by JC Harroway
I swear under my breath and slide my phone onto the table with jarring force. Her association with me—I can’t bring myself to call it a friendship any longer—does nothing for her reputation. All I do is bring her down to my level. Slay’s level. I can’t protect her, and I’ve been fooling myself all these years that I could.
Further chills rack me—my romantic gesture of sleeping under the stars could have given the paps even more fodder, a more intimate photo...
With a stomach full of dread, I creep back into the room through the open French doors. She’s towelling her hair dry, wearing one of my T-shirts, the wondrous sight of her making panic surge inside me.
‘Breakfast is ready on the deck. It’s another perfect day in paradise.’ A perfect day for my perfect woman, only I have to spoil the mood with my news. I don’t want to, don’t want to remind her of the reality off this island, my reality, not when things between us are equally magical and fragile. Because I feel her emotional distance like a force field. She’s holding back, and I don’t blame her.
I need to tell her everything—secrets, declarations of my feelings, and of course the crap online. Perhaps then I can make all of this right. Because when I woke this morning, like every morning since we started our physical relationship, I watched her sleep, aching for her to open her eyes so I could be in her company. And I knew that, without her, I’m incomplete. I’m desperately in love with her, and I want to be her everything, as she is mine.
That means being open and vulnerable, and laying it all on the line.
I lift her hand to my mouth, brush my lips over her knuckles. My pulse leaps with trepidation. She’s like hand-blown glass—one wrong move and I’ll shatter the illusion of us with my bare hands—but a trickle of possibility meanders its way through the chaos in my head.
‘I have ideas about how we can spend today horizontal, if you’re interested,’ she says, scooping both of her arms around my neck to draw me down to her kiss.
I lose myself for a few seconds, eager to blot out the world with her, naked and sated. But I’ll have to tell her about the photo sooner or later. And I should have told her the other stuff long ago.
I pull back and hold her hand, my heartbeat seeming to resonate through my fingertips. The happy smile slides from her face.
‘There’s a photo on the gossip sites this morning,’ I say, spewing out the words to get them over with. ‘The two of us kissing yesterday on board the boat—there must have been left-over paps lurking, looking for Slay.’
She shrugs. ‘So? I don’t care. Forget about it.’
She’s right—if it doesn’t bother her, I shouldn’t allow it to get to me. But it reminds me of the exposure I experienced as a child, growing up with Slay, and then later as a teen. Every move I made meant something to people I’d never met until I felt as if I didn’t know who I was, just who I was supposed to be.
Slay’s son.
And I’m more than that. I’m a man fit for this woman.
Neve, my safe haven—what I should be for her. I don’t want her to read some garbage and doubt herself, doubt her place in my life, because she’s a part of me, a vital part, and without her I can’t exist.
‘I know, I just...’ I rub a hand over my face. ‘I feel like I’ve let you down somehow, failed to protect you.’
‘You haven’t let me down.’ She slides her thumb over my bottom lip. ‘I don’t care what they say about me.’
I want that to be true, but we all have our insecurities. Slay is mine.
I nod, although my head feels wooden, clumsy. ‘I just... I don’t want you to read it because I don’t want you to believe what they say. I don’t want you to feel inferior, pitied or second rate. You’re not. The opposite, in fact.’
She stares, a million emotions flitting across her eyes, each of them leaving me more unnerved. ‘Okay,’ she says in an unconvinced tone.
But I can convince her. I can make this right. I can protect her and show her what she means to me in one move. Breath shudders out of me as the idea I’ve been ruminating on takes form.
Why not? We’ve known each other nine years. I’m in love with her. I want this. I can end the gossip and show the world exactly where my priorities lie.
I take her hands, gripping them tightly before slowly sinking to one knee.
She freezes, confusion slashed across her face, and then tries to tug me back to my feet. ‘Oliver, what are you doing?’
