Page 37 of The Player

“Don’t go in, then, for fuck’s sake,” I say sourly. “We can’t share the room with any more people.”

“I don’t know,” he says, eyeing me. “Mr Tumnus looks a lot less grumpy than you at the moment.”

“You could play the fiddle together and leave me out of your smart-arse remarks.” He laughs, and I shake my head. “I’m having a shower,” I state firmly. “I will likely be in there for a very long time.”

“I’m trying to imagine what you can think of to do in there,” he says in a thoughtful voice.

“Try and spend the time instead examining your sudden good mood and the fact that you’re being rather flirtatious.”

He shuts the wardrobe door and suddenly seems a lot closer than he was. “Really? You don’t know why I’m in a good mood?” he says huskily.

“Shower,” I squeak, and grabbing my stuff, I shut myself in the bathroom.

The bathroom is very luxurious as well, and I wonder why Joan decided to splash the cash. Normally, when we’re away, we stay in the cheapest hotels she can find. The shower cubicle is enormous, and I spend a while in there enjoying the hot water and the fantastic pressure. I use the time to talk myself around, so by the time I emerge, I feel put together and serene.

I let myself into the bedroom. Con has removed the rose petals and is lying on the bed, his bare feet crossed and his hands behind his head, watching the football on the TV. I eye his long feet and the fact that his arms are bunched up, showing his big biceps, and feel my inner serenity immediately starting to retreat.

“Bathroom is yours,” I say briskly.

He looks over at me, and his eyes move up and down steadily, taking in my silk dressing gown. It’s citron-coloured with small violets embroidered over it, and it falls to my feet.

“What?” I snap.

“You look lovely,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice floors me.

I rub my finger over the silk, feeling its softness. “Really?” I ask. He nods fervently, and I bite my lip. “It was my nan’s. I suppose you think that’s weird. My grandad bought it for her from China years ago when he was in the navy. She kept it in this box in tissue paper and never wore it, but she’d let me open it and look at it when I was little. I kept it when she died because the sight of it has always made me happy, and I wear it because we should never let anything stay in tissue paper.”

His eyes are soft and warm and almost admiring. “I wasn’t going to say it’s weird,” he says steadily. “I was going to say I love it because it’s just like you.”

“A bit flamboyant?” I say doubtfully.

“No. Bold and bright.”

He runs his eyes over me again, and by the time he reaches my eyes, I feel hot and flushed.

“Bathroom,” I snap, and he bites his lip to hide a smile. Unfortunately, he’s not entirely successful, and I glare at him.

He rises and walks past me. His arm brushes mine, and my skin tingles as if he gave me an electric shock. I continue staring after him long after the door has shut. Then I give myself a shakeand take out my clothes from my bag, hanging them up in the wardrobe and plugging our phones in to charge. I dump my dirty clothes in my bag and set them neatly in the wardrobe. I close the door and turn as the bathroom door opens.

I once watched a film calledBackdraft, where Billy Baldwin was always silhouetted enticingly against a backdrop of smoke. Con’s background is the more innocuous steam from his shower, but Billy’s got nothing on him. He’s shirtless and clad in just a pair of boxers, and my gaze clings and skips along his big chest. He’s impressively put together, which has got to be genetic because he hardly does any exercise. I frown as I see the line of ink down his right side. “What does that say?” I ask before I can pull myself together.

“What, this little thing?” he says, eyeing me and tracing one long finger down his side. The tattoo runs down his lean side and disappears along the groove of his pelvis and under his underwear. His finger comes to a stop at the cotton barrier, and I become aware that I’m gaping at him.

I take a breath. “I didn’t know you had a tattoo there,” I say in what I hope is a conversational tone, although even I recognise it’s far too breathy.

He smiles. “It says, ‘Friendship is a slow ripening fruit.’”

I stare at him. “Who said that?”

He makes a production of looking around. “I think I just did.”

“You’re such a twat.”

He laughs. “It was Aristotle.”

“And that’s for David,” I say confidently.

“Nope,” he says. “It’s for you.”

---