Handsome, says my brain. Gorgeous. Delicious. Sexy.
No. Enough. Don’t start down that path. He looks well groomed. Exactly. Smart shirt. Aftershave. Nice shoes, I notice, glancing downward.
“Hi,” he says. “Wondered if you’d be here.”
“Couldn’t resist the free drinks,” I say, sipping my champagne. There’s something new about his expression. A different light in his eyes. Or am I imagining it?
“Good,” says Finn. “Because I wanted to talk to you.”
He pauses, and I feel my heart skip. Then my brain kicks in, chiding my heart for skipping. Now my chest feels tight. My fingers are damp round the stem of my glass. God, my body is so unruly.
And still Finn is looking at me, his face alive with some thought or feeling, but silent, as though he doesn’t know where to begin. Or perhaps he does know where to begin, but he’s apprehensive about beginning.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I say, to fill the gap. “Did you get through to your therapist?”
“Oh, yes,” he says, frowning, as though confused by the question. “Yes. I … yes.” He pauses and looks around the room, which has become more raucous. “It’s noisy in here. Could we go somewhere?”
My heart skips again. Go somewhere?
But I’m not making the mistake of listening to my skippy, romantic heart. I’m listening to my solid, somewhat-jaded brain instead. He probably means, Go somewhere to talk about the hotel’s billing policy. Or, Go somewhere so I can update you on the cricket score.
“Um, sure,” I say, gulping my champagne. “Sure.”
However, at that very moment, Simon taps on a glass, shushing everyone. Nikolai starts threading through the guests, topping up the champagne as though it’s a wedding, and Cassidy arrives at our side.
“Simon’s going to give a speech,” she says chattily. “He’s dead nervous. I said, ‘Simon, just imagine the audience all wearing one of my Etsy thongs,’ and he was like, ‘What Etsy thongs?’ He didn’t know! So I showed him and he got all stressed again, poor love! He thinks I should do them ‘in my own time.’ ” She laughs merrily. “I was like, ‘Simon, sitting at that desk is my own time: Nothing ever happens!’ But he was all like—” She breaks off and applauds vigorously as Simon steps onto a small podium and taps the microphone. “Woo-hoo! Go, Simon!”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Simon, as the chatter dies to a hush. “Welcome to the Rilston Hotel—and an exciting new chapter.”
A screen behind Simon fills with an artist’s rendition of six sun-drenched glass buildings on Rilston Beach, with a vivid blue sky emblazoned with the words Skyspace Beach Studios at the Rilston.
“Wow,” I breathe. “That’s … different.”
“Today, the Rilston steps into the next millennium,” Simon continues, reading off a card. “With style, substance, and, of course, sea views. I bring you Skyspace Beach Studios!”
The next moment, funky music is crashing through the room, and a video is showing a series of photos of the beach, the town, the hotel, a close-up of Young Love, and then the design of the studios.
“The Skyspace Beach Studios project brings together the majesty and tradition of the Rilston Hotel,” a female voiceover breathily declaims, “the talents of architects Fitts Warrender, the artworks of renowned local artist Mavis Adler, and interior design by a top designer, unconfirmed. The latest in stylish beachside accommodation. For holidays. For living. For you.”
As the video finishes, there’s an uncertain spattering of applause, and Simon lifts up his arms theatrically as though he’s holding back the roar at Wembley Stadium.
“Save your applause,” he says, his face glowing. “Architect Jonathan Fitts will speak to us in a moment. But first I would like to pay tribute to heritage. I speak, of course, of the original beach lodges, still standing on Rilston Beach.” Now he begins a round of applause, and soon everyone in the room is clapping.
“Have they seen the beach lodges?” Finn says in my ear, and I bite my lip.
“And to celebrate this rich heritage, I would like to invite two guests, Sasha Worth and Finn Birchall, to join me here. Come on, Sasha and Finn!” He beckons us as though he’s a quiz-show host. “Don’t be shy!”
“What!” exclaims Finn, bemused, and I shrug.
“No idea.”
Shooting each other wary glances, we wend our way to the stage and stand awkwardly, side by side.
“Sasha and Finn first visited this resort as children, ladies and gentlemen, and now they’re here again, faithful to Rilston,” begins Simon. “They’re the kind of guests that bring the heart to Rilston. The kind of guests that turn a resort … into a family resort. Sasha and Finn are the last guests who will ever occupy the original historic beach lodges, and we at the Rilston would like to thank these two honored guests for keeping the tradition alive.”
I can’t quite believe it, but I’m getting misty-eyed. I guess the lodges have always been part of the Rilston Bay scenery. I’m glad I got to have one, just in time.
“To the lodges!” exclaims Simon. We all raise our glasses and then a photographer dashes forward, a massive camera round his neck.
“Quick photo, if you don’t mind?” he says to Finn and me. “If I could move the happy couple a leetle to the left …” He quickly changes the lens on his camera. “Not the happy couple, but you know what I mean …”
“Oh, they’re not a couple,” says Cassidy importantly, coming forward. “I know they look like a couple, but they’re not. Funny, isn’t it? We call them the not-couple.”
The not-couple?
I don’t dare look at Finn. I’m standing, facing the camera, my dress brushing against his shirt, feeling the touch of his jacket against my arm.
“Little closer?” The photographer motions for us to shuffle together. “That’s it, lovely.” The camera flashes and he squints at his screen, then looks up again. “You mind putting an arm round her, Mr. Not-Couple? Haven’t got a wife to complain?”
Finn says nothing, just places an arm around my shoulders, and it feels like lightning through me.
My body is burning to touch him. Kiss him. Pull him closer. But my brain keeps remembering his uncomfortable expression yesterday. And those killer words: I’ve sworn off casual sex. AKA: I don’t fancy you.
“Nice shots,” says the photographer, scrolling through his screen. “You do look good together.” He looks up with a cheerful wink. “You should think about it.”
“Ha ha ha!” I laugh so shrilly I nearly choke, then clear my throat.
“I’m done,” the photographer adds, and Finn glances at me.
“Shall we?” He nods to the door. “Unless you want to listen to the architect?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Lovely speech, Simon,” I add to him. “Hope you get lots of investment.”
As a young guy in specs comes onto the podium and the screen lights up again, Finn and I slip out of the room. Without saying anything, Finn leads us into the bar, which is quiet and empty, then stops. He’s breathing harder than usual, and for a moment he stares beyond my shoulder. Then he looks straight into my face.