Page 21 of Taste

FINN

I wasn’t faking my confusion when the room phone’s annoying shrill tone woke me. It was way too early, and my body was struggling to come to its senses after a mere couple of hours’ sleep, so for a moment, I wondered why the fuck the phone was ringing. Then he leant across me to answer it, his voice quiet but cheerful above my head. I quivered with unease and rolled as far away from him as I could, trying to drag the duvet over my head. I wanted to disappear. Forever. What the hell had last night been all about? My stupidity when it came to Mark Quinton apparently knew no boundaries.

“Yeah. Yeah. All right. I’ll be right down. Give me ten minutes, yeah? Cheers, Malik. See ya.”

The receiver slammed back on the phone with a plasticky clunk.

“Sorry. Go back to sleep. I’ll get Malik to ring you at six sharp, okay?”

He’d spoken directly into my ear, his lips so close I could almost taste them as well as feel them. I was still foggy from sleep and needy in my half-awake state. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t want it, because I did. I wanted anything. A kiss. A lazy stroke of his hand.

Instead, I got his nose in my hair and a half-hearted attempt at getting up before he clambered back across the bed in the dark and pulled the duvet gently around my shoulders.

It was a tiny gesture, but it made me all warm inside, like I was a small child being tucked in by a caring parent. A whimper-like sound escaped me, and I burrowed down in the warmth of the covers now his body wasn’t plastered to my back like it had been moments earlier.

It was all coming back to me in small realisations. I had let him hold me, and I had held him back. We had slept all tangled up, our limbs mingled in a mess of sheets.

I’d not slept next to another human being in years, or not by choice; more by self-preservation. It wasn’t in my grand plan and certainly wasn’t something I needed, or so I’d thought. Hell, I wasn’t a physical person. I just simply wasn’t wired that way. Well, apparently, I had that bit all wrong.

He’d held me, and I’d clung to him like he was the last man on earth, my face burrowed into his chest and my legs refusing to move from the warmth between his thighs. I didn’t even want to think how much of his sweat was on my back, but the coldness of it after he’d got out of the bed had been replaced by the warmth of the duvet.

He dressed in silence. I could make out the rip of his zip being pulled up, the buttons on his shirt being fastened, the quiet click of him unplugging the charging cord from his phone and his huffed breath as he leant down to tie his shoelaces.

“Mark?”

I couldn’t help myself. I wanted one last moment, one second more of this to cling onto for the rest of the day.

“Yeah?” His voice was soft and kind. I felt like crying. Honestly. What the hell was wrong with me?

“Nothing.”

I curled back into a ball under the duvet, my cheeks burning in shame. I was not a needy person. I didn’t need anything from anyone, least of all him. However much my body was screaming for him just to come and touch me. Anything. Please.

“I’ll see you later, ’kay?”

I missed him before the door had even shut behind him.

I didn’t go back to sleep. Instead, I took advantage of the complimentary robe from the en suite and went on a mission to make myself presentable to the public. I snagged a front-of-house uniform from the rack in the housekeeping office and spent the morning dealing with paperwork while my suit drip-dried in shame behind me.

I was short-tempered and brisk with my staff and had no mercy for our guests’ requests. I just couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear myself.

I didn’t see him all day, even though he was only a few seconds’ walk away from me, running the service like clockwork despite being short-staffed with a full house. He’d set up conference tables across the lobby floor, laid out like some strange wedding banquet, where Mabel was in full swing seating families next to businessmen, making well-thought-out introductions and cursing the weather with a cheerful smile.

It was still raining, and I couldn’t even stomach the sound of my own voice.

I manned the desk, making robotic conversation when my mind was elsewhere, as evidenced by my attempt to swipe Mrs Travazzo’s credit card through the stapler.

She smiled at me and reached over, lightly touching my hand. “You’re in a world of your own, aren’t you?” She gave me a little wink. “I’ll keep you in my prayers, Mr Christensen. You’re always so kind to me, and dear Mr Travazzo, bless his soul, always insisted on staying here. I come on my own now, as you know, because sometimes a girl just needs to have a little luxury away from the quietness at home. My daughter is coming with me next time. In July. Eleonor made the reservation yesterday. She’s wonderful, that girl.”

“She is,” I said, no idea why I was welling up.

“You’re a good man, Mr Christensen. I appreciate your kindness when I come and stay. I just wanted you to know that.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a bulging envelope, placing it on the counter with a contented little tap.

“That is for you and your staff. I wish I could buy you all champagne, but my pension doesn’t quite stretch to that.”

“We don’t accept tips, Mrs Travazzo, but we appreciate your kindness,” I squeezed out, my voice barely holding out.

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