Chapter 11

Chapter

Eleven

R afferty

I close my diary and smile at the dark-haired man behind the desk. "I think that's it, Giannis. Thank you so much."

The hotel manager smiles and gets to his feet. "It was no problem. You are happy with everything?"

"Totally." I'm also confused about why Leo was so concerned and wanted me here early.

I've been shown all over the stunning property and seen more of their hotel rooms than their cleaners. Everything is perfect, and Giannis has been calm and methodical, with a tight grasp of every aspect of the wedding.

I have no doubt that everything will run as smoothly as fate allows. All wedding planners factor in the vagaries of rain, illness, and family warfare. It's what gives us grey hair. But we're super tuned in to organisational problems, and I've seen no sign of anything like that here despite Leo's worries.

Smiling, I say, "Well, I'd better go and find my best man."

He blinks. "Yours?"

I run back over my words and blanch. "No, sorry. Leo's best man. My best friend."

"Ah, I wondered for a second if you were getting married."

"Not today, Satan," I say grimly.

He laughs. "You are a wedding planner. Do you not want to get married?"

"It's a bit like The Wizard of Oz . I've seen behind the curtain." I shudder. "And there are more troubles in marriage than a little old man with a slide projector. I believe in matrimony, but mainly for other people."

"Maybe that will change for you."

"Maybe if a gay miracle happens." He laughs, and I grin at him. "Are you married?"

"Yes. For twelve years now. We have four children."

"Lucky you," I say lightly and completely insincerely. A childhood spent witnessing Rollo and Saoirse stomping all over the marriage sacrament with their designer boots and then a working life witnessing marital meltdowns on an industrial scale has soured me.

I dismiss my dark thoughts, shake hands with Giannis, and return to my room. It's cool and shady, and the open patio doors send the gauzy curtains rippling in the breeze. There's no sign of my surprise roommate.

I look around as if he's going to pop up like a surprise pixie, but nothing. Then I hear a familiar laugh and a splash from outside and go to the balcony. The swimming pool is below our window, and I spot Stan sitting on the side dangling his feet in the azure water.

He tilts his face to the sun, a smile hovering on his full lips, and I swallow hard, my mouth dry. He's so funny and wise and just my Stan. Sometimes I miss his beauty because we're together so much, but he is gorgeous, and I notice a man standing to the side staring at him as well.

He's standing in the shadows, so I can't see his face, yet there's something familiar about him. He strolls over to the pool edge and says something, and Stan laughs again, and a jolt of recognition startles me. It's Chris, one of Stan's old boyfriends.

I haven't seen Chris in a few years, which was fine with me. I'd tried to get on with him, but he couldn't stand me, and if I were in a room, he'd scurry away as if I were a mass murderer. Their relationship lasted a few months. When Stan finished it, I'd breathed a sigh of relief.

My fingers twinge. I've fisted my hands so tight that my knuckles are white. Chris is now crouched low to talk with Stan. I'm in motion before my brain catches up, striding out of the room and taking the stairs in my rush.

The bright sun dazzles me when I exit by the pool. I fumble for my sunglasses and after I put them on, I note guests dotted around the pool. Unlike other hotel pools that tend to resemble rugby scrums as guests scramble for sunbeds, this setting is tranquil and peaceful. Another laugh sounds out, and I grit my teeth. Stan is now standing holding his cane and talking to Chris. He's wearing pink patterned swim shorts that are hanging on his narrow hips, showing off his long brown legs, and he's bare-chested with sweat gleaming in his chest hair.

I pace over. "Stanley," I say.

"Raff, there you are," Stan says, turning in my direction. The smile he gives me appeases me because it's my smile, the one that is unguarded and sweet. "One of the hotel staff showed me down to the pool. I knew you'd find me."

Chris rolls his eyes at me. "I thought you wouldn't be far behind," he drawls. "It's as inevitable as the rain in England."

"Raff, you remember Chris, don't you?"

"Vividly." I force a smile and hold out my hand. "Nice to see you again."

His clasp is as firm as usual. I wince. He's now crushing my fingers. He always used to do that. I wiggle free, shaking out my hand, and he offers me a smug look. He's a good-looking bloke—tall with broad shoulders, thick black hair, and brown eyes. It's a shame his personality spoils the overall effect.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

He makes a show of looking around. "Holiday?" he offers.

"How simply wonderful," I say. "It's just spiffing to see you again."

"It is a lovely surprise, isn't it?" Stan says, ever the nice person in the equation. "I haven't spoken to Chris in ages."

