Page 33 of Obsession Under the Southern Stars

“We’re not going to a restaurant. We’re having a chef come in and cook us dinner.”

My eyes widen. “What?”

He smirks. “I’ve seen the menu. It’s amazing. So why don’t you go and put your feet up for a while, and then we’ll have a fantastic meal before we crash out.”

We look at each other across the coffee table. I’m so taken aback, I don’t know what to say.

“I like you,” he says eventually. “And I wanted to do something nice for you. But it’s a gift, Zoe. Like I said, I don’t expect anything in return, I swear.”

“All right.” Mollified, I study my feet and say, “I’m sorry for assuming.”

He walks around the coffee table and comes up to me. Then he pulls me into his arms and gives me a hug. “It’s all right.”

I bury my face in his T-shirt. He smells of the ocean, although I’m not sure if it’s his cologne or the fact that we’ve been in the sea all day. His body is warm, and his arms are tight around me. I want to pull him over to the sofa and let him hug me all evening.

But I move back and flash him a smile, then say, “When’s the chef arriving?”

“Soon, I think. I’ll let him in. You go and put your feet up.”

“Okay. Thank you.” I retrieve my case. “Which bedroom do you want?”

“You choose.”

I walk over to them. They’re pretty much identical. One looks out over the pool and courtyard. The other has a small balcony surrounded by bushes filled with tropical flowers. I decide to take that one and go in, closing the door behind me.

The large room has a king-size bed, with lilac-colored bedding and lots of white and lilac pillows. I open my case and hang up the clothes I’ve brought with me, then take my washbag into the bathroom. It has a deep bath and a shower, and it’s all white marble, absolutely beautiful.

Normally I would have had a bath or even got in the hot tub, but I’ve had enough of being in water today, so instead I lie on the bed beneath the fan that rotates slowly above my head, sink back into the pillows, set a timer on my phone for forty-five minutes, and close my eyes.

In less than a minute, I’m asleep.

*

At just before seven, I go out into the living room, refreshed and rejuvenated. I’ve changed into a blue maxi summer dress and sandals, I’ve brushed my hair and put on a touch of face powder and a slick of lip gloss. As I come out, I can hear voices, and I go through the living room and pause in the doorway of the kitchen.

Joel is leaning on the breakfast bar, talking to the chef, who’s currently stir-frying something that is sizzling and giving off heaps of steam and smells amazing. Joel has changed into a pair of chinos and a white shirt, and he’s rolled the long sleeves up a few times, revealing his deeply tanned forearms. He’s barefoot, and his hair is—as usual—ruffled, and looks even more sun kissed than usual. God, he’s gorgeous.

He glances over and sees me, straightens, and smiles. “Good evening.”

“Hello.” Self-consciously tucking my hair behind my ear, I go into the kitchen, smiling at the chef as he turns. He’s Japanese, in his thirties, with short black hair and dark brown eyes.

“This is Isamu,” Joel says. “He was born in Osaka and learned to be a chef there but moved to New Zealand five years ago. He’s an expert in Kiwi fusion cuisine. He’s cooking us a degustation menu that mixes Japanese, Italian, Spanish, and Kiwi styles.”

“Degustation?”

“Like a tasting menu.”

I feel a glow of pleasure—Joel knows that I love Japanese food. “It smells fantastic.” I join Joel at the breakfast bar, taking the stool beside him.

“Try some of this,” Joel says, pushing a board over to me with several dishes on it. “It’s… Izakaya?” Isamu nods. “Like tapas,” Joel says, pointing to each dish in turn as he describes its contents. “Bread he made earlier today with Manuka honey, pork, fennel, and jalapeño sausage with chimichurri and… what was it?”

“Manchego,” Isamu says, “Spanish cheese made from sheep’s milk.”

“That’s sashimi,” Joel continues, “and tempura of calamari.”

“Aw…” My mouth starts watering immediately. “It looks amazing.” I have a piece of sausage dipped in the chimichurri with a piece of the cheese. It’s sensational.

Joel reaches across, retrieves a bottle from an ice bucket, and shows me the label. “Want a glass?”

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