Page 24 of Taste

I would have to take control and fix it the only way I could. I would have to fuck him and forget him. Because that’s what you did, wasn’t it? And the pain of losing him would only strengthen my character.

MARK

It all came to a head on Christmas Eve, when the hotel side was quiet, and the restaurant empty apart from a few guests lingering around the Christmas buffet. The pianist in the bar was playing jazz versions of festive songs that were seriously doing my head in. Even Adam, who was filling in behind the bar, had threatened to spike everyone’s drinks if I didn’t evict the poor dude and his damn piano at eleven sharp.

It was close to midnight, and he was still playing.

Our last customers were finishing off desserts, the couple in the corner indulging in one final liqueur as I pushed out their bill and placed it carefully in the leather folder before walking the restaurant floor one last time to leave it on their table. I needed to close the system down and run our final figures; Mabel would finish off the rest of the evening’s chores, and the remaining waiters were already hovering around with the breakfast tablecloths, changing the settings over and placing the cheerful morning menus on each table.

I wasn’t needed and should head home, but for some reason, I was dragging my feet.

I’d successfully avoided Christensen all evening, after yesterday’s disastrous management meeting where I’d ended up seated next to him again. I actually preferred being next to him so I could avoid his gaze and wouldn’t have to feign interest or play the exhausting game of us both pretending to look the other way. I’d sat through the meeting bouncing my pen against the table as Mr Klutz droned on about Christmas cheer while everyone else was dying, their heads already halfway out the door wanting to go home to their families and friends.

I didn’t mean to do it; it had been an honest accident. I’d grazed his leg with my hand, and he’d jumped like I’d shocked him with a Taser, causing the heavy glass table to jolt. He’d looked mortified, glared at me like I was the scum of the earth as people started mopping up spilt coffee and straightening the crystal carafes splashing water everywhere. I’d apologised like I’d cancelled Christmas, mopping up spills with a useless napkin, tipping biscuit crumbs onto the floor, and when I’d finally sat down again, I’d tried to take a sip of my coffee, missed my mouth, and had to give my report with an embarrassing brown stain down my front.

The entire experience had rattled me so much, I completely fluffed it, attempting to turn my snazzy PowerPoint slide with little Santas jumping on the pie charts into a disastrous comedy show. I couldn’t remember what the hell I was meant to be waffling about. Mr Klutz glowered at me like I had lost my bloody mind, and I had. I was a mess of a man with coffee down my front, failing to behave in an appropriate manner and once again being ridiculed by my esteemed colleagues. My presentation was a fucking disaster.

To top it all, Christensen had stood up and made some pompous thank-you speech, praising the management team for—as he’d put it—one hell of a year. Then he’d turned and stared at me, the way he used to, and I prepared for one of his scathing insults, but he’d held my gaze, like he was mustering the courage to say something profound, and stunned me by something that resembled kindness.

“I suppose I should also thank Mark Quinton, who has brought a much-needed boost to our property. We may not always have seen eye to eye, but his enthusiasm and drive are commendable for their contribution to taking this year’s figures over the profit line.”

He’d nodded at me, and I’d automatically nodded back in polite acceptance of his surprising praise, to a muffled chorus of agreement from our colleagues. I suppose it was expected that I should have said something back, but I couldn’t make my mouth work and had stared at him in questioning defiance, relieved when Mr Klutz swiftly changed the subject to staffing levels and the hotel maintaining a full-on social media presence over the coming weeks.

Christensen had met my gaze briefly as I’d hurriedly exited the room, my cheeks burning in embarrassment when all I could see in him was hurt. I didn’t understand him. I didn’t get him at all.

He wouldn’t speak to me. He wouldn’t even look at me if we walked past each other. He had made no attempt to wave a white flag of peace anywhere in my direction since that night when he slept on my chest then the next morning declared to the world that he hated my guts.

To be honest, neither had I, but I thought I had given him a chance. I had left him in bed that morning thinking we would be different from now on, that we would turn a new leaf and give being friends a try, maybe grow to like each other a little. Perhaps I had frightened him with my honesty, because he’d told me things I hadn’t been prepared to hear. But we’d talked, and he’d held me. We had been something, and it hadn’t been enough. At least, not for me.

He had skilfully ignored me through the rest of that week, then turned in a report claiming I had damaged his phone. I’d laughed my head off when that little shitshow had hit my inbox. He’d boldly stated he had accidentally dropped it in the water while attempting to dissuade me from launching a rescue mission to retrieve a guest’s earring from the spa pool.