"That's a tragedy," I mutter, and Chris offers me a cold smile.

"I couldn't believe it when he came over," Stan continues like a Chatty Cathy. "He's here on holiday with his family. They're leaving tomorrow."

"Oh no. So soon ."

Chris smirks at me. "But I'll be going with Stan's number. I don't want to lose touch this time."

"Perish the thought," I say, giving him the wide grin that always used to irritate him. Gratifyingly, his mouth tightens. I turn to Stan. "I think we have to go for lunch now, if we're going to make that thing later on, Stan."

He nods and taps over to the lounger, where I see a white T-shirt lying.

"You're going somewhere?" Chris calls to him.

"Yes. Don't let us keep you." I make a gesture with my hands that, unfortunately, looks a little too much like someone throwing out the rubbish. "I'm sure you're very busy with the people you're away with."

"Raff," Stan chides. He turns his head toward Chris. "We're going on a hike later this afternoon."

Chris cocks his head, his face still showing that stupid smile. "Well, that's a nice coincidence. So am I."

" What ?" I say.

Stan drowns it out. "Well, that's great. We can catch up some more. Isn't that great, Raff?"

"It's super ," I mutter, watching as Chris moves closer to Stan, staring at him like he's the last Yorkie bar in the Mackintosh factory.

Chris smiles. "Then let me treat you to lunch. I want to hear more about the shop, Stan. I remember you had so many plans for it."

We set out on the walk an hour after the most infuriating lunch I've ever had. Chris slobbered over Stan more than the Mortimers' old red setter, and I sat to the side coping with Chris's Olympic-scale passive aggression.

Kostas, our guide for the walk, is a young man with dark curly hair and a wicked smile. He barely looks old enough to drink, let alone guide walkers, but I'm reassured when, before we start out, he talks with us to check for any potential problems.

The group comprises eleven people—three older couples, two younger girls who are friends, Chris, and us. I muse that Stan and I are between the two categories—more than friends, but not a couple. The thought is extraordinarily painful. Ahead of me, Stan's stick is tapping, and Chris is at his side. He'd neatly edged me out as we'd walked on a narrow stretch of the path, and I'd fallen farther behind, trapped behind one of the old couples who seems to want to look at every flower along the path.

Chris says something, and Stan laughs. It's his hearty laugh where his face creases up in an insanely attractive way and makes my stomach clench with longing.

"Your friend is very good."

It takes me a second to realise that I'm being spoken to. "I'm sorry," I say, turning to the speaker. She's one of the two friends—girls in their twenties. They've spent most of the trek giggling, so I'm a little wary. It was when Stan's sister laughed the most that she was at her most dangerous.

"Your friend." She points at Stan. "He's very graceful."

"Ah. Yes, he is. But then he loves walking."

"Is he fully blind?"

I hate these types of questions because they start off relatively benign before quickly heading downward into something that wouldn't seem out of place in an interrogation room. "Yes," I say shortly, keeping my gaze on the scenery rather than encouraging more conversation.

The seaside gravelled track is a little rough, but it's bordered by a sturdy, low fence painted with a bright yellow line. Stan is handling it easily, conquering the track's steepness without any shortness of breath. In fact, I'm the one breathing like a Hoover on its last legs. I make a mental note to leave off the cake samples when we get home.

"Really?" the girl asks from beside me. "Is he with Captain Hottie then?"

"Who?"

She nods at Chris. "We've been speculating all week who would be his type."

I grit my teeth. "Well, Stan's definitely his type."

"They look really good," she says, her gaze on Chris and Stan. Chris has his hand on Stan's arm as they continue to talk. "Like they belong together."

I lick my lips and offer her one of my professional smiles. "How are you enjoying your holiday?" I ask, knowing that one of life's certainties holds true. Most people would far rather talk about themselves than anything else.

She starts to tell me about the last holiday she and her friend took, and I offer up automatic responses as my mind occupies itself with its usual thoughts of Stan.

It makes sense I never liked Chris, because I never liked any of Stan's men. A bitter flavour fills my mouth as I acknowledge what my subconscious has been shouting all these years. I can't bear Stan's boyfriends, because I want him for myself.

I startle as I realise the girl is now discussing a sexual encounter she had with twins at a club. "Lovely," I say politely and go back to my thoughts.

Of course, I've always wanted for Stan to be happy. I want his happiness more than I want my own. But what would happen if Stan and Bennett split up? I'd never stand between them—that's not me—but if Stan were suddenly free again, could I tell him that I love him?

Sweat tracks down my neck and back as we continue to trudge upward.

