Photos of You (ARC)

by Tammy Robinson

  I gape at James. “I’m sleeping here? Are you serious?”

  James grins, delighted by my reaction. “It’s all yours,” he confirms. “But you haven’t seen the best bit yet.”

  He strides over past the bed behind a screened area and I follow him. There are more glass doors and he pushes them open effortlessly.

  “Ta da,” he says.

  Behind him, set into the deck, is a large spa bath. At the sight of it, all thoughts of sleep disappear in an instant. I have the water running before the man with the bags has even left the room. James lingers to watch on indulgently as I run the bath water.

  “You look very smug,” I tell him as I check the labels on the little bottles that are lined up on the marble vanity. I could be wrong, but I’m fairly sure the brand is one that retails only in exclusive boutiques.

  “Do I?”

  “Yes. But that’s OK. You deserve to. I can’t believe this place.” I unscrew the lid on the bath gel bottle and sniff it gingerly. It smells of extravagance and indulgence. I pour the whole lot into the bath and the water immediately starts frothing up into bubbles.

  “I knew you’d like this place,” James says. “And you’ve barely seen half of what it has to offer.”

  “Honestly, I could just stay in this room and be perfectly happy.” I sigh. “This bath, that bed. Is there a minibar?”

  He laughs. “I believe so, yes.”

  “Then I’m all set.”

  “Well, I hope you do leave the room at some point,” he says. “I’d quite like to spend some time with you, if you can spare it.”

  I pretend to consider it. “I suppose I should,” I say eventually. “As you’ve gone to so much effort and everything.”

  “How about”—he consults his watch—“I pick you up at six o’clock for dinner. Four hours. Is that enough time for you to enjoy this?” He gestures toward the bath, where the bubbles are threatening to overspill.

  “It will have to do.”

  “I can make it later if you prefer.”

  “I’m kidding. If I sat in there for four hours you’d be dining with a wrinkly old prune.”

  “I’ll see you at six, then.”

  “You will.”

  “Enjoy your bath.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  He opens the door and steps out into the hall. Before the door can close I call his name, and he catches it, pushing it open again.

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.” I smile. “For bringing me here.”

  “You deserve it,” he says softly.

  “I’m still not sure, though, exactly why we’re here?”

  “All will be revealed in good time, Ava,” he says mysteriously, winking. Then he laughs. “Well, tomorrow, anyway. For now, just relax. Enjoy the moment. I’ll see you soon.”

  He lets go of the door and it closes behind him. I stare at it for a minute, wondering what he meant by “all will be revealed.” Then I realize that wondering about it won’t bring me any closer to the answer, so I do what he says. I strip off, climb in the bath, and I enjoy the hell out of the moment.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Six o’clock on the dot there is a knock on my door. I am ready and waiting, and have been for the last half an hour. An hour in the bath and then a nap has given me strength back, and I feel renewed and ready to face the evening. Standing up, I straighten down the skirt on my dress nervously, take a deep breath, and then open the door.

  “Hey.” He smiles, and takes my breath away. “You look amazing.”

  I look down, suddenly coy under his appraising eye.

  “Thank you.”

  “How was your bath?”

  “Wonderful.” I sigh, dreamily. “The jets of water massage everywhere. Oh my God, my whole body thoroughly enjoyed it.” My words catch up to my ears and, realizing how they could be misconstrued, I blush. “I mean…not like…just my…ugh. You can stop smirking now.” I give up, realizing I’m just making it worse.

  “Smirking? Me?” He adopts a radiantly innocent expression. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Let’s try this again.” I close the door.

  He knocks.

  I open it.

  “Evening,” he says. “You’re looking very beautiful. Enjoy your bath?”

  “Yes, thank you. It was very relaxing.”

  “I bet it was.”

  I give him a sharp look but he just stares innocently back at me. Then he holds out his arm. “Shall we?”

  I accept it. “If you mean let’s eat, then, yes. Please. I’m starving.”

  “Good. I’ve asked the chef to prepare his best dishes.”

  “You know the chef personally?” I ask as we walk along the wooden walkways that connect the buildings. In the four hours since we have arrived it has started to darken, and lights now guide our way along.

  He nods. “I know all the staff. Not well, but on a friendly enough basis. When I’m on assignment somewhere like this, I like to get to know the people behind the scenes. It gives you a better sense of the place.”

  “You take your work very seriously, don’t you?”

  “It’s not work when you’re passionate about it.”

  “I suppose not. You’re lucky, finding that thing in life that makes you happy. Your parents must be proud.”

  He stiffens slightly, then comes to a stop. “We’re here.” He opens the door we saw earlier that Mary casually indicated was the restaurant, and gestures for me to enter. I do, but stop just inside the door to exclaim softly. That simple word “restaurant” doesn’t come close to doing justice to what I’m looking at. Not at all. I feel a little nudge on my back as James pushes me out of the doorway so he can enter and stand beside me.