I resist, looking up at her with a lump in my throat. ‘Neve,’ I begin, ignoring her frown, ‘you mean more to me than any other person on the planet. When I think of letting you go as soon as we touch down in London, I feel sick.’
Her breathing speeds up, her eyes swimming with emotions, not all of them good.
‘I know you’re pissed at me right now,’ I add, ‘because this is sudden—some would say crazy.’ Yet, the more I think about it, the more sense it makes.
Please let her want the same.
‘The caretaker here is a celebrant,’ I continue as full understanding comes to her wary expression.
‘So, Neve Sara Grayson, will you marry me?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Neve
I’M LIGHT-HEADED, and the room is shifting alarmingly at the thought of what he’s just asked me and what it means. He smiles, his beautiful Oliver smile that’s playful and sexy and could be specifically designed to make me fall harder, although there’s nowhere left for me to fall. I love him completely, bone-deeply, irrevocably.
But...
I grasp his fingers for fear of my legs giving way. This is off. Wrong. Perhaps some sort of sick joke, for which I’ll seriously never forgive him.
My stomach rolls over with adrenaline. A few days ago I could only dream of this scenario. For a moment it makes me feel that, just maybe—the insanity of his timing and the motivation behind his proposal aside—this, us as a couple, could actually work. Haven’t I always dreamed of being more to him than a friend, more than a friend he has sex with? Of being everything to him, the way he is everything to me?
But not like this—rushed, a rebound because of some negative press. I don’t want to be a sticking plaster over the wound left by Slay. I want Oliver, but I don’t want to be a relationship experiment. Whatever impulse or panic has him in its grip, he’s clearly not ready for commitment. This is not the way I envisaged this fairy-tale moment.
I squeeze his fingers. ‘Oliver, this is—’
‘Don’t say crazy,’ he interrupts. ‘Because it makes sense. We make sense.’ He stands and grips both of my hands. ‘You want to settle down, to find someone, but you won’t find what you’re looking for on a dating app.’ His words are urgent, impassioned. ‘I know. I used to be one of those guys using apps to hook up with women. But now we’ve broken down this barrier we used to keep our friendship intact. We’re amazing together and we’re still best friends.’
His words, wonderful words, would have thrilled me a week ago. But it feels like this proposal has more to do with Slay than us. If he’d simply asked for a relationship I would have said yes. Because we can’t go back after everything we’ve shared. I’ll never be content to meet him for coffee or go to a movie and say goodbye as if this week hasn’t happened.
But neither can we rush this. We can’t jump several dating steps just because we know all there is to know about each other. I have to make him understand, to salvage this.
‘Why don’t we try dating when we get home?’ I say, my voice almost desperate. ‘There’s no need to rush.’ Despite the temptation to say yes, to have the fairy-tale moment just this once. To be the first choice of the man of my dreams, a man I thought I’d have to give up soon. But I don’t want to be temporary. I haven’t waited nine years to be his commitment guinea pig, only to be cast aside when he discovers he’s not ready to abandon his single life after all.
He�
�s never had a fling that lasts longer than a week. Women come and go. Beautiful women, some he has lots in common with, some clearly keen for more than what’s on offer. And the end has nothing to do with his father, as he’d claim, and everything to do with him. To do with his belief that somehow he’s no good at relationships because of his role model, or that he doesn’t deserve one because of his wild youth, or that he’ll only get hurt again the way Jane hurt him.
But what if I surrendered to my weak inner voice, the one telling me that this is what I’ve craved all along?
No. It’s a guarantee of the heartbreak I fear. He’ll soon grow bored of trying to outrun those demons which, if his turmoil over Slay’s latest antics is any proof, are still very much alive and kicking. He’ll decide he was premature and still wants to play the field, something that helps him keep at bay feeling too deeply.
He’s nothing like his father, but nor is he ready to commit or to be a husband.
And what then for me? I already know I want all of him, to be all to him.
No, I have to be strong.