What if Stan doesn't love me back? Oh, I know he loves me, but it's as a best friend, which is no longer the way I want or need. If I admitted my feelings for him and he didn't feel the same way, he'd be kind, but then a distance would grow between us. In the end, we'd drift apart, and one day, we'd be nothing more than strangers who'd occasionally meet on a holiday or in passing. Like him and Chris.

So, I could confess my feelings for Stan and still lose him. Great . Having feelings is fucking shit.

My companion's voice breaks into my thoughts. "And then we fucked in a toilet cubicle, and my foot went down the pan."

"That's great," I offer and then quickly return to my feverish thoughts.

We stop at a table by the side of the path that's manned by one of the hotel staff. The guide hands out bottles of water and sliced fruit, and I take mine with a smile of thanks, my partner still talking avidly about the logistical difficulties of fucking twins. I don't know why it's such a palaver. I did it once, and it was a decidedly subpar experience.

I settle my hips against the small fence, stretching my legs out and feeling the sun beating on my head. It's still hot, but there's a constant breeze from the sea, and the late afternoon light touches everything with gold. Beside us is the vast expanse of the sea moving restlessly as it churns over the rocks below.

"You don't mind, do you?" Chris stands before me, indicating the fence to my side.

"It's not mine," I say levelly. "Do help yourself." I look around. "Where's Stan?"

"He's talking to the two girls."

"Oh dear. He's about to become a lot more sexually informed."

Chris sits beside me, and there's a peaceful silence as we watch the ocean.

Unfortunately, he stirs and breaks it and says, "I don't like you."

I choke on the sip of the drink I've just taken. "You don't say."

"You knew."

"I did. I just never knew why."

He raises his eyebrows. "Come off it." He leans closer and I resist the impulse to push his face away. Frowning suddenly, he says, "You really don't."

"I know I'm not everyone's cup of tea. I'm a bit too free and fabulous for that, but I never could figure out why you hated me at first sight."

"You're a bit too full of shit."

"Yes. But it usually takes a few hours for that reaction to kick in."

A frown mars his perfect face. "You had everything, Raff, and you never realised it. You just danced along with all your gorgeous hair, making stupid fucking jokes."

"Maybe you should get to the point," I say levelly. "Before we grow old and die, or I can't remember how to deliver one of those stupid jokes."

He gets up abruptly, walks away a few steps, and then comes back to me, his whole demeanour agitated and mean. "You keep him on a string, and you just don't care, do you?"

I stand up, wary that he might take a swing and send me tumbling to the rocks below. "What are you talking about?" I hiss. I glance around, making sure there are witnesses to my impending murder. I see Stan and relax when I note that he's smiling and speaking to Kostas. I turn to Chris, letting my dislike fill my voice. "Tell me what this shitty behaviour is actually about."

" My shitty behaviour?"

I fold my arms. "I'm not the rude fucker in this scenario, Chris. Today, and back then. You took every opportunity to be a cock towards me in my own home."

"That's because I wanted Stan," he says furiously.

My eyes widen. "And you had him. It's just a shame your personality hitched a ride, or you could have kept him."

"Oh, fuck off."

"No, you fuck off. Stop blaming your deficiencies on me."

"I blame it all on you. I fell in love with him, and you ruined everything."

"How?"

"He was in love with you."

The world swings to a stop, and everything goes quiet. " What ?" I croak, feeling completely winded.

"Oh, don't try and pretend you don't know, you twat."

"You're talking about Stan? My Stan?"

"Yes, your Stan. He was always that, wasn't he? I should have seen the writing on the wall when I saw him with you. I fell in love with him without realising all his attention—all his love—was always on you."

"What?"

"Maybe it was all for the best that I broke up with Stan. Anyone who loves you is obviously in need of a mental health intervention." He gives me a slow survey from head to toe.

"No, you've got that wrong. I—" He's walking away from me, obviously completely done with the conversation.

Stan was in love with me—back when he was dating Chris? That was years ago. "No, that's not even possible," I mutter, staring off into space. "Chris has got that wrong."

"They say that talking to yourself is a sign of great intelligence." The sex-obsessed girl cocks her head as she observes me.

"Then I must be a fucking genius," I say.

Laughing, she holds out a bottle of water. "You look hot."

"Well, you know how it is."

She sits down next to me and nudges me. "Cheeky." She starts to talk, but again, I can't concentrate enough to listen to her. My heart is pounding like it's trying to escape my chest, and my hands are cold. I wonder idly if I'm having a heart attack.

