Page 12 of One Bed

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After unpacking her clothes and putting her toiletries in the bathroom – all done in icy silence – Bea told him she was going up to the main house to eat with Golly and Reena.

That suited Gib, so he headed to the beach with his kayak and spent the bulk of the afternoon paddling past the weird pumice cliffs of Vlychada and marvelling at the speckled grey-and-white pebbled beach. He enjoyed a beer and a snack at a laid-back beach bar, before paddling back to where he’d left his rented Jeep. He’d had an excellent workout and his shoulders and neck felt looser, his body less tense.

After a shower at the empty cottage, he’d headed into Oia and had a long, solitary,amazingmeal of grilled octopus followed by moussaka. It was now shortly past ten and time to see whether bright-eyed Bea had had a change of heart in the day and moved out. He was surprised by his intransigence. Obviously, it made sense for him to find another place, and despite the wedding of some mega-wealthy guy’s daughter, he knew he’d find something decent, somewhere. He had resources, and when money wasn’t a problem, obstacles tended to melt away.

But the minute he’d stepped out of the Jeep and seen the house again, he immediately relaxed, feeling like, strangely, he’d come home. A memory of him and his dad playing football on the beach flipped over into one of them laughing … he couldn’t remember at what, but he knew his stomach had ached when they were done. Days spent in the sun, eating great food, sitting in the courtyard as a record player played some lame music in the background.

He and his dad had connected during their boys’ away holiday – something he and his mom never did – and it was the best memory he had of the man he’d adored. He hadn’t thought about Greece in years, and now that he was here, he wanted to remember everything he could. He’d love to recapture some of that childish freedom; although impossible, he still wanted to try.

To do that, he’d have to be on the estate and share this cottage with Bea. He supposed history repeating itself gave his visit back here some authenticity. She’d been a strange little girl, quiet and reserved, happy to fade into the background. They’d shared a room, but he barely knew she was there. Her bed was always made, and her side of the room was tidy, while his looked like he was living in a war zone. She’d read her books and left him alone, and he’d considered that a win.

Gib pushed his hand through his hair, remembering their conversation earlier. He was used to keeping his expression unreadable, he rarely gave anyone a hint of what he was feeling, but it took all his willpower to keep his surprise in check when she’d told him they’d be sharing the bed.Huh.

It was the last thing he’d expected. Somewhere along the line, that little mouse had grown a set of balls.

Gib walked down the path to the cottage, thinking that while he didn’t want to share the bed or cottage, he was desperate to have her under him, over him, up against the nearest wall.

He rubbed his hands over his face. He’d been having sex for more than half his life, but he’d never had such a quick, visceral reaction to a woman before. And why with Bea, who was so unlike anyone he’d ever been attracted to in the past? She wasn’t glossy or glamorous, neither was she sophisticated…

She was …what?

Normal. Real. Down to earth. Her face was makeup free, except for some smudged mascara, and her plump, pink lips didn’t need any lipstick. She wasn’t fat, but neither was she rake thin, or a gym bunny. She was a girl who looked like she enjoyed a piece of chocolate cake, a beer, or a few glasses of wine. A girl who ate carbs and who didn’t count calories. Healthy. Someone who wouldn’t give him shit if he wanted to skip a workout to sloth on the couch and binge-watch a Formula One documentary (previous fling). Neither would she invite him over for dinner and serve him a protein-free couscous salad, followed by a yoghurt smoothie for dessert (fling before that).

As easily as he could imagine them rolling around naked together, he could also see himself watching a ballgame, and eating ribs with her, sauce rolling down her chin, her fingers sticky and her smile wide. Along with tasting every inch of her body, he wanted to see what she looked like with bed hair and with sleep in her fantastic eyes, have her fall asleep on his chest as they watched TV.

Fuck. He was in a metric shitload of trouble here. He needed a punch in the head.

Relationships, even quick flings, required some measure of conversation, a little back and forth about who you were, what you did, and what you liked. Even basic, mild, getting-to-know-you questions were sandpaper on his soul.

