“Fine,” I say, clearing my throat. “Whatever you want.”
She marches into the bathroom and closes the door. I think about what Ana said: if I’m meant for Izzy, I’ll know how to make her feel better. I’m pretty sure that whatever it is she needs, I’m not giving it to her right now. I stare at the ceiling and try to think. She will want to make it clear that she doesn’t need me. Izzy doesn’t like to need anybody. She will want to feel attractive, because I’m an idiot and probably made her feel as though I didn’t want her, even though the woman haunts my dreams and has done so for much longer than I’d like to admit.
And she will want to get one up on me again, because that’s how we operate.
Maybe that’s the answer. Maybe, as painful as this thought is . . . Maybe I need to let Izzy win something.
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
She comes out of the bathroom in a tantalisingly small towel, her feet bare, her hair wet. The stripes are gone. It never occurred to me that she must take them out when she washes it, but she didn’t wear them at the pool, either. I had never seen anyone with stripy hair before I met Izzy. It should look tacky, but it doesn’t. Izzy has that effect on things.
True to her word, she doesn’t speak to me. She just grabs her handbag and then heads back into the bathroom, closing the door with an emphatic click. When she re-emerges, she has dressed, dried her hair, and pinned the stripes back in. Meanwhile I have finished Love Actually and am feeling highly sentimental.
“Listen,” I begin, and she holds up a hand.
“That sounds like the start of a sentence about the incident we agreed not to speak about.” She walks around to sit on the footstool, picking fluff off her jeans.
“I just wanted to say that—”
“Lucas.”
“I don’t want you to think that—”
“Have I not made myself clear?”
“It’s not that I—”
“Oh my God, are you incapable of listening to me, or—”
“It’s not that I don’t find you beautiful.”
I almost bellow it in the effort to be heard, but as soon as I’ve said it, she goes quiet. She looks at me at last. I shift up against the pillows, folding my arms over my chest.
“You are very beautiful,” I say, more quietly. “And the kiss was . . .”
“Lucas . . .” Her warning is weaker this time.
“It was a beautiful kiss, too. But . . .”
“Yeah. It was stupid. People who don’t like each other shouldn’t kiss, that’s . . . weird and messed up,” she says, looking out of the window beside her. “I reminded myself of that on my nice scenic walk just now.”
I choose my words carefully. “My type isn’t women in tiny gymwear who watch complicated films. Right now it is a small, irritating Brit with wicked green eyes who is occupying all of my thoughts, even though my brain knows she shouldn’t be. Do you understand?”
Her eyes widen.
“But we’re not going to kiss.”
“You’re being very commanding. You know that annoys me.”
She doesn’t precisely look annoyed.
“Kissing is off the table,” I say.
She lifts an eyebrow.
“Too dangerous,” I say.
I sit forward, watching how her body responds to my movements—she leans closer a fraction after I do, like I’ve pulled her in. Like we’re still dancing.
“You’re right, it would be stupid,” I continue, letting my voice drop lower. “But—whatever you say—I do know how to have fun. Which is why I would like to propose another game of poker.”
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
If I was in any doubt about my feelings for this woman, then every triumphant hand she wins would clear it up for me, because it is agony letting her win at poker. Agony.
“You actually suck at this,” she says gleefully, claiming her chips （still raisins）。 “You got seriously lucky winning earlier, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I say through gritted teeth. “It seems I did.”
“Shirt off, then,” she says, lifting her gaze to me as she deals the cards again. Her eyes are full of mischief.
Strip poker. I am either a genius or an idiot for suggesting this. On the one hand, it has definitely cheered her up, but on the other, I have just committed to fully undressing in a room with Izzy without so much as touching her. This feels like a particularly brutal form of self-torture.
I take my shirt off slowly, sitting up on the bedspread. She’s down to her blue strapless top and jeans, and I don’t plan on letting her get further than that. As much as I want to undress her, this isn’t how that’s going to happen. If I ever get to see Izzy naked, it won’t be about anything but us.