‘You mean the secondyousmashed upmycar?’ He slaps my ass, and the sensation sets tingles down my spine. ‘Post the picture.’ He gestures to the phone.
I type the caption, ‘Sunday Funday with my swimming instructor,’ and tag both Ronan and Coral Chic into the post with the hashtags #secretsout #datingintthedeepend #brandambassador #paidpartnership and #whataview. I don’t mean the sun glittering off the turquoise lake. I mean the ripped Adonis beside me.
‘If we’re coming out, we may as well do it in a baptism of fire.’
Ronan picked up more than just the donuts and pastries this morning. He picked up an entire picnic basket’s worth of freshly made sandwiches, cold meat salads, a punnet of fresh, juicy strawberries, and a half-sized bottle of Tattinger.
I’m under no illusion this is the calm before the media shitstorm, but at least we’ll weather the shitstorm together. And maybe it won’t be that bad. Two people in love should be celebrated, not condemned.
We sprawl across a fleecy blanket, side by side, faces tilted up towards the hazy sunshine. Ronan took pity on my chattering teeth and lent me his Dryrobe. He’s wearing a hoodyand his wet shorts, the same fire engine red ones I stared at for months before uncovering what’s inside them.
Our fingers are interlaced, both of us propped up on our elbows, each clutching a plastic flute filled with bubbles.
‘Thank you.’ I tear my eyes away from the glistening water.
‘What for?’ He shoves his sunglasses onto his head to squint at me.
‘For bringing me here. For teaching me to swim. For loving me.’ I offer a small shrug. He’s changed my life. I’m not sure what the future looks like, but with Ronan by my side, I’m excited about the next chapter.
‘Thank you for letting me.’ He rocks forwards, his lips locking with mine in a slow sensual kiss. I peep over his shoulder without pulling away, checking for prying eyes, but this place is just as remote as it ever was.
It’s one thing to post an image of us together and announcing our relationship, but if someone were to snap pictures of this sensual scene, they would be worth a fortune.
The low rumbling of a large vehicle approaching in the distance is the only reason I tear my mouth from my man’s.
My man.
I love it.
And I love him.
‘Looks like we’ve got company.’ I rock back onto my elbows, grateful for my oversized sunglasses as a minibus pulls up and fourteen babbling women pile out with various coloured yoga mats tucked beneath their arms.
Several of them glance our way. Ronan drops his sunglasses back down from his head to cover his eyes.
‘Ah, young love.’ A curvy woman in a polka dot swimsuit and shorts approaches us, eyeing the champagne flutes and our entwined fingers. ‘This is how it starts,’ she says, pointing her index finger between us. ‘Isn’t it, Rose?’ Herhead cranes as she searches for her cronies, beckoning them over.
‘Enjoy it, while it lasts.’ Another yoga pant wearing woman strides over, flanking the first. ‘Once you have kids, it’ll be the end of these lazy days.’
The rest of the women migrate towards us and my sweaty fingers grip Ronan’s like my life depends on it.
‘Are you on your holidays?’ Another kind-faced lady asks, peering into the picnic basket and sniffing.
‘No, we’re just on a day trip from the city.’ Ronan flashes a winning smile. Considering he doesn’t elaborate, you’d think they’d get the hint and move on, but no.
Mind you, if I were them, I’d probably stand and gawp at the man beside me too. Hell, I gawped from the poolside for long enough, didn’t I?
‘Ladies, come on.’ A woman in her forties booms from beside the bus in an authoritative tone. ‘This is supposed to be a wellness excursion, not a gossiping session.’
I exhale a sigh of relief as, one by one, the women bid us goodbye. All but one. The first.
‘I recognise you.’ I flinch at the accusation in her tone, but when I dare to glance up, it’s Ronan she’s pointing at, not me.
‘Yeah?’ He cocks his head and forces another dazzling smile.
‘I can’t place you, but I’ve definitely seen you before.’ Her head angles to the side, her beady eyes narrowing. She hesitates, hopping from foot to foot, staring at Ronan like he’s a jigsaw puzzle, one piece short.
When her eyes fall to his swimming shorts, I know she has it. She clicks her fingers and squeals, ‘You’re Ronan Rivers. The Olympic swimmer! I watched your last race ten times over.’