"Raff?" Stan's voice breaks into my thoughts.

I look up, using my hand as shade from the sun. "Here," I say hoarsely.

He walks over the gravel cautiously, using his stick for guidance. "You've been very quiet," he says when he stops before me. "Are you alright?"

A sunbeam halos his head, making him look like a naughty saint. "I'm—" I clear my throat. "I'm fine."

The girl stops talking, and I introduce her to Stan. There's a tricky moment when I can't remember her name, but I think I recover nicely and let her introduce herself.

"Nice to meet you," Stan says politely. He turns back to me, and I flinch as he reaches out to smooth my hair. I feel like I've been doused in petrol and his fingertips are sparks. I ease back, dislodging his hand. "Space," I squeak. "Personal space."

He frowns. "Since when? And where's your hat, Raff?"

I scratch my ear. "Back at the hotel."

He groans. "You'll get sunstroke. You've got red hair."

"Strawberry blond," I say primly.

A smile hovers between us, and it feels normal. But then I'm immediately searching his face for any signs of the feelings Chris mentioned. I'm not sure what I see on Stan's lovely face. If it's love and not simply affection, I don't know whether to be jubilant and turn cartwheels, or to shudder with acute fear, so I settle for a nauseous mix of the two.

"Are you going out with Rafferty, then?" the girl asks.

I inhale some water and start to cough.

Stan's frown deepens. "No, whatever gave you that idea?"

She rolls her eyes. "I can't even begin to imagine. Silly me." She offers me a wry smile and I return it. "See you in a bit," she says. She returns to her friend, who is flirting furiously with the guide.

"I'm not forgetting the possible sunburn," Stan says firmly. "Here, take my hat."

I make a muttered protest as he whips off the straw fedora he's wearing and offers it to me.

"Where's this from, anyway?" I ask. "You don't own anything like this—just twenty thousand baseball caps."

"Oh, it belongs to Chris."

"Really? Well, I don't want anything of his on my head, thank you very much." I shove it back into his hand.

He frowns. "What does that mean?"

I stand up. "It doesn't mean anything."

"What is the matter with you?" Stan says, his tone becoming annoyed.

"Are we ready to move on?" Kostas, the guide, calls.

Everyone gathers their stuff, and I join the back of the queue. Stan comes to my side. Even though I'm cross with him, I stand still so he can take my arm. The scent of his cologne makes my head spin, as usual.

Kostas comes over. "Are you enjoying the walk so far, Rafferty?" he asks in a charming and polite voice.

"It's wonderful," I say hoarsely. "So brilliant. More brilliant than anything."

He eyes me curiously, and Stan smiles at him. "Don't worry. Raff's behaviour is completely normal for him."

Usually, we'd both laugh at this sort of comment. But today, rage kindles in my belly.

How dare he smile at Kostas so nicely when he's in love with me? When he's mine . I scan his handsome face and his beautiful body. He got changed before the walk and looks cool in a pale blue shirt, a pair of green jersey shorts, and old blue Gazelle trainers. It's a simple outfit, but to me, he glows like he's under a spotlight. We could be in a room full of people, and I would only see him.

And if what Chris said is true, then Stan and I could've been sharing love all this time. Instead, my fear and obliviousness made me throw away all those years, all that love.

"Raff, are you alright?" Stan asks, tugging at my arm to get me moving. His sunglasses cover his eyes, and the wind blows his curls about.

I take a protective step back, and he frowns, his hand dropping away.

Emotions whirl inside my chest like a tornado, all my protection and preconceived notions blowing away like Dorothy's house, leaving me with one solid, immutable fact in my head.

I love and need Stan, and I don't want him to marry Bennett.

I want him to be mine because, somehow, I'm his, and that will never change.

It's the single most terrifying thing I've ever felt because Stan just gave his forever to another man.

"Shit," I whisper. "Shit," I repeat for good measure.

"Raff, have you had too much sun? You're not making sense, and your forehead was hot when I touched it." Stan's brows arch and his face is full of concern.

I step back again. Apparently, my body thinks I need distance from these fucking feelings he's inflicted on me. Maybe if I walk away, the feeling will go.

"I'm fine," I whisper.

"Oh, Mister Kendrick, wait," Kostas calls.

"Perfectly fine," I say again loudly. "Completely and utterly tickety-boo."

"Mister Kendrick, you're too close to?—"

"Raff," Stan says. "You're moving away from me. Are you okay?"

"I'm so fine I can't even tell you," I say brightly.

Then I take another step back and fall off the fucking mountain.