The dude had a fucking nerve. I’d been personally stung for the cost of replacing his phoneandthe company radio. In a fit of rage, I’d signed off for the charges and deleted his number from my phone. I suppose he did have a right to be angry with me. I was bloody angry with him too.

I still thought of him, because I couldn’t get him out of my head. I’d memorised the way he’d clung to me, how he’d slept in my arms. I hated myself for it, but I thought he was beautiful. I think I always had, but that evening he’d got to me, and I couldn’t shift my infatuation with him. My obsession with all things Finn Christensen.

I didn’t dare do anything about it, though. I wasn’t sure I could cope with the seismic fallout from even attempting to reach out to him. The snarky laughter if I got it all wrong. The shame of being the one person in the world he simply couldn’t stand.

We’d been perfect that evening, and now we were not. It hurt. It hurt a lot.

So, it was Christmas Eve, and I was kicking the last of the fridge doors shut and waving goodbye to Mabel and Ben, who were chilling out with rest of the staff, all casually seated in the back of the restaurant downing festive drinks on the house after successfully evicting our straggling guests for the lone cleaner who was now busy hoovering under the tables. I should have grabbed a seat and joined them, indulged in a little Christmas cheer myself at the end of another successfully executed dinner service.

I didn’t. I was heading home to my lonely flat to spend the festive season alternating between working and festering on my own. I’d spoken to both my parents earlier and wished them a Merry Christmas. Mum had nattered on about plans, cooking and the challenge of transporting foods to my sister’s house. Dad was celebrating royally with his new family, both of them speaking of children and decorations and candles and food. I half-heartedly promised to join them for the carefully orchestrated and equally shared New Year’s—if I could get away from work and snag a train to the west coast. I hadn’t planned ahead, as usual, always leaving things to the last minute.

So much for having more friends than I could handle. I had nobody to keep me sane over the coming days, apart from my staff at work. My freezer at home contained a myriad of small boxes of foods that would sustain me over the coming days, all courtesy of Ben, who as always could read my moods. He’d turn up and fill my fridge with well-balanced meals when I couldn’t feed myself, blaming his habit of cooking too much or trying out new recipes. He was going away with his girlfriend until January, and from the concern in his voice when he asked yet again if I would be all right on my own over Christmas, I was starting to wonder the same thing myself.

My mother had laughed when I told her I would be accidentally spending Christmas on my own. She knew me too well. I messed up. Always. She said I needed to think about buying myself a little car. My dad had sighed the way he always did and offered—multiple times—to brave the M4 to come pick me up, hoping I would finally relent and agree to meet his current wife and vast collection of small humans that were apparently my half-siblings. I thanked him but politely declined.

I walked across the lobby floor, where Oliver’s concierge desk sat abandoned, a festive poinsettia covering the space where his laptop usually rested. The reception was eerily quiet. A girl I didn’t recognise was stacking fresh key cards into boxes while the other receptionist was staring vacantly at his phone. The back door was wedged open, and I could see Christensen’s office lit up as I passed.

The impulsiveness in me took over. I didn’t know if it was the emotional side of me still raw from speaking to my parents or an irrational sadness at having to endure another festive season on my own. Well, I didn’thaveto. I could have returned to my colleagues and drunk myself into a stupor, and I probably did have friends I could have called on, or acquaintances, at least, who would have turned my evening into a ball.

I walked straight in and sat in his visitor’s chair, putting my heavy boots up on the edge of his desk before crossing them in a clear sign of defiance. Folding my arms over my thick winter jacket, I fixed my stare on him, only then noticing the look of terror coming my way through glasses I hadn’t seen before and the half-drunk mug of tea in his hand paused halfway to his mouth. It made me braver than I would otherwise have been.

“Christensen,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. He still seemed frozen in place. “It’s past midnight. Please go home. Natalie Payne is the manager on duty, and there’s no need for you to be here. You should be at home with your loved ones. It’s Christmas, for crying out loud.”

“Loved ones,” he muttered and finally cajoled his limbs into action, setting the mug down on the desk. “So why are you still here? You should have left after lunch, according to schedule. Shouldn’t you be home with yourloved ones?” He snarled out the two last words with an edge of disgust.

“My family live on the coast, just outside Bristol. I can’t just pop over to visit them, but I spoke to them earlier, and I might get to see them on New Year’s Eve if I’m lucky.” I straightened up and wriggled my boots that were delightfully, rudely right in front of him. Beneath my open jacket, I was wearing a Christmas-patterned suit and chuckled under my breath at his sneer of pure disgust as he took in the sight of me.

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