Page 15 of Harper's Holiday Romance
“How have you already got a tan?” Billie asked. She sat opposite me, her white blouse clearly see-through, but she’d refused to change once her hunger catapulted her overall attitude from sarcastic to vicious.
“Barely,” I said.
Sarah wore a white shirt with a pair of beige jeans; they’d refused to include me in the evenings dress code, and for that I was eternally grateful because the one white shirt I’d brought made my figure look as enticing as a bedsheet draped over a washing line. I had to expand my wardrobe beyond black, a specific green tone, and every shade of beige the fashion industry could produce.
Sarah scoured the menu to find a pasta dish with veal sauce. The beef and creamy mushroom ravioli seemed to satisfy that craving. I’d studied the menu beforehand, as I did with most restaurants, so there would be no hesitation in my decision.
“I’ll have the gnocchi with creamy smoked truffle sauce and parmesan cheese please,” I said.
Disgustingly, my mouth produced so much saliva in that moment I drooled. My body was still on English time. I didn’t know when to eat or when to sleep. The only sure-fire thing was the pang of hunger telling me my stomach needed some fulfilment soon.
“I’ll have the prosciutto pizza please.” Billie closed her menu with a satisfied sigh.
“You should get truffle oil on it,” I suggested.
“On the pizza?”
“Yes, trust me, a drizzle across the top. It will change your life.”
The waiter looked at Billie for confirmation. Sarah turned her nose up at the thought, but my eagerness persuaded Billie otherwise.
“Okay, sure, go for the truffle oil.”
“Why are you so obsessed with truffle?” Sarah asked.
Truffle oil was game changing.
“Because—” I looked around, nobody was watching, so I took it as an opportunity to demonstrate. I grabbed Sarah’s whiskey sour and dipped my hand into the glass to remove the ice.
“What the hell are you doing?” she protested.
“You love a whiskey sour. It’s your favourite drink, but it’s not as good without ice. You add the ice to enhance the drink.” I dropped each cube back in one by one. “A pizza is really nice, but it’s even better with truffle oil.” I wiped my hand on the white napkin draped across my lap. “Do you see my point?”
“Yes, but you didn’t have to grope my ice,” Sarah grunted.
When I did my usual research on the hotel, by usual I meant days and weeks’ worth of researching every corner of the internet for even the slightest bit of negative commentary, I found nothing.
There wasn’t even a Tripadvisor review fromYummyMummySheilafrom Stockport talking about how the room temperature was one degree above average or the hotel hadn’t found a way to destroy all wildlife in the vicinity to stop lizards from running across the pathways. There was always one unrealistic review for every ten good ones. Maybe the hotel had found a way to cheat Tripadvisor and delete them. I’d never seen such a perfect resume.
The restaurants were described as serving gourmet cuisine with enticing flavours and culinary masterpieces. They weren’t wrong. The pasta dish I ordered caused more moans and groans to come from my mouth than any orgasm I’d ever received.
Billie had barely finished her first slice when I waited eagerly for her verdict. “Well...”
“Mmm.” She smirked.
“It’s good, isn’t it?”
“Like sex in my mouth,” Billie approved.
I was a people pleaser. I believed my own happiness relied on making other people happy. It made me feel emotionally satisfied to know Billie loved the pizza, and my suggestion hadn’t ruined it. After finishing the meal in record time, I excused myself to freshen up.
I rounded the corner to the restroom, and my eyes fixated on the extravagant golden mirrored sink on the wall inside the entrance. I didn’t see a body hurtling towards me, but I sure as hell felt it. The shoulder of a female figure collided with my chest and sent my body reeling. I grasped for the basin, but I was an inch short. My left foot slid out from the comfort of my sandal as my flailing arms attempted to make the fall less embarrassing.
“Shit—”
I saw a hand reach out, but it all happened too fast. I expected a thud as my backside hit the rock-solid floor. Instead I found myself squashed butt first into a wicker basket. The hotel’s lack of concern for the environment was my saviour. The collection of dirty hand towels cushioned my fall.
The woman stood with her hand over her mouth holding back laughter as my legs stuck out over the edge like a child stuck in a laundry basket. It was up there at the top of the list with my most humiliating moments. Luckily, the bathroom was unoccupied, so nobody else got to witness my downfall.
