Page 82 of A Very Happy Easter

“Then I’m really glad you’re here. These past few months… I would’ve been in a bad place if it weren’t for you.” A screech came from the left, and I jumped out of my skin. “Shit. Just a bird?”

Heath smiled, and at least he had the grace not to laugh. “Just a bird.”

“Damn, I’m a mess. Can I sleep on your couch tonight?”

I was joking, but I also wasn’t. The high-backed style-over-comfort couch didn’t look the cosiest, but at least I might manage to rest with him on guard ten feet away.

“No.” He smoothed my hair away from my face. “I’ll take the couch.”

“You will not. It looks horrendously uncomfortable.”

“Then why should you sleep on it?”

“Because I’m the one who’s freaking out irrationally?”

“Not irrationally. As you said, you’ve had a difficult few months, and anyone would be on edge after that.”

“Yes, but?—”

“Just share the bed, Edie. It’s the size of a football pitch, and I swear I won’t touch you.”

My heart raced again, but this time, it wasn’t from fear. I wanted to say it’s okay if you do, but what came out was, “Thank you.”

Twenty-Three

“Ohmigosh, did you see this?” Polly rushed into the bedroom of Constance’s hotel suite with her phone in one hand and a margarita in the other. “Luna Maara took a topless dip in the harbour on Ilha Grande.”

Constance looked up through teary eyes. “What?”

“There was some debate over whether she was drowning and, like, thirty men tried to rescue her.”

It had been a stressful three days. I was on edge, the whole damn country was on edge, and Constance appeared to be heading for a nervous breakdown. When she saw news of the murder and then the shooting on TV, she’d tried to back out of coming, or at least delay the trip, but William had studied the country’s crime statistics and called a friend in the Foreign Office who confirmed that the events of the past week were both connected to each other and very unusual, and definitely not reflective of safety in the country as a whole.

William seemed comparatively level-headed, at least when one considered the men Constance had dated previously. Who could forget the yoga teacher who feng-shuied every room he walked into? Anyhow, Polly once said that William was the love child of Ross Geller and a calculator, not technically possible, but nonetheless a reasonable description. He’d made a small fortune writing algorithms for share trading. The shares themselves didn’t seem to interest him, more the maths behind the investment game.

Constance and William had arrived two days ago, complete with a mountain of luggage; Constance’s rescued chorkie, Puck; an entire suitcase full of gluten-free snacks; three laptops; a flat-packed ergonomic chair, because apparently, William couldn’t think properly in any seat the hotel provided; and a thirty-seven-page to-do list for the wedding.

So far, we were still on page one, and seeing as I’d made the mistake of coming to San Gallicano early, I was officially in charge of the tissues. I made a cutting motion across my throat, and Polly’s eyes widened when she saw Constance sitting in her wedding dress.

Sort of.

“What happened?” she asked Constance. “Are you having second thoughts?”

If only.

“The dress won’t do up,” I explained.

“Oh, shit.” Polly put down the phone and took a sip of the margarita. “Good thing you tried it on then, huh?”

Constance hadn’t planned to, but then she’d had a sudden freakout that she wouldn’t be able to wear the pretty lingerie she’d brought due to VPL, and the disaster had continued from there.

At least the drama on Valentine Cay had simmered down. When I collapsed into bed last night, Heath had been pacing the bedroom, glued to Blackwood’s app. A raid was happening on one of the other islands, and honestly, he seemed more stressed by watching events unfold from a distance than if he’d been there in person. I knew from the night of the fire that he stayed cool under pressure.

For once, it had been my turn to comfort him. I made us a late supper. I opened a bottle of wine. I lay next to him as he refreshed the screen like crazy. Yes, we were still sharing a bed, albeit platonically. Heath had kept his word about not touching me, although I gravitated towards him in sleep, and last night I’d accidentally used his chest as a pillow.

We talked about everything, but we hadn’t talked about that.

Where would we even start?

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