an idiot!’ I say, whacking him on the arm.
‘Sam, it was a joke.’
‘You knew I didn’t want to wash my hair,’ I say, squeezing out the excess water from my ponytail.
‘Let me show you something.’ He takes my hand and leads me up to our room.
‘You’re such an oddball, why are we going inside now the sun’s out?’
He doesn’t answer, instead, he opens the door and puts his hands on my shoulders, positioning me in front of the full-length mirror in the hallway.
Slowly, he peels off my kaftan. ‘Look,’ is all he says.
‘Frizzy hair, bloated all-inclusive belly, red, sunburned chest and freckles.’ I fold my arms.
‘Gorgeous, natural hair, a beautiful body and cute freckles.’ He kisses my neck and my insides flutter, it’s amazing he can still do that to me after all this time. ‘I’m with you on the sunburn though, but that’s your own fault, I told you to wear a higher factor.’
‘Oh, shut up!’ I bash him playfully.
‘My point is; you don’t need that hair-frizz gunk. Your hair is stunning as it is, just like the rest of you.’
I turn to face him, and my lips find his. His body feels hot against mine, which is still cold from my soggy kaftan.
‘What do you say we have a little siesta?’ he says cheekily.
When I arrive back at the bike rental place, the Grinch is messing with the wheel of a large black and red mountain bike outside. The anger I felt towards him earlier has dissipated a little, in light of such a wonderful afternoon. I’m ready to return the bike and go back to my hotel, freshen up and perhaps find a new bike rental place should I ever need one.
He gives the wheel a little shake to make sure it’s fastened on tightly and then glances up at me, his hair falling into his eyes. ‘You found your way back then?’
‘Oh, ha-ha.’ I sound very British, like the British people in American films do. It’s odd to hear myself this way and it isn’t as though I’m speaking any differently; I just sound different because of the thick American accents around me.
He stands up, wiping a streak of black grease on his jeans. He’s intimidatingly close, almost a full head-height taller than me and a good six inches too close. Scratch that, he’s six feet too close. I swallow hard, unsure as to whether I’m going to get another earful. I’m braced and ready. He’s only a foot away, and I can feel something between us. An energy of some sort which binds itself into a hard knot in my chest. I don’t step back. I put my hands on my hips and stand my ground.
‘Do you want to pay cash or card?’ he says eventually, slicing through the tension. The breath I was holding escapes. Was that it?
‘Er, cash … no, card.’
‘Do you need a moment to think about it?’ There’s a frustrating sarcasm in his tone.
‘You do know there are customer service courses available, don’t you? I bet repeat custom isn’t the foundation of your business model.’ I jab the air in front of his chest. ‘It’s a good job you’re based in a tourist town where you have a constant flow of new and unsuspecting victims to rent bikes to. You could be the Bates Motel of the bike rental world.’ Too far?
The corner of his mouth curls up in a bemused smirk that makes me all the more cross. ‘If you’re finished, and I really hope you are, closing time was fifteen minutes ago and I’m starving so I’d like to wrap this up. I open up again at 9 a.m. tomorrow though, if you’d like to carry on.’
‘Oh.’ Okay, so maybe I’m in the wrong this time but that just makes us even. ‘Well, here.’ I hand over my card, and he heads inside without a word. I follow because, well, he has my card.
‘You could have just said you were closing,’ I say when I reach the counter.
‘Well, you know … customer service.’
Touché.
He runs off a piece of paper and presents a slip for me to sign. I haven’t paid this way in ages. I look at him to check it’s right, and he gives me an impatient look, so I scribble my signature and slide the paper back across the counter.
‘All done then?’ I ask, and he nods. ‘Okay, well thank you and goodbye.’ Eurgh, why did I thank him? I just can’t help myself. He raises a hand, and I walk out with the strange feeling of unfinished business.
‘There you are!’ I spot Barney and Harry at a long wooden table in the outdoor bar. The decking offers views across the bay and the calm ocean, which appears to be resting after a busy day of throwing kayakers from their vessels. The bar is bustling, and I had to fight my way over to their corner. I plonk my handbag on the table and slump down on the bench.
‘Well, you’re not a happy camper,’ Barney says.
‘Is it that obvious?’ I ask dryly.
‘What happened to the perfect day you had planned out?’ Harry said. ‘Actually, hold that. You need a drink first.’ He holds three fingers in the air. The bartender nods and I assume three ‘somethings’ will arrive soon.
I give a wistful sigh. ‘It was perfect – I read by the pool and had lunch on the beach. Then I found the bike hire place—’
Barney gushes. ‘So, you met Ethan?’
I frown, unsure why anyone would react that way. ‘Yes. And why on earth are you friends with such an arrogant—’
Barney gasps, clutching both hands to his face. I glare at him.
‘If you keep reacting so dramatically, I’m not telling the story.’
‘Sorry, but I’ve never met anyone who hates Ethan before. We adore him and thought you would too. All the women in this town are head-over-heels besotted with him. I don’t know how he manages to stay single.’ The barman places three elaborately adorned cocktails down, breaking Barney’s trail of thought, so I seize the opportunity to fill them in on our encounter in Boston and his lack of regret today.
‘That doesn’t sound like Ethan at all,’ Barney says.
‘I don’t know; he can be a bit of a brooder,’ Harry adds.
‘I kinda like that,’ Barney says.
‘When was it you say it happened?’ Harry says, ignoring Barney.
‘A few weeks ago.’
Harry