I suck in a shuddering breath. I can’t risk saying yes just to know how that feels before I’m flung back to reality. A reality without my lover or my best friend. Worse off than when I came to these islands. Because losing one means losing both. If I loved him less fiercely, maybe I could go along for the ride with this impromptu proposal.
Oliver steps closer and grips my face, his animated eyes holding mine. ‘We’ve known each other a long time. Now that we’ve made the leap into lovers, this is just one more leap. I know I don’t deserve you, but I can try.’
‘Of course you deserve me. That’s part of the issue.’
He’s not hearing me and his touch, his palms on my skin, so familiar, so good, now feels too cloying.
‘If you’re worried about the ceremony here being legally binding, we can make it official as soon as we get back to London,’ he says. ‘Then I’ll issue a press release. Announce our marriage.’
‘What? Why would you do that?’ I ask, dumbfounded. He’s thought this all the way through, while I’ve been blissfully ignorant, simply celebrating our deepening connection and imagining that perhaps we could have something real. That perhaps he really has changed and is ready to settle down. But this feels like a circus act, exactly the kind of scene he says he hates and usually attributes to Slay.
‘Because, if we make us official,’ he says, taking both my hands and squeezing, ‘they’ll have nothing more to print about you the next time they print a story about Slay. Because that will stop my father coming between us.’
And there it is, his motivation for this rash proposal. Nothing to do with love or feelings for me. Not a reflection of the growing closeness I’ve experienced this week. Just another show of one-upmanship with his father, a way to ensure history doesn’t repeat itself and a ruthless guarding of his emotions, just like the Oliver I first met.
My heart clenches so violently, I feel my pulse to the tips of my toes. And I know, with a certainty that leaves me hollow, that my fairy-tale romance with Oliver is over.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Oliver
‘OLIVER,’ SHE SAYS, her eyes full of pain. ‘I know you’ve been let down in the past, hurt, but you can’t control what other people think or say. Not the press, and not Slay. All you can do is control how you react,’ she says, making all kinds of sense. But I’m crazy in love with her—sense left the building days ago. This isn’t going the way I’d planned. We should be kissing through happy tears by now, back in bed or flying to Male, the capital, to go engagement-ring shopping...
I know on an intellectual level that what she says is rational, but I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to keep a lid on this kind of exposure, to distance myself from Slay and the type of publicity he invites. Only now it feels worse, because I love her. I’m vulnerable because she’s under attack. What hurts her kills me, especially when I’m the one responsible for that pain. This is why I’ve always avoided this feeling—fear, loss of control, failing Neve.
My mouth feels dry. She doesn’t love me back. Or she doesn’t think me capable of the emotion. I’ve finally worked up the courage to be open about my feelings for her and she doesn’t share them.
She tugs the neck of the T-shirt, covering her exposed, sun-bronzed shoulder from my view. That drives a stake through my heart and the romantic morning I had planned, ripe with fresh starts and possibilities. Now only the usual shit-storm Slay Coterill leaves in his wake remains.
No, this mess is of my creation. If I’d been honest from the start, if I’d done what Neve said and put to rest Slay and how I’ve allowed fear to hog-tie me, none of this would matter.
‘So, you’re saying no...is that it?’ I ask, waves of dread rolling through me.
‘It’s not that.’ She looks away. ‘It’s just... I don’t think we should rush into anything foolhardy,’ she explains, immune to my stillness. ‘Isn’t it better to let Slay’s latest marital implosion blow over and focus on your deal with the Japanese?’ Her expression grows decidedly shady, something that raises every hair on my strung-taut body.
My anger is self-directed, my secret past proving that I’ve inherited Slay’s weakness of character.
Neve must sense my brittle tension. She looks up, her eyes pleading. ‘You’ve avoided commitment all these years. I just want you to be sure you’re ready. This...this was just a holiday fantasy.’ Her words are a whisper, cautious and edgy. Pain lances me as if I’ve been speared through.
