Chapter 18
I wake up with the sun filtering through our room’s curtains. I look over at Penny softly snoring on the other bed. She has a black sleep eye mask on—the only person I know who wears one who’s not in a movie or TV show. On her sleeping aid are fake eyelids and drawn on curled, blonde lashes. Her arms and legs are sprawled on the mattress, making me wonder if she usually sleeps like this even when there’s a man in her bed.
The digital clock on the bedside table between us tells me it’s just after seven. After all those jugs of alcohol everyone else had, I must be the only one in our group awake. My hand goes to my lips while I wonder if I’d imagined my encounter with Keats last night. I cannot believe he’d said her name. I never imagined I’d ever be put off Keats. Obviously, my imagination doesn’t extend this far.
I take my tablet out and connect to the hotel’s Wi-Fi. Miz Peggy is a full-time job and this morning, my website is filled with requests for the next instalment of my erotic “fat fiction”. It looks like my followers have chosen the dirtiest thing I’d put on my list of possible scenarios to choose from. I open up my Word document which contains the first four parts of this six-part story. Why did I include a sex swing on the list of choices? I’ve never actually been on one before. I’m not sure they make them big enough for my butt.
I stare at my cursor, waiting for the next words to take my horny characters to a place of kinky passion. I think of the strength in Keats’ hands. The anticipation of his next touch. The caress of his breath on my lips just before we kissed. And eight hundred words later, I read over what I’ve written and it’s passionate…vanilla sex. I totally forgot to put in the sex swing.
I highlight the text, but just before I delete it, I change my mind. I press Control C instead and paste the excerpt to a new Word document. Maybe I’ll use that for a book another time. I go back to my initial task. I type “Sex Swing” so I at least have two words of the eight hundred I need. I close my eyes, trying to conjure up my faceless man, so that I can imagine all the wicked things I could do to him. There he is. I see his silhouette. Come on, wanton sex ideas. He comes closer. He looks thinner than I remember—almost lanky. But no, there are muscles on those arms and in those broad shoulders. His face takes shape. Two deep dimples, baby blue eyes. It’s…Keats. Dammit!
I turn off my tablet. There are two more days before my paying followers expect to see the heroine’s next pornographic encounter. I’ll come up with it before then.
“You a Facebook addict?”
I jump at the sound of Penny’s sleepy voice.
“Just working,” I say before I think about it.
“It’s Saturday. I thought you were a receptionist? Oh, are you a receptionist slash personal assistant?”
I’m so glad Penny provided me with choices. “Yeah. The second thing you said.”
She yawns. “That sucks having to work on weekends.”
“You ready for breakfast? Our booking includes a complimentary breakfast but they stop serving that at 9:30 a.m.”
“What? That’s worse than McDonald’s.” Penny peers at the clock. It’s already 8:45am. “Dammit. Give me fifteen minutes. I’ve gotta at least draw on my eyebrows!”
***
It seems that instead of a hangover, Keats has woken up with amnesia. I hate it when people do that—use their drunkenness to do things they don’t want to face up to in the morning. My father did that all the time, except he usually followed a night time bender with an all-day drinking session. Keats is definitely turning out to be different from the guy I’ve been fantasising about all these years. For one, he reciprocated my feelings more in my fantasies.
Our four companions are already seated at breakfast when we reach the same restaurant as yesterday. Blake is still yawning, Isabella and Byron are fresh-faced and holding hands, and Keats is pressing a cold glass of orange juice to his temple.
I head for the buffet table, hoping they have something on the list of food I’m allowed to eat. I walk past dry-looking Danishes that still make my mouth water at the remembered sweetness, colourful kids’ cereals (also one of my favourites growing up), Penny and Blake laughing about something in low voices at the coffee line, and finally a sad bowl of fruit with spotty bananas and dull apples. I choose the least abused-looking Granny Smith. I pass the sweating jugs of juice (too much sugar, natural or otherwise) and pour myself some earl grey tea, no milk or sugar.
I arrive at the table and set my yellowing plastic tray down. Isabella looks at my fare but doesn’t comment. She knows what it takes to battle a lazy metabolism.
“Did you sleep well, Jess?” she asks me instead. Judging by the crumbs and streaks on the empty plate in front of her, she had toast and some scrambled egg and bacon. Byron is still eating his cereal, right hand on his spoon, left hand on her thigh.
“Yes.” A lie, but I’m not about to tell them I tossed and turned last night from a mixture of anger, sexual frustration and emotional angst thanks to Mr Hungover over there.
“What have you got planned for us today?” I bite into my apple. It’s spongy. I look around for a serviette, my mouth closed but trying to make as little contact with the rancid fruit as possible. I glance across the table and find Keats watching me with an amused quirk to his lips. I narrow my eyes
