Page 32 of Romantic Hero
‘Of course. Okay, so you will sleep beneath the stars. Fine by me! You need a blanket? Some fluffy pillows?’ I start to gather blankets and pillows from the main bed, carrying them through onto the balcony.
The corner of River’s mouth curls ever so slightly in disdain. ‘Fluffy pillows?’
‘I want you to be comfortable,’ I explain. ‘To get a good night’s sleep.’
He glances at me for a beat. ‘I don’t need mollycoddling, sweetheart. I don’t take kindly to mollycoddling.’ He plucks his Stetson off his head and uses it to cover his face, blocking out the sun. ‘Now for the love of God would you let a man snooze?’
*
Before I hop into the shower, I flick on the audiobook of Jim Kellerman’s bestselling novel – my favourite of hisGrandfather Clock Mysteries series – and get busy with the hotel’s complimentary shampoo, hair mask, body scrub and lotion, pondering, as I do, that while I’m nervous about seeing Henry, especially in these insane circumstances, I always, always look forward to seeing his face. He was –is– my favourite person to be around. I miss telling him things. I miss him tellingmethings. That was always where we connected the most – endless chats about every possible subject under the sun. Surely, he must miss that too? How on earth could he not? Even the week before he left we were up until 2 a.m. gabbing away, him telling me about his ideas for a new novel and me giving him my take on what the protagonist’s arc should be.
After blow-drying my scraggly hair into sleek submission, I slip on one of the dresses I bought with River in Marylebone. It’s the nineties-style pink and cream rose-print dress with lightly puffed sleeves and buttons from collar to hem. It’s pretty and romantic, and Henry will definitely like it – his celebrity crush being Sandra Bullock, very specifically in the filmPractical Magic.
I peek out of the French doors and onto the balcony. River is still sleeping, but his head has turned and the hat he was using to cover his face is now on the floor, meaning his face is right in the path of the sun, high cheekbones turning bright pink under the late-afternoon glare.
I don’t want to wake him up because I promised I’d let him nap. But also, I don’t want to just stand by and let him get burnt.
I root in my suitcase, taking out my laptop case – mystomach churning at the mere sight of it – and find the bottle of factor 50 sun cream I brought with me. It’s one of those aerosol ones so if I’m careful River won’t even notice it going on. It’ll just be a light mist, a wisp of gentle sea breeze caressing his cheek.
I creep out onto the balcony, where he’s snoring lightly on the chaise longue. Positioning the aerosol a few inches from his face, I press lightly to get the spray going. But I must have it on the wrong setting or something because a thin, extremely powerful jet of sun cream shoots right onto River’s nose like a water-gun, leaving a loopy Pollock-esque display of white cream over his whole face.
He sits up, spluttering, hands immediately flying up in a fighting stance. Then his sleepy eyes settle on me standing there with the aerosol bottle, an apologetic grimace on my face.
‘Good God, woman. What are you doing to me?’ He swipes at his cheeks, wiping a big splodge of cream across his face and then looking in horror at the cream on his hands. ‘Whatisthis?’
‘Sun cream. You were burning out here.’ I hold up the bottle. ‘I didn’t realise there were different spray intensity settings.’
He stands up, arms held up in front of him like a surgeon about to scrub in. ‘Why didn’t you just wake me up and tell me?’
I shrug a shoulder. ‘It seemed impolite to—’
He waves his be-creamed hands about. ‘Impolite?What is it with you?’
‘The intensity settings were unexpected,’ I explain. ‘I thought it would be like a gentle sea mist of sun protection.’
He glares at me, shaking his head as ifIam an unwelcome figment ofhisimagination. Then with a low growl of frustration he strides into the still steamy bathroom and uses the heel of his boot to kick the door shut behind him with a clunk.
*
Later on, when the bathroom door flies open, eliciting a cloud of hot steam into the air, River appears through it, padding into our very chic hotel room wearing nothing but a pair of black jeans, his chin-length hair still dripping. My mind goes embarrassingly blank as glistening drops of water trickle down his chest, snaking their way down his torso and making me feel like I’m watching something that should be slapped with ascenes of a sexual naturecontent warning. Evolutionarily my body cannot help but respond to what is clearly, well, a man. A big, stubbly, hard mesomorphicman, however obnoxious I find him to be.
I get a quick flashback of River informing me that ‘some girls just ain’t ready to be kissed like that’ and find myself idly wondering,kissed like what exactly?
I quickly avert my eyes as River heads over to the closet to grab a fresh shirt. To distract myself, I pull out my phone and catch up on my missed messages. There’s one from Mrs Casablancas asking if I can take care of Squish on Sunday – she has a date with a man called Desmond who she met at a yoga class and apparently would like the opportunity to ‘sow some overnight oats of her own’. I laugh and reply that I’d be happy to look after Squish. I flick onto the Instagram account I rarely update and see that I’ve been invited to do a live interviewwith a top book influencer. The mere thought of all that attention brings me out in hives. I quickly type out an apologetic decline before standing up and doing one final check of my outfit.
River comes up behind me.
‘Turn around, Gertie,’ he commands, his voice low.
When I do, he reaches a hand out to the collar of my dress and tugs me lightly towards him. Ever so slowly, he undoes the top button. Then the next one and then the one after that. He steps back, looking me up and down. ‘Okay? Take a look.’
My mouth opens and closes like a fish. ‘What is happening now to this?’ I ask, my words coming out all wrong.
‘If you’re comfortable with it I think it would be good to show a little skin.’
‘Skin?’ I repeat like an idiot, wondering if the trickle of sweat that is starting to make its way down my back was formingbeforethe undoing of the buttons or causedbythe undoing of the buttons. I turn back to the mirror. ‘Why? It’s just skin.’
River’s eyes drop down, scanning my collarbone, lingering on my neck and jaw enough that I wonder if I forgot to blend my foundation in properly. And then suddenly he blinks, clears his throat and – using the same tone of voice he might use to describe the hide of a calf – says, ‘It’s high-quality skin. It’s an asset.’
