300%, I was confident that would get a few more bookings but not this many, and not this quick,” he says when his phone is back in his pocket. “I wish I had time to look into it, but I need to get back in the kitchen.”
“You're doing amazing, Jake. It’s probably all your hard work already paying off.”
“Maybe.” Jake's thoughts drift elsewhere for a moment but then he snaps back to me, his nose wrinkling with a quick sniff and his eyes narrowing. “Oh my Greek Orthodox God, can you smell burning?”
I don't have time to reply before he's halfway to the kitchen in a very nimble jog. I smile after him and make a mental note to go help him out with washing up or serving customers as soon as this meal is over. Then I turn my attention back to what I'm doing.
Three batches later, I have it perfected, or at least perfect enough. It's fruity with a little fizz that tickles the tongue and a little spice that warms the throat. It's so very, very Marty and I hope I don't have to explain the reasons why in front of his parents.
I thank Eric after he helps me prepare five glasses of the drink, leaving them in the fridge to stay cool. He then pours me the glass of white wine I suddenly need more than I care to admit. After quickly looking at the reservations list, Eric points to a table that I walk over to. Then I sit down and wait.
As it happens, I don't have to wait long. I barely have two sips of wine, muttering, “Everything’s going to be okay,” to myself a handful of times, before I'm watching the tall, striking figure of Marty walk towards me. He's wearing faded but fitted black jeans and a baby-blue polo shirt that's tucked in, accentuating his narrow waist and broad shoulders. His hair looks like he's just stepped out of the shower, which conjures up the best recent memories, and I catch a glimpse of his naked ankles in his Birkenstocks. He's never looked sexier, and maybe older even, like I really wouldn't have said he was just turning twenty-four. But if I'm honest, I'm past even caring about this. What I care and am delighted about is that he's alone.
I stand to take a step toward him but he's already there, jogging the last few metres and pulling me straight into his orbit as his hands cup my face and he takes a long deep kiss from my lips.
