This is absolute heaven.
By the time Tate raps on my suite door, I’m fully relaxed and ready for dinner. The floral Rebecca Vallance maxi I picked out scoops at my neckline and sculpts my cleavage before floating out from my hips all the way to the floor. Paired with tan leather Jimmy Choo flip-flops, it’s dressy, if slightly bohemian. I didn’t bother applying much make-up in this heat, though I couldn’t resist a sweep of mascara and a slick of red lipstick—just in case I happen to bump into a certain hot American again.
I might not chase, but I won’t run away either. I add a bit of highlighter to the swell of my cleavage. Despite what I said to Tate earlier, I’d love a few sordid stories to regale Livvie with when I get home.
‘The steakhouse, seafood restaurant, or the Italian?’ Tate asks, ushering me out the front door.
‘Seafood, I think. If that’s okay with you?’ Tate never eats with me; he’ll take a table close enough to intervene, but far enough to allow me to feel alone.
‘Sure.’ We walk in companionable silence through the elaborate gardens. I stop to admire the white phalaenopsis orchids. They’re my favourite flower of all time. Underrated, yet exquisite. And they thrive best when they’re alone—like me. I small smile touches my lips.
‘What’s funny?’ Tate gives me a sidewards glance.
‘Nothing.’ I give a little shake of my head. He wouldn’t get it.
The infinity pool glitters invitingly beneath the moonlight, the scent of salt, seaweed and rum drifts in the air. The waves are the ever present soundtrack to my vacation. When we reach the lantern-lit entrance, Tate asks the maître d’ for two separate tables.
A flash of understanding flickers across her features. Theymust get a lot of high-profile guests here. She welcomes me inside. Tate follows a few feet behind.
The restaurant is unlike anything I’ve ever seen—and I’ve seen my fair share of opulent dining rooms. It’s part tropical dream, part architectural masterpiece. The entire space is open to the elements, framed by vast wooden beams carved from a warm ash wood. The floor looks like hand-laid mosaic—tiny turquoise and pearl tiles catch the light from the pendant lanterns suspended overhead. Each one is blown glass, shaped like inverted teardrops, glowing in shades of amber and coral. The entire room flickers with warmth. It’s exquisite. Is it the same company that designed the rooms? Someone definitely understands that luxury isn’t necessarily about marble and chrome. I bet it was a woman.
White-linen tables spill out onto a deck overlooking the crystal-clear Caribbean Sea, each one set with gold-rimmed glassware and cut crystal that glints in the soft candlelight. A warm breeze carries the scent of grilled lobster and garlic. My stomach rumbles in appreciation.
I take in my surroundings, mentally cataloguing details to steal later. But there’s no denying that my traitorous eyes keep sweeping the room—lingering on the bar, the terrace, the shadowed tables near the water’s edge—searching for California.
I’m out of luck.
He isn’t here.
Shame.
Disappointment pricks low in my chest, but I force it down fast. This holiday is about me—and some much-needed alone time. Yes, sex with a hot stranger would be a bonus, but it’s not the be-all and end-all.
I choose a table near the edge of the decking, close enough to the water to appreciate the gentle lap of the tide, far enough from curious eyes. A woman dining alone tends todraw attention—one of the many reasons my family insists Tate travels everywhere with me. They weren’t thrilled when I told them I was holidaying solo, but at the end of the day, I’m a grown woman. We’re beyond them trying to stop me—just about.
I slip into the chair, and cross my legs beneath the table as the maître d’ slides a leather-bound menu in front of me with a polished smile.
‘Something to drink?’ she asks.
‘A glass of Gavi, please.’
She nods and disappears toward the bar. I open the menu. The candlelight flickers across the embossed lettering as I scan the specials—grilled snapper with citrus butter, seared scallops with plantain purée, charred pineapple crème brûlée.
Every dish sounds like summer on a plate. I stick to a fairly good diet at home. I do Pilates four mornings a week. But I refuse to count calories for the next ten days.
The waiter appears with my wine, setting it down with a smile. ‘Ready to order?’
‘The grilled snapper, please.’ I hand back the menu, and he disappears, leaving me alone with the sound of the sea. I lift my glass, sip the crisp chilled wine, and sink back against my chair.
Then the air shifts.
A prickle of awareness blooms at the base of my spine. My skin hums with the knowledge I’m being watched—and not by Tate.
Somewhere behind me, a chair scrapes against the wooden deck, followed by the quiet slide of leather soles.
I don’t need to look.
I just know.
