The decision is out of my hands, though, and the receptionist shakes her head.
“Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do. The suite is no longer available, the king room is your only option.” She holds out the sleeve with our keys tucked inside.
“We’ll manage somehow, you know, slumming it in a king-sized room.” Robert winks at her, and she melts. He’s actually quite charming, but my wall remains intact. There’s no charm in Northern Ireland that can melt the structure, not even Robert’s, though you couldn’t tell that from the way the receptionist is fluttering her eyelids at him.
I steady my breathing. There’s bound to be a sofa or some kind of pull-out bed I can sleep on, to avoid breaking one of the damn rules. The ink is barely dry on our list. And if he keeps flashing that stupid, high-wattage smile, I might be tempted to carve out a door in my peace wall.
He guides me to the lift, pushes the button, and ushers me in when it arrives. “It’ll be grand, Rhiannon. We’ll make it work.”
When we open the door to our room, all oxygen leaves my lungs. It’s a one bedroom, one bathroom space, complete with a dining area, private, covered terrace, hot tub, and stunning sea view. The pictures online don’t do it justice.
“Sweet baby Jesus and the wee donkey.” Robert spins in a slow circle.
Aaaand there’s no fucking sofa.
“I know there’s a gorgeous beach down there.” He points to the terrace with the backdrop of rolling hills leading into the Dubrovnik Riviera. “But it looks to me like there’s no real need to go out or indeed see anyone if you didn’t want to. This is…” He whistles through his teeth. “What the hell does the Presidential Suite look like?”
Where the fuck is the sofa?
“Fuck me. This is impressive. And costly.” He turns to face me. “I feel like I need to offer some money to cover this. It can’t have been cheap.”
I swallow down another “What the fuck?” about the lack of a sofa in the damn room and try to steady myself. “It wasn’t. But George’s mother paid since it was him that wanted something so extravagant, so thank you, Mrs. Wilson!” Another twinge of guilt spears me in the chest. I’ll give her the money back. It’s not her fault her son is a cheating arsehole.
There’s a bottle of champagne chilling in a metal bucket next to the dining table, and a note card congratulating the newlyweds and telling us to enjoy the cake in the fridge. Robert thrusts the card in a clutched hand into the air. “Cake!”
It takes him less than a minute to liberate the small cake from the fridge.Congratulations Mr. and Mrs.is written across the top of chocolate ganache and has a white heart in frosting next to the S. Once he has the cake and two forks, he jerks his chin at the champagne.
He seems way less bothered that there’s only one bed for the two of us. Unless he thinks one of us will sleep on the floor. I wince. I didn’t come to a five-star resort in Croatia to sleep on the floor, and while he was a reporter in the Middle East and probably slept on the floor sometimes, I can’t find it in my heart to make him take the hard floor, either.
“Come on, fake wife. Bring theglasses and let’s get stuck in.”
Fake wife. Huh. That’s a step up from girlfriend for sure. If I hadn’t found out about that slut George and his sidepiece, I could be standing here, Mrs. George Wilson. A shudder ripples up my spine as Robert makes his way out onto the terrace, plonks himself on the outdoor dinner table—because that’s just how extra we are for the next week—and turns toward me.
“Hurry up, my self-restraint only goes so far. If you take much longer, I’m going to dive right in, and I can’t guarantee there’ll be any left for you by the time you get out here.” He holds his fork hovering above the cake he’s cradling just under his chin.
Self-restraint only goes so far.
Feels a bit like an omen, but I can’t help smiling. This is what I wanted, right? Time to reset, space from the news outlets and the pressure from my family, and an actual holiday with real sunshine. Then why is there a sense of apprehension in my stomach that grows with every step I take toward the handsome man waiting to share a chocolate cake with me?
CHAPTER 17
Robert
I’m not used to being in bed with another person. I like my space. Unless I’m dog sitting for my sister’s Pomeranian terror, Chewbarka. That wee arsehole can somehow take up an entire king-sized bed.
But when I blink into consciousness after our first night in Croatia, my entire body prickles with awareness that I’m not the only person in the room.
If I was in any doubt, the mop of caramel-brown hair covering my chest would be a dead giveaway. Somehow, despite all the space afforded to us in this laughably large bed, she’s found her way to me.
Seems my fake girlfriend is a heat seeker in her sleep, even in Croatia in June. Her body rises and falls with even, heavy breaths, and her arm is draped across my stomach, and her leg is coiled over mine. She’s curled up tight against me.
I have to say, I’ve woken up to worse experiences over the years.
My skin burns where her body touches mine, and my fingers itch to explore the exposed pieces of skin. For someonewho looks at me like she wants to break my face, she’s awfully cuddly.
Rhiannon Morrigan is about to enter an exclusive club, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. Few people have seen my leg in all its stub glory because it’s hard to predict how people will react. Some are wholly unfazed, but some view me with a deep pity I can’t stand to see reflected back in their stares.
Something nestled in my chest isn’t ready for Rhiannon to look at me with sympathy or anything resembling pity in those fierce and gorgeous green eyes. I’m tempted to slip out from under her, to put my prosthesis on and some trousers so she can’t see it. But we’re here together for a week, and it’s hotter than the devil’s ball bag. There’s simply no way she’snotgoing to see it. So, I suppose this morning is as good a time as any.