  “Well?” His face is excited, like he is a parent showing a child their new puppy.

  “You know how I said my room was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think it was just beaten.”

  The dining room, because with only the one table in the center it deserves a more intimate title than restaurant, at least in my opinion, is alight with the cozy glow of fairy lights woven around small branches and a large tree trunk, and candles placed strategically (and carefully) around the room to create a welcoming and romantic ambience. The table is large and natural wood, the chairs the same. In the center is a large arrangement of flowers, and I’m pleased to note it’s an eclectic assortment of colors and types, because a prim and proper bouquet just would not have suited this room at all. Everything is designed to blend into and enhance the natural environment, and it works perfectly. The other side of the room, like in my bedroom, is floor-to-ceiling glass doors. These ones are open to the air, and the breeze that wafts in carries with it an anticipatory air. Outside stretches a canopy of green, and a sky the color of ripe apricots. I feel like I am on a movie set.

  “I’ve officially run out of words,” I admit finally. “Everything I can think of to describe this place is woefully inadequate.”

  “That’s exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”

  I turn to face him. “Thank you. Again. It’s perfect. Everything is perfect.”

  “Everything?” A smile tugs at his lips. The first part of him I remember being enamored by. Not that long ago, yet I feel I have known him much longer. Something in the way I am looking at him makes his expression turn serious. He opens his mouth to say something but is interrupted.

  “Welcome to Treetops.” The young man who carried our bags earlier is lingering by the table. He had come into the room unnoticed. “Are you ready to dine?”

  James closes his mouth, a fleeting look of disappointment flashing across his face. Then he relaxes and nods.

  “Yes. Thank you, Craig, we are.”

  Craig pulls out my seat and I sit, trying not to feel self-conscious that someone is waiting on me but secretly enjoying the experience all the same. James sits at the other end of the table. It’s only thre
e or four meters long, but he seems far away and I get the urge to giggle and break into a song from Beauty and the Beast because it reminds me of a scene in the movie. James casts an expert eye over the wine menu and orders a bottle of red, after checking that I’m happy with his choice, and Craig disappears through a discreet door to fetch it.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” James says from his end of the table. “But they don’t do a menu here, just a selection of courses they bring out. If there’s something you don’t like you don’t have to eat it. The chef here isn’t one of those precious ones who take offense easily.”

  “Pardon?” I answer mischievously, cupping a hand to my ear. “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you from all the way down here.”

  He laughs. “You’re right. This is a bit ridiculous, isn’t it?”

  He pushes back his chair and, with one scrape, gathers all his cutlery into his napkin. He then dumps it noisily on to the table to my right, and goes back to fetch his chair.

  “There,” he huffs once he’s dragged it into place. He sits down and beams at me. “That’s better. Hear me now?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  If Craig is surprised with the new seating arrangement he doesn’t show it, barely blinking as he emerges from the back with a bottle of wine that James declares is “a particularly good vintage.”

  Craig pours some in a glass and James swirls it around his mouth, his face thoughtful. Finally, he swallows and nods. “First-rate drop, that is,” he says. “The top notes of cherry and plum are particularly noteworthy, and the depth of the smoky oak balances it out perfectly.”

  When Craig leaves, James leans over.

  “How did I sound?”

  “Impressive.”

  “Like I knew what I was talking about?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Good.” He flicks out his napkin and places it on his lap. “Don’t tell him, but I don’t know the first thing about wine. I looked up their wine menu when I was back in my room and googled the different brands. Everything I just said came straight off a website.”

  I snort back laughter. “You mean you’re not really a wine connoisseur?”

  “Well, I can tell the difference between red and white, but that’s about as far as it goes.”

  “I feel so betrayed.”

  “I’m sorry.” He adopts an abandoned-puppy look. “I just wanted to appear knowledgeable.”

  “I’m only kidding. I think it’s funny. And very sweet that you went to all that effort just to impress Craig.”

  He gives me an intense look. “I wasn’t trying to impress Craig.”

  I swallow hard and pick up the wine to take a sip. It doesn’t taste any different from the cheap stuff Kate buys.

  “Do you like it?” James asks.

  “It’s OK. To be honest, all wines taste pretty much the same to me.” I take another sip.

  “At ninety-six dollars a bottle, I would expect it to taste like gold.”

  I nearly spit out my mouthful but manage to swallow it instead, my eyes watering. “Sorry, how much?”

  “Ninety-six dollars a bottle.”

  “Are you serious?” I look at my glass incredulously. “I’ve had cars cost less than that.”

  “You have?”

  “No, of course not. But that’s a ridiculous amount of money to pay. Just crazy.”

  “Oh, I agree, one hundred percent.”

