I can’t help laughing. “So she’s just been going along with the lie too.”
“Guess she didn’t want to break up a marriage.” Finn shrugs.
“And what about Gabrielle?” I speak carefully, aware that I’m not entirely rational about Gabrielle, but Finn looks blank.
“What about her?”
“You didn’t try to re-create your famous kiss or anything?” I attempt a light, casual laugh.
“God, no.” Finn looks appalled, and I feel a whoosh of relief.
I need to stop being paranoid. I need to relax. The universe brought Finn to me. It wouldn’t immediately reallocate him to someone else, would it?
“Anyway, I’ve promised to go along to the art event tomorrow night,” says Finn. “We could go together, maybe.”
“Definitely!” I say, and I’m about to pull him in for another kiss, when Lev’s voice heralds us both.
“Sasha! Finn!”
I clamber to my feet to see that Lev is fully dressed in his jeans and parka, his hair damp, his cheeks still pink, and a brightness in his face which I recognize as post-surfing buzz.
“I’m off,” he says. “See you tomorrow, Sasha. And thank you for everything. The wisdom, the surfing, the introduction to Terry … all of it.”
“See you tomorrow.” I nod. “And thank you. For listening to what I said.”
“Of course,” says Lev gravely, and turns to Finn. “Nice to meet you.”
“Good luck,” says Finn. “With everything.”
We watch Lev head off over the beach, then Finn turns to me.
“I know you have many important meetings to conduct,” he says politely, “and I need to get in line. But now, seriously, can we go and get a room?”
By the time we’ve reached my lodge, Finn has unpeeled his wetsuit to the waist and I’m tugging my swimsuit down too. I’m so desperate for him, I’m not thinking straight. We pull down the blind and barricade the door with a chair, and I’m looking around at our furniture options when Finn steps forward and cups my hips, still tightly encased in neoprene.
“What I really want,” he murmurs, “is to cut this wetsuit off you. Bit by bit.”
I feel a flare of excitement inside, immediately tempered by a price tag.
“Too expensive,” I manage, my voice thick, and Finn’s mouth twitches.
“Thought so. But one day.”
One day. As he pulls me closer, the phrase dances through my mind like sparkle dust. One day my Finn will come. But he’s here, right here. My beloved Finn.
The sex is even better than last night. How can it be? Last night was perfect. But somehow it is. More prolonged, more edgy, more … sublime. Finn’s imagination goes to places I wouldn’t have guessed. In fact, I’m having to reassess him. And myself. And what sex can be.
And you know what? If the whole of the Rilston staff are lined up outside, listening to us, let them. Enjoy the show! Sell tickets! I couldn’t care less.
At last, we lie on a makeshift mattress of cushions, panting, dazed, letting the world come back into focus.
“So,” says Finn, his voice slow and low, as though all the tension has drained from him. “The trouble with these new fancy-pants glass lodges is, where will people have sex?”
“Yes.” I nod. “It’s a design flaw. We should let the architect know.”
I nuzzle into Finn’s delicious skin, breathing him in, wishing we had more time, but knowing we don’t.
“I have to go,” says Finn, as though reading my mind. “Therapy calls.”
“Of course.” I raise myself on an elbow, remembering Kirsten’s words and feeling a flicker of apprehension. “Hope it all goes well.”
“Thanks.”
“You know, if I can ever help … talk anything through …”
I keep my eyes fixed on Finn’s face and watch how he closes up, turns his chin away. And for the first time, I feel a pang of actual hurt. Why won’t he let me in? Why won’t he let me help him?
“Thanks for the offer,” he says at last, sounding so reluctant that I feel a flare of something perilously near resentment. If we really are two vulnerable people, getting better—or whatever—then shouldn’t we try getting better together?
“Maybe your therapist will tell you to talk to close friends,” I suggest. I have no idea if this is likely, but it’s a way to prod him.
“Maybe.” Abruptly, he gets to his feet and starts putting his damp swimming trunks back on. He’s blinking fast and he looks quite stressed, and I suddenly feel guilty for feeling anything like resentment.
“Finn, you don’t have to struggle on alone,” I say gently. “You can tell me. Whatever’s gone on.”
“I appreciate it,” he says, with a nod. “Thanks.”
My heart sinks. He sounds so formal. He could practically be dictating a work email. But if I press him, he’ll just retreat more. I know it. I’m already sensing his patterns.
What’s your puzzle? I think, gazing at him wistfully. But he’ll tell me when he’s ready, and now all I can do is be here for him.
“Meeting you has been the best thing about coming here,” I say. “The best thing.”
“You too.” As he turns, his dark eyes are so warm and affectionate, I can’t believe he was holding out on me a moment ago. “Sasha, you’re incredible. And I’ll see you when I get back. Are you coming up to the hotel now?”
“No, I’ll take my time,” I say, getting to my feet. “You shoot off. And good luck.” I wrap my arms around him, trying to give him all the love and support he needs through physical touch. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” He kisses me one last time, then heads out of the lodge, and I sink down on the sofa, already counting down the minutes until he’ll be back.
It takes me a while to pull myself together. I eat a Twix to restore my energies, then stare up at the ceiling for a bit, then wonder what to do for the rest of the day. Everything feels a bit hollow, now Finn’s gone.
But at last I wrap myself in a towel and decide I’ll take a long, hot bath in my woodland-creature bathroom, which I have actually got quite fond of.
As I walk through the lobby, clutching my clothes, the phone on the desk starts ringing and I look around for someone to answer it. Cassidy is nowhere to be seen, nor are any of the other staff. So in the end, I dump my clothes on the reception desk and reach for the receiver myself.
“Hello, Rilston Hotel.” I find myself imitating Cassidy’s voice and give an inward giggle.
“Oh, hello!” A breathless female voice greets me. “I was hoping to speak to someone about sending something to a guest. Is there a Finn Birchall staying with you?”
“Yes, he’s a guest here,” I say, before wondering if I’m breaching the data-protection act. Oh well, too late. “Can I help?” I add.
“Well, I was really hoping to send him a gift basket,” says the woman. “I’m a colleague of his. Is there a hotel hamper or something I could order?”
I stare at the phone, agog. A colleague of Finn’s? Every one of my nerve endings has pinged onto high alert. Maybe I can find out something about him. Or even everything about him.