Resisting Mr. Kane (London Mister #2)(14)

Her eyes narrow, and she glances at me suspiciously, then nods, flicking her hair over her shoulder, and returns to her friends.

I get down to the critical business of matching the underwear and the socks from the dry-cleaning bag. I’m tempted to fluff her pants with the toilet brush, but I resist, being the bigger woman. Metaphorically and physically.

Not even five minutes later, she emerges. “Hi sweetie. I need you to pop out to the shop.” She’s talking very slowly to get me to understand.

“I’m Welsh,” I explain for the umpteenth time. Surely she can detect English is my mother tongue?

“We’ve ran out of bottled water. Oh, and we need limes. Key limes.” She thinks. “Also some more pomegranate and mint. So that’s bottled water, key limes, pomegranate, mint,” she repeats slowly. “Cash is on the table. I can make a list if it’s easier for you?” she says kindly as if she’s doing me a favour.

Does this woman understand the job description of a cleaner? I don’t think it extends into personal assistance.

“Sorry, I don’t have time. My shift is ending now.”

My pushback leaves her affronted. We are interrupted by her son, with the nanny trailing. I suspect she’s been told to keep him away from the party.

“Daniel, Mummy is entertaining her guests. Is everything okay?”

“When are we going home?” He sounds bored.

“We’ll sail when Daddy’s ready.”

Good riddance to you all, I say.

***

“That’s twelve euros,” I tell the guy communicating with my tits. He doesn’t answer. “Did you hear me?”

He hands me a twenty euro note. “Take one for yourself, sexy.”

“Thanks.” Does this guy even realise I have a face with two big fucking eyes glaring at him? I take a generous one for myself.

“Ass,” a man yells at me across the bar. “I need ass.”

“What did you say?” I bark back. How dare he! Just because I’m wearing provocative clothing as part of my uniform, does this man think that he can objectify and sexualise me? That he can talk to me as if I’m lacking mental capacity just because I’m wearing a bikini?

“He wants ice.” Megan bumps me out of the way to get to the ice dispenser.

Oh.

Perhaps I’m extra ratty tonight because I know the man of my dreams has departed the island. How is it that in the space of forty-eight hours you can meet your dream guy, have mind-blowing chemistry with him, then poof! That’s it, your time’s up.

I regret not leaving my number. I thought I was keeping my dignity intact by creeping out before we had the awkward morning after the one-night stand. Instead, I should have stayed, waited until he woke up and begged to have his babies.

Megan shoves me to the side as she leans over to get the sambuca.

“Watch it, Megan,” I snap as sticky liquid hits my arms.

“Stop being so grouchy, or you’ll get us fired.” She tuts as she pours the sambuca into shots. “You’ve got a face like a slapped ass tonight. I’m already walking a fine line after the suspicious, contagious, twenty-four hour bug bullshit you made up.”

She’s right. I didn't know I could experience both ecstasy and pain at the same time. The pain part is winning right now.

“What you need to do is get back on the horse.”

“The horse has bolted,” I mutter.

“Not that horse. A different horse. There’s a whole flock of horses on this island waiting to be straddled, ridden, and fed.”

“A stud,” I correct her. “Not a flock.”

I move out of the way as she passes over a tray of shots to some teenagers. She still manages to spray me with sambuca. It’s irrelevant. By the end of the night, it’ll be stuck to me like Teflon.

She takes the money then turns to me. “Now saddle up, girl, and get ready to rodeo.”

“Are you done? You must have exhausted your horse innuendos by now. Although kudos for not using the stallion cliché.”

She is about to laugh when her jaw falls open slightly. “Not quite done. A horse walks into a bar. What does the bartender say?”

“Oh, Jesus.” I slap my forehead. “Hay.”

“Say hay to your horse, Elly.” She twirls me around, and I look right into the eyes of Tristan.

He’s here. He’s here, in the flesh, in front of me.

My heart somersaults in my chest.

His lips twitch as he registers my shock.

“You stayed?” I approach him and try to calm the adrenaline pumping through my veins. “I thought you had…” I’m too excited and nervous to think straight. “Did the boat not get fixed?”

“It’s fixed,” he says, looking me directly in the eye. “I wanted to see you again. You left without saying goodbye.” His smile slips slightly.

“Oh!” A ridiculous squeal escapes me. “You stayed because of me?”

“You left eighty euros on the bedside table. Did you think I’d let you get away with that? I felt like a prostitute.”

I lean across the bar, trying to hold it together. “But I thought you had important business back in London?”

“I do,” he says, deadpan. “But I realised I have very important unfinished business in Mykonos. There’s a lady who has been eating street gyros for weeks and hasn’t been for dinner at Botrini’s yet. It’s a crime.”