ABBY
With no idea of the whereabouts of my original dressing gown or who is now in possession of my key, emblazoned with the room number on the cardboard sleeve, I’ll have to go to reception and deactivate it.
‘Abby, over here,’ Karen calls from a jacuzzi adjacent to the pool.
‘Sorry, I got distracted.’ You would have too if you’d seen the arrogant godlike creature in his ripped pectoral glory.
‘Whose robe is that?’ Kerry asks, furrowing her brows like a squirrel squinting at an acorn.
I’m mortified, made doubly worse by the fact that not only was I practically naked, but also in the wrong. The enticing abs and his enormous physique had thrown me, and don’t get me started on those smouldering eyes. I devote my life to avoiding men like him.
‘We brought yours with us when we left you in the sauna, in case you had anything valuable in the pocket.’
At least I don’t have to worry about some random man sneaking into my room in the middle of the night… although if he looked like the arrogant athlete that just dived into the pool, even I might be hard pushed to boot him out. He’s obscenely attractive, but my God does he know it. Broad shoulders give him a tank-like appearance, powerful and strong, contrasting a narrow waist. The definition of his abs carved like a Roman sculpture. He must live in the gym.
I shake my head, dismissing the memory of his semi-naked body from my sex-deprived mind. I’d quiet my unruly hormones with copious amounts of cocktails in the bar later. Until then, I attempt to keep my eyes from the distinct and delicious masculine outline perfecting his butterfly stroke not twenty feet away.
‘Get in, Abs,’ Karen urges. ‘You’re gawping with your mouth opening and closing like a fish.’ How is she not gawping too? How could anyone miss that? Even I couldn’t deny his appeal, and I wouldn’t notice Jamie Dornan if he were standing immediately in front of me. I know for a fact, because it happened once on Grafton Street. Aoife almost fainted on the spot.
I sink into the endless flow of bubbles next to Kerry, positioning my back in front of a fast-flowing jet. Kerry’s a dote, she’s only five foot two but what she lacks in size she makes up for in personality. Her infectious laugh can be heard countrywide. In contrast, Emma is tall with jet black hair, emerald coloured cat shaped eyes, and a figure that most women would kill for. She owns multiple hair and beauty salons, seems to know exactly what she wants in life, and isn’t afraid to pursue it. She’s also the angel that did my highlights at short notice earlier this week, and the coffee in her salon was to die for. I don’t know why I haven’t been into her before.
The girls resume their conversation about Karen’s lack of wedding planning.
I came close to walking down the aisle myself four years ago. It obviously didn’t end with the traditional ‘and they lived happily ever after’. I vowed never to repeat the situation again.
Mr Hot Robe Guy pulls himself out of the pool in an indecent show of strength and suppleness, and shoots me a meaningful wink as he passes. I pointedly look away in exaggerated distaste. I refuse to be the next notch on his bedpost, regardless of the indecent indentations leading directly to his groin.
Later in my hotel room, my thoughts return to that precise image as I wrap a fresh towel around me, hoping not to destroy it with last night’s hastily applied tan. Using every inch of willpower, I force his picture-perfect image from my delinquent brain and prepare for dinner, carefully blow-drying my freshly highlighted hair. I colour my heart-shaped lips with a shade described as fire engine red, barely recognising the sultry woman staring back at me from the steamy bathroom mirror. Almost ready, I step into a red slim-fitting dress and curse, realising I’m unable to reach the zip myself.
Two sharp raps on the bedroom door startle me, although I’m expecting Karen. Not only does she speed on the road, she races impatiently around all aspects of life. And when dinner time approaches, she waits for no one.
‘Two seconds.’ I slip my feet into gold pointed stilettoes and douse myself liberally in the Chanel perfume that Candice coerced me into buying on one of our infrequent trips to Brown Thomas.
‘Thank God you’re here. I can’t reach my zipper.’ The stiff bristled matt wedges under the door, and I fight with it for a second before it’s forced open from the other side.
A low chuckle sends a ripple of alarm through the length of my spine.
‘Allow me…’ Mr Hot Robe Guy pushes the door effortlessly towards me.
I take a step back to find myself, once again, face to face with this flirtatious stranger. He stands a foot in front of me; navy slacks and a slim-fitting white shirt hug his muscular frame. His top two buttons are undone, and a flash of tanned supple skin hints at the perfection that lies promisingly beneath the thin cotton.
I have no words. Not a good trait for a radio presenter. I press my lips together to mask my surprise. Large insightful pupils demand my attention, examining every inch of me, scorching me from the inside out.
‘Turn around.’ He twists one finger in a simple demonstration.
Mute, I accept his assistance, seeing as he’s here. Gentle fingers brush against my bare skin. Tiny fine hairs at the base of my neck prickle in a betraying state of arousal.
‘I came here intending to undo your dress.’ His warm breath seductively tickles my throat. I dart away from him the second I’m certain the zip’s secure.
‘Does that line usually work for you?’ I stare at him pointedly, hands on both hips.
‘In all honesty, yes.’ He closes the distance between us again, a blatant refusal to respect my personal space.
‘It’s wasted on me, I’m afraid.’ Could he be any more arrogant?
‘I hoped we might at least have a drink together.’ He raises a bottle of Moët in his left hand.
‘I don’t drink,’ I lie.