That’s what happened when you were raised by the parental equivalent of the National Security Agency. His German mom had no concept of boundaries, and because he was an only child he’d been the complete focus of her attention. He knew she loved him, but her love was all-consuming and overwhelming. Dr Mom—she was a psychologist—needed to know where he was every second of the day, and if he deviated from his routine, she freaked. She demanded to know who his friends were, why he liked them, why they liked him.

Every aspect of his life was open for analysis, from girls to exercise to schoolwork to his friends. His life was dissected and discussed, frequently the only topic of conversation. Her constant prying and her follow-up pseudo-therapy sessions telling him why he shouldn’t feel that way, or asking him why he reacted one way and not another, or whether he could’ve handled a situation better, left him feeling exposed and judged. His mother’s personal science experiment.

His father never told her to back off, or supported Gib’s right to privacy. His dad was a completely different person around his mom to the person he had been in Greece; in the States he was quieter, harsher … sadder.

Gib hauled in some air. He still felt extraordinarily guilty about his initial rush of relief when he’d heard his parents had died. For a minute, or maybe just seconds, he revelled in the idea that he’d never have to explain his thoughts and feelings again and would never be judged for feeling one way and not another. Then reality sat in and he realised he was, at sixteen, an orphan.

After his grief faded a little, he realised how much he owed his Uncle Hugh – a long-divorced, single dad – for taking him in. At sixteen, he would’ve been OK on his own – hell, kids in the First World War went to fight at that age –but Hugh gave him stability and security. Gib was grateful to him for giving him a home, and a few more years to be a kid. Gib’s going to school and earning his MBA, working a thousand hours a week at CI, and running a huge, successful company, went a little way to thank his uncle for his unquestionable support.

And the best thing about moving in with two guys, Hugh and Navy, had been that they never made him have heart-to-heart conversations. They ran with him, sat with him, and, when things got bad and he needed to release pent-up anger, hopped into the boxing ring with him. What they didn’t do was pry and poke and scratch around his mind like a poor, panicking prospector looking for gold.

His mom’s unrelenting demands to crawl inside his mind had made him wary of friendships and intimacy, and he never shared his true self with others. Navy and Hugh got more of him than most, but Gib had sky-high walls around his heart, convinced that revealing his innermost thoughts and feelings could, and would, only lead to criticism and pain. It was safer to keep feelings and emotions locked away.

Gib walked into the cottage and tossed his phone, wallet and keys into the bright turquoise bowl sitting on the table next to the front door. Bea’s closed laptop stood on the breakfast counter, her phone charging next to it – and both meant he was about to share a bed with the most attractive woman he’d met in a long time.

He banged his forehead against the nearest wall.Freaking fucking fabulous.

Taking a deep breath, Gib walked to the closed bedroom door and knocked lightly. When he didn’t get a reply, he eased the door open and looked into the room. He saw Bea leaning back against the huge headboard onhisside of the bed – he always slept on the side closest to the door – her eyes fixed on the book resting on her knees. She wore a loose white T-shirt, and he could see the outline of a tank top or sports bra beneath it. No doubt she was wearing panties or, more likely, pyjama shorts. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail and her face was scrubbed clean, but her lips looked a little glossy.

‘Are you wearing lip gloss?’ he demanded.

She didn’t look up or acknowledge him. Right, he was getting the silent treatment. Excellent. If he had to share a cottage with someone, he far preferred a silent someone than a chatty, have-to-make-conversation someone.

He should feel happier than he did. Was he looking for a reaction from her? And why? Yes, and he didn’t know. How old was he? Eleven again and looking to pick a fight?

Gib sighed, pushed open the door, and stepped into the room. When he’d first inspected the cottage earlier that day, the California King was stacked high with pillows – four rows at least, including one as long as the bed was wide. The pillows now precisely bisected the bed, forming a barrier between her side and his.

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