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“Is it full of stuff?” I guess.

“Just the necessities of life, which I always travel with.” She takes off her hat and pushes her hair over her shoulder, and I expect her to say a first-aid kit or a spare coat and blanket in case she breaks down. But then I remember that this is Alice.

“My current read, a packet of biscuits, a cross-stitch kit my mum gave me four years ago.” She eyes me. “You have to be prepared. Isn’t that what the Boy Scouts say?”

“I wasn’t a Boy Scout,” I say.

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Not sure whether that’s an insult or a compliment. But moving on—does your car have air-con?”

“Of course it does… if you drive with the windows down.”

I roll my eyes, and she smiles, and suddenly I can picture her driving down the motorway with the windows down, the breeze billowing through her hair, the wind fresh against her face.

“I’m not a great passenger,” I tell her.

“What, like you’ll grab the wheel, or you get carsick?”

“Both. I like to be in control.”

Her face flushes.

“Gosh, Mr Shea, I’m seeing a different side to you.” She places her hand on her chest and fans herself with the other.

Normally, this sort of flirtation would irk me, but there’s a cheeky smile behind her blush, and it isn’t long before she’s laughing.

“Very funny,” I mutter, grabbing a couple of bottles of water from the fridge, glad of the cool air drifting from the open door.

Alice might find it funny, but I’m deadly serious. I like to be in control in every aspect.

I shove the thought away, because there’s no way I can survive a long car journey with those images running through my head.

“I need to change,” I tell her, glancing down at my jeans and polo shirt, which are in no way suitable attire for a day at the beach.

“Of course you do.” She smiles, and as I head up the stairs, she shouts, “Don’t forget your trunks!”

47

Alice

My stomach does this little thing where I think there are a bunch of tiny people in there dancing around a maypole when Owen walks into the kitchen wearing a cream linen shirt with a button-down neck and dark khaki dress shorts. If I wasn’t a little flustered by the comment before about him being in control, then I certainly am now… until I spot his feet.

When I arrived, he was wearing black socks, but now his feet are bare, a pair of trainer socks and white Vans in his hands. Generally, I hate feet. I find them strange and bizarre, especially if you think about them for too long. But there’s nothing bizarre about Owen’s feet, and I have to stop myself from asking him if he’s ever considered being a foot model because that’d only highlight the fact that I’m staring at his beautiful feet.

There’s something very intimate about seeing a man’s feet. Not something you generally get to do until you’ve jumped into bed with them, and by that point, it’s too late to assess them on their feet because you’re already committed to doing the deed.

I’m mesmerised as he pulls a dining chair out and puts his socks on, then his shoes, deflation settling at the foot show now being over.

“Got your trunks?” I ask, breaking away from my trance as I jump down from the barstool.

“Is it warm enough for the English ocean?”

“Only one way to find out.” I grab my bag and head to the door as Owen gathers his keys and a beige canvas bag he brought down with him. “Got everything?”

He taps his bag. “Towel, sliders, water, sun cream, sunglasses, and, yes, I have my trunks.”

“Then we’re good to go.”