Love Your Life(14)

As though he’s reading my mind, Dutch lifts his head and looks at me for a few seconds. He smiles as though he’s trying to say something, and I find myself nodding and smiling back as though I understand, my heart going hippity-hop in my chest.

I feel about sixteen right now.

No. Younger. When did I have my first ever mammoth crush? That age.

Then a waiter comes up to take Dutch’s plate, he looks away, and the moment’s over. Reluctantly, I turn my attention to my neighbors and force myself to listen to what Metaphor’s saying about some Booker Prize winner. But all the while, my thoughts are turning over and over.

What if…? I mean, what if…? He’s handsome. Positive. Thoughtful. Good with his hands. And, oh my God, he loves dogs.





Four




By the next evening, my heart has hipped and hopped all over the place. I’m getting ready for supper, staring at myself in the tiny cracked mirror in my room (everything here is old and picturesque), unable to think about anything except: What are my chances?

I’m slightly wishing I looked more Italian right now. All the Italian staff at the retreat have such glossy dark hair and smooth olive skin, whereas my skin freckles in the sun. I’m what they call “fine-featured,” which can seem like an asset until you see a luscious nineteen-year-old girl with blunt bobbed hair and a snub nose and rounded, dimpled shoulders—

No. Stop it. I shake my head impatiently to clear my thoughts. Nell would say I’m being a moron. She would have no time for this. At the thought of Nell, I automatically think of Harold—and before I can stop myself, I’m summoning up the Harold folder on my computer.

    Scrolling through photos of him calms my heart a little. Harold. Beloved Harold. Just seeing his bright, intelligent face makes me smile, although even the video of him trying to get into the laundry basket can’t fix all my problems. As I shut the folder down, I’m still twitchy and uncertain. It’s been that kind of day.

The morning session was a blur. While all the other participants discussed their writing goals and made studious notes on daily routines, I was focused on Dutch. He was sitting between Scribe and Booklover when I arrived (damn), but I took the chance to sit opposite him.

Our eyes met a few times. He smiled. I smiled back. When Farida mentioned confrontation in fiction, I made a jokey martial-arts gesture at him and he laughed. It was kind of a thing.

As we disbanded for lunch, I felt 100 percent hopeful. I also had a plan: Bag a seat next to him, pull out every flirtatious trick I had, and, if all else failed, ask blatantly, “How do you feel about holiday romances?” (If he looked appalled, I could pretend it was the plot of my next novel.)

But he didn’t turn up. He didn’t turn up!

How can you not turn up to lunch? Lunch is part of the package. It’s free. And delicious. Nothing made any sense.

Then it got worse: He didn’t turn up to the afternoon yoga session either. Farida even came up to me and asked, “Do you know where Dutch is?”

(Note: She asked me. This says people have noticed we have a connection. Although what good is a connection if he’s not here?)

    At that stage I gave up. I thought, He’s left. He’s not interested. In writing or me. Then I cursed myself bitterly for having been distracted this morning, because, after all, this course wasn’t cheap. I decided to refocus, forget love, and do what I came here to do: Write. Not think about holiday romances. Write.

I sat on my bed, staring at my manuscript printout for a bit, wondering if Chester should get off the hay wagon or if maybe the hay wagon should catch on fire. Then I thought: What if Clara hides on the hay wagon and she gets burned to death? But that would be quite a short, sad book—

And then the miracle happened. I heard a voice through my bedroom window, which looks out onto one of the cloistered courtyards. It was Booklover, exclaiming, “Oh, Dutch! We thought you’d gone.”

Then I heard him replying, “No, I just took off for the afternoon. How was yoga?”

Then they had some conversation I couldn’t hear properly, and Booklover said, “See you at supper,” and he said, “Sure thing,” and my heart started pounding while my manuscript slithered to the floor.

And now hope is dancing unstoppably round my body. I close my laptop, spray on a final spritz of perfume, tug at my indigo pajamas, then head through the candlelit corridors and courtyards to the paved garden where supper is served. I can see Dutch already—and an empty chair beside him. I’m having that chair.

Picking up my pace, I reach it just before Austen and grab it with a viselike grip.

    “Why don’t I go here?” I say in the most nonchalant tone I can muster, and quickly sit down before anyone can comment. I breathe in to compose myself, then turn to Dutch.

“Hi.” I smile.

“Hi.” He smiles back, and my insides crumple with desire.

His voice does things to me. It stirs up reactions in all kinds of places. And it’s not just his voice—his whole presence is setting me alight. His eyes look as though they already know what I want. His body language is strong. His smile is irresistible. As he reaches for his napkin, his bare forearm brushes against mine and I feel a tingle throughout my body. No, more than a tingle. A craving.

“Excuse me,” I murmur, leaning over on the pretext of pouring him water—and for the first time I inhale his scent. Oh God. Yes. I want more of that too. Whatever combination of hormones and sweat and soap and cologne that is…it works.