Page 8 of One Bed

She’d heard of Caddell International. Pretty much everyone with a pulse had.

Golly drained her glass. ‘Gib and his cousin, Navy Caddell, met me for lunch at The Ivy a few weeks ago.’

Navy Caddell? Golly’d had lunch with the new shit-hot agent on the block?What the hell?Bea flinched. ‘Why were you lunching with Navy Caddell, Gollydear?’

‘I am looking for someone to take on Parker Kane,Beatrice, since the bloody woman is dragging her feet.’ Golly’s eyes narrowed. ‘Navy only set up his literary agency a year ago but already has an impressive list of clients and has made some eyebrow-raising sales.’

Bea’d told Golly, more than once, that she wouldn’t be pushed into meeting agents until she was ready. Which wasn’t now, and just might be never. What the hell was Golly thinking going behind her back and vetting agents for her?

‘MaybeParkerisn’t ready to take that step and would like to make that decision herself,’ Bea said through gritted teeth. ‘You know she hates it when you overstep the mark, Golly.’

‘Well, she needs a swift kick up her arse!’

Golly was angling for an argument, but now wasn’t the time. They had company. Bea rubbed the back of her head, trying to ignore her headache. It was noon, but it felt like she’d already put in a ten-hour day. She had things to do, and an unexpected cocktail party to organise.

But Gibson Caddell’s rough sexiness scrambled her brain.Wait, hold on…

Why had he walked from the direction of the cottage?

‘What exactly did you mean by ‘senior moment’ just now, Golly?’ Bea asked, her eyes narrowed.

‘What are you accusing me of now, Bea?’ Golly asked, her eyes guileless. Oh,sod it.When Golly sounded innocent, it usually meant she was about to drop a conversational nuclear bomb. Bea’s stomach went into free fall.

‘Golly!’ Bea snapped. She wasn’t in the mood for games. Not today.

‘Well … I sort of promised you both the use of the cottage,’ Golly airily replied. Her expression was pure whimsy, as close to ‘oh shucks’ as Golly got. Bea didn’t buy it. Golly was working some angle and Bea wasn’t going to let her.

‘I have been staying in the cottage since I was sixteen years old, Golly, and I am organising your weekend,’ Bea told her, heat creeping into her voice. ‘I’m sure Mr Caddell can find somewhere else to stay.’

‘I’ve paid a lot of money to hire her cottage, so if anyone is moving out it’s you,’ Gib replied, sounding properly pissed off. She didn’t blame him. Bloody Golly.

Golly waved her empty glass around. ‘I’m sure you two can find a solution to my faux pas. Of course, alternative accommodation would be the answer, but the island is also hosting the ginormous wedding of a stunningly wealthy Greek industrialist’s daughter on Saturday. The week-long festivities started yesterday, and you might struggle to find a decent room.’

What was her point? Did Golly expect her to share her cottage? Herone-bedcottage? That wasn’t, on any level, acceptable.

‘This island can sleep roughly seventy-thousand people, Golly, I’m sure Mr Caddell can find somewhere else to stay,’ Bea said through gritted teeth. Sheneededto stay at the cottage, being anywhere else was inconceivable. The cottage was where she felt most inspired, and utterly relaxed. It was her home away from home.

‘MrCaddell will be staying where he is,’ Gib stated.

Golly ignored him. ‘That’s at the peak of summer, Bea, when all the hotels and rooms-to-let are available. Many have closed now the season’s over.’ Golly waved her hand, tipped with coffin-shaped nails. ‘Now don’t be so square and unaccommodating Bea-darling and Gib. You two can share the space for less than a week, the bed is big enough to sleep four, and then Bea can move into the main house. Besides, you’ve shared before.’

‘What?’ Given that Bea’s love life was desert-sand dry, she definitely would’ve remembered sharing a bed with Gibson Cadell. He looked equally confused. ‘What are you talking about, Golly?’

‘Gib stayed here when he was about ten or eleven, I had a full house that summer and you two shared a room.’

Bea cocked her head to the side, as the memory of a gangly boy, with too-long hair and knobbly knees came into focus. While she’d been happy, OK,resignedto sharing a room with him, he’d thrown a wobbly, loudly protesting he didn’t want to share with akid, and worse, agirl. She remembered him making his dad promise he’d never tell someone – he couldn’t remember the name – that he’d been forced into what he considered anatrocity. She’d needed to look that word up in Golly’s dictionary and was hurt by the harshness of the definition.

Later, after noticing he never spent any time reading – the greatest sin in her six-year-old eyes! – Bea realised he probably didn’t even know what the word meant. But most stupefying of all was that she’d modelled her beloved Pip on that long-ago boy who ran wild. The memory of him must’ve lodged in her subconscious because she never gave him another thought after they’d parted at the end of that summer. She met his incredible eyes.

‘Your dad taught me to swim,’ she told him.

‘You always had your nose in a book.’

‘You never did,’ she countered.

He shrugged. ‘Too many fun things to do outside…’

Their conversation petered out. Right, she remembered they’d struggled to connect back then, too. She’d barely seen him that summer: he woke early, spent all of his time at the beach or on a bike his father bought him, and he’d made friends with a gang of kids he’d met somewhere. In his eyes, she’d barely existed and was way beneath his notice.

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