‘So you only want the fantasy?’ I knew this was too good to be true, that I wasn’t good enough. I knew I couldn’t truly have her. ‘You don’t want me?’ Betrayal sours my tongue, even as my blood runs cold with the knowledge I’ve done this by keeping secrets and keeping a distance.
‘Oliver, I’m not saying that... But you’ve never had a relationship that’s lasted longer than a week.’
I can’t look away from her eyes, which seem to communicate something different from the words she’s using to destroy me.
‘I’m just protecting myself from the inevitable.’ She presses her hand to her chest, as if she too feels pain. ‘Because of course this will end, and I’ll just be good old friend-Neve again.’
‘I understand that you want to protect yourself.’ I’ve been trying to protect her from me for our entire friendship. I’m not a safe bet. My track record, my genes, the skeletons littering my closet... She’d be mad to make me the person responsible for her happiness. ‘I want to protect you too—from gossip and from Slay.’
‘But a rushed proposal doesn’t do that, don’t you see? You’re just reacting to what’s going on around you—this latest Slay scandal. Our physical connection is amazing, but shouldn’t we see if we work in the real world first?’
Pressure builds in my head. She believes me incapable of more than sex, more than a superficial, hollow relationship. Just like the kind in which Slay specialises.
‘So, you don’t think I can do more than fuck?’ I turn away, pace to the window and stare blindly through the mosquito nets while impotence and rejection crush me.
‘I don’t mean that. I just...’ She growls in frustration, and in my peripheral vision I see her bury her face in her hands.
Icy calm settles over me, extinguishing the flames, razing us as a couple to the ground. ‘No, it’s okay. You’re right. I’m no good at commitment, but I am good at fucking.’ I spin to face her, my breath sawing through my lungs. ‘You had your orgasms, but anything more... Hell, who are we kidding? I’m my father’s son after all.’
She pales, her eyes huge. ‘I’m not saying that. You’re putting words into my mouth.’ She deflates on a defeated sigh. ‘Perhaps we were better off as friends.’ The last is a hushed murmur, as if she fears the power of those words. With good cause, because they can end this, and what then? Is there anything left to return to?
‘Olly,’ she pleads, returning to the shortened version of my name I associate with her friendship and nothing more. ‘I’ve seen new things about you this week, things I didn’t know before. Wonderful things. But I’ve also witnessed how you feel about yourself when Slay is around. How this proposal seems to have arisen out of your fear that you’re like him and can’t commit. But I don’t want to be just a quick fix.’
Uncontrollable need blasts through me. Need to destroy this once and for all to make this feeling of splintering apart stop. Because she’s right. We’ve destroyed what we had and for what? So we could get our rocks off? So I could confirm what I already knew? That love is a mug’s game, designed to weaken. And that I’ll never be able to shake the association with Slay.
‘It’s okay, Neve. You’re right. I would have screwed this up eventually. You know it. I know it. Hell, even Slay knows it. He tried to warn me the other night.’
She sits on the bed as if this conversation is taking a toll on her ability to stand. ‘What do you mean?’
I scrub a hand over my face, wishing I could walk out of the doors and keep on walking. But every coffin needs a final nail and, if I hammer it in good and strong, I can retreat to lick my wounds safe in the knowledge I won’t see Neve’s disappointment ever again. ‘His comment about sharing wasn’t about threesomes. It was a warning. A reminder to me that we’re more alike than I care to admit.’
‘Stop saying that. It’s only true if you let it become true.’
I nod, my grin sickening. ‘It’s already true. The night I learned the lessons of love from Slay, the night of the strip club, I went home alone while he stayed on to party.’ My mind sounds an alarm. Once I tell her this, she’ll look at me the way Slay did that night, with a slimy smile—part fury, part triumph—as if I’d played right into his hands and I was finally a son he could relate to and be proud of.
