We have no suitcases, obviously. I don’t even have a toothbrush. I try to give my teeth a particularly vigorous lick, which achieves nothing other than hurting my tongue, and then I throw myself down on the bed with a long, loud ugh.
At least it’s warm. There’s an air-conditioning unit whirring away over the bathroom door, blasting out hot air. Everything in here is a very washable shade of dark grey. It’s completely impersonal—the opposite of Forest Manor Hotel and Spa. This hotel isn’t a place where people go the extra mile, it’s a place where colleagues go to bed with each other when they shouldn’t.
I lift my head to look at Lucas, who is still examining the room with his arms folded. We’re not doing that, obviously.
Except a few hours ago I really did want to have sex with Lucas, and that thought hasn’t completely gone away.
“You did a good thing today,” he says abruptly.
My thoughts immediately go to the dance floor. The sound of Anitta, the feel of Lucas’s hand pressing the small of my back . . .
“It’s better for both those women to know the truth.”
Oh. Graham. Yes. Graham the bigamist. The other major event of the day.
“That wasn’t a good thing for the hotel, though,” I say. “I’ve made Mrs. SB and Barty’s life even more stressful.”
Lucas shrugs. “Some things are important enough to cause a little drama.”
I raise my eyebrows. It’s not like Lucas to be in favour of drama.
“It’s early for bed,” Lucas says, checking his watch. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”
“A walk? In central Woking? In a snowstorm?”
Lucas turns his attention to the window, as if remembering the problem.
“We could go to the bar?” I suggest, sitting up on my elbows.
Lucas grimaces. Ah, right—no spending unnecessary money. I reach for the remote control and turn on the telly. It lands on Love Actually. I let out a delighted yip and shimmy up the bed so I’m propped up on the pillows.
“You’ve seen this, right?” I say to him.
He watches for a few moments. “No.”
“Oh my God. Sit down. That’s a crime against Christmas right there. Is this not a thing in Brazil? There’s even a super-hot muscly Brazilian guy in it and everything.”
His lip quirks. “Do you think us super-hot muscly Brazilian guys seek each other out?”
I flush. “No, that’s not—whatever. You have to see it.”
He looks slightly fatigued by this but perches on the bed beside me, and then, after a moment, swings his legs around.
“It’s Love Actually? My sister does tell me I must watch this all the time,” he says. “What have I missed? Who is that man?”
“Just watch,” I say. Because of course Lucas is one of those assertive males who talks over crucial dialogue.
On-screen, David meets Natalie for the first time. Lucas settles in beside me, fingers linked on his chest.
“So he is going to fall in love with that woman?” he asks as Annie appears on-screen.
“No, that’s his chief of staff,” I say, laughing. “It’s Natalie he falls in love with. Your romance radar is terrible.” Then I pause. Is that unkind? “Sorry,” I say just as Lucas says, “So they’re colleagues—that means they can’t be anything more?”
I keep my eyes on the scene playing out on-screen and give up on actually hearing anything.
“Well, I guess . . . the Prime Minister sleeping with his chief of staff would maybe be a no-no?”
“Hmm,” Lucas says, taking this in.
“What’s the deal with office romances in Brazil? Is everyone cool with it?”
“It depends,” Lucas says, “on how you conduct yourself at work. You have to be appropriate.”
“Yeah, kind of the same here.”
I think of me and Lucas, fully clothed in the swimming pool, splashing each other wildly. Not sure anyone would accuse us of conducting ourselves appropriately.
We watch the film in silence. I wonder why Lucas asked about colleagues being romantically involved. I wonder if it’s about me. I wonder if we’re about to cross a line that cannot be uncrossed, and whether I care about that, and I already know that I don’t.
Lucas turns onto his side, facing me. I shift my head to look at him. I let myself really take him in: the serious brown eyes, the straight brows, the faint hollow beneath his cheekbone. We’re close enough that I can feel his breath ghosting over my cheek.
“You have always told me what you think of me,” he says eventually. His voice is low. Behind it, the telly chatters on. “You’ve always been honest.”
“That’s true.” I shift so I’m lying on my side, too. I tuck a hand under my cheek. He echoes the gesture, other hand tapping restlessly at the covers between us.
“Will you tell me what you think of me now?”
I’m not expecting that question. I don’t know what I think of Lucas these days. I think he’s too stern and doesn’t know how to laugh at himself; I think he’s pedantic and rude. I think last Christmas he behaved like a dickhead. But I also think he’s sexy and complex, and that there’s a warmth somewhere in there, behind all the scowling.
“I think maybe I don’t really know you at all,” I say slowly.
His expression shifts infinitesimally. I wouldn’t have noticed it if we hadn’t been so close. All of a sudden I’m hit with an urge to just . . . shake him. He’s so controlled. I want to make him let go.
I lift one hand to rest against his jaw, framing his face, the heel of my hand against his neck. His stubble is rough under my palm. I feel his jaw clench, but he stays very still, just watching me with dark, liquid eyes. The heat I felt on the dance floor starts up again deep in my belly, a low, wild beat.
The decision I’m making is a bad one—I know it even as I lean towards him, eyes on his parted lips. But I don’t care. I don’t care. I want this, and I’m sick and tired of trying to work out why.
I kiss him. That heat grows tenfold inside me, like I’ve blown on a flame, and for a second, maybe two, Lucas kisses me back.
Then he’s pulling away, spinning to sit with his back to me. I stare at his hunched shoulders, how they rise and fall with each breath. I’m breathing hard, too, and my cheeks are hot.
“Shit,” I mutter. “Sorry. I thought . . .”
“It’s fine.” Lucas’s voice is sharp. “I just . . . That wouldn’t be a good idea.” He glances over his shoulder for an instant before returning his gaze to the carpet. It’s too fast to read anything into his face.
“I’m not looking for a relationship, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I say, stung. “I know you’re not going to be flying someone like me back to meet your mum.”
He turns at this, shifting to see me properly. Love Actually rattles on between us and I reach impatiently for the remote, switching it off.
“What do you mean, someone like me?”
“I’m just saying, your type is probably women who work out with you in tiny gymwear and drink green juice. But also like serious films with subtitles. And football. And have really long legs.”
I’m floundering, hot with desire and embarrassment in equal measure. I need to get control of this situation again. At last his expression is one I recognise: he’s wearing the faintly exasperated face he uses when he’s humouring me. Fine. At least that’s not pity.
“You know nothing about my type,” he says. “Evidently.”
“Well, I know a little bit, don’t I?” I sit up and shift to the edge of the bed. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t like you, you don’t like me, I thought maybe we could just have some fun for a night, you didn’t want to, the end. I’m going for a walk.”
“In central Woking? In a snowstorm?”
I glare at him for parroting my words back to me.
“Yes,” I say, lifting my chin as I grab my coat and head to the door. “See you at bedtime.”
God, that’s going to be awkward.
Lucas
It is hard to imagine how that could have gone worse.