  I hadn’t given a thought until now about how much this weekend must be costing him. But if a bottle of wine costs almost a hundred dollars, I shudder to think how much the meal or even the room must be costing.

  “Just so we’re clear,” I say, “I want to pay for half. Of everything, the accommodation, helicopter ride. Everything.”

  He picks up his own glass to take a sip. “Just so we’re clear,” he says after he swallows, “no.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “No, you’re not paying for anything. You are my guest. I invited you here.”

  “But this place must be costing you a fortune. I can’t let you spend so much money on me.”

  He shrugs. “I got mates’ rates, because of the article.”

  I narrow my eyes, unable to be sure whether he’s telling the truth or not.

  He puts his glass down and leans forward to look at me earnestly.

  “I don’t want you to worry about it. In fact, I don’t want you to give money a second thought. Which is my fault. I shouldn’t have mentioned the price of the wine.”

  “But—”

  “No,” he interrupts. “No buts. Ava, I wanted to do this for you. Please don’t worry about anything. I just want you to enjoy it.”

  I exhale softly. It’s clear he is not going to change his mind.

  He senses my acceptance and smiles. “Thank you.”

  “OK. I’ll drop the subject of money. On one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I can have a beer instead.”

  “You don’t like the wine?”

  I shrug. “It’s just not really me.”

  His smiles widens so his teeth gleam in the candlelight. “Deal.”

  When Craig appears through the door a moment later to lay our first course on the table—seasoned scallops in their shell—James hands him back the remaining wine in the bottle. Sensing a complaint is on the cards, Craig immediately looks defensive.

  “Something wrong with the wine, sir?”

  “No, not at all. We’ve just decided we’d rather have a beer each, thanks.”

  “A beer, sir?” Craig hesitates, unsure.

  “Yes, whatever you have on tap will be fine. And don’t worry,” James reassures him, “I’ll still pay for the wine.”

  “Should I just…tip it down the sink?” He seems to balk at the very thought.

  “God no. At that price someone should enjoy it. Why don’t you and the chef finish off the rest.”

  “Oh no, we’re not allowed to drink while working.”

  James shrugs. “Then take it back to your room after you knock off. It’s yours to do whatever you want with. I’m gifting it to you. Enjoy.”

  Craig gives a small smile and nods. “In that case, thank you, sir. Enjoy your starters.” He backs out of the room holding the bottle carefully.

  I smile at James.

  “What?”

  “That was nice of you.”

  “I’m a nice guy.”

  “Yes. You are.”

  I watch him eat his scallops with gusto, the juices running down his chin before he dabs at them with a serviette, murmuring his delight as he eats. He is incredible. Not only is he the most ridiculously good-looking man I have ever met and been attracted to, but he is kind, and generous, and just a really good all-round person.

  I really like him. As in like, like. The realization hits like a ton of bricks and I feel my whole body clench with it. Why? Why now? He has come into my life with the most lousy of timing, and he is making me crave desperately things that I can never have.

  I push back my chair and stand. “Excuse me. I need some air.”

  “Are you OK?”

  But I can’t answer him, only nod as I walk quickly toward the open doors and the deck outside. Grasping tightly on to the railing, I squeeze my eyes and will myself to hold it together. The last thing I want to do is make a scene of myself, and make him feel uncomfortable. He has done such a nice thing, bringing me here. I don’t want to make things awkward.

  “Ava? What’s wrong?”

  He has come to stand beside me, and I have a strong urge to turn and bury myself in his arms. I remember how it felt when he carried me across the paddock, and I long for that feeling again. Instead, I force on a smile and loosen my grip on the railing, relaxing against it.

  “Nothing. Nothing is wrong. I’m sorry, I just got a little light-headed. Maybe the wine was a bit much.”

  “You had two small sips.”

  “I’ve always be
en a cheap drunk.”

  He relaxes against the railing too, and we watch as the tip of the sun disappears behind the hill in the distance, although its color lingers across the sky.

  “I want you to know that you can talk to me about anything,” he says. “I won’t always have answers, or necessarily have the right words to say. But I’m here, if you need to talk.”

  I swallow hard. “Thanks.”

  He looks straight ahead and it seems to take an effort to say his next words. “I may not know what it’s like to be terminally ill…”

  “Which is a good thing.”

  “Yes. But I do know what it’s like to watch someone you love die.”

  I turn my face sideways to look at him, but he keeps staring straight ahead.

  “Who?”

  “My mother.”

  “When?”

  “Nearly twenty years ago. I was fourteen.”

  I lay a hand gently on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Was it…?” I hold my breath, scared of the answer.

  “Cancer? Yes. Pancreatic. She put off going to the doctor for a long time, even though she didn’t feel right. She never said anything to my father or me, though, only mentioned it afterwards. She always put our needs first. Then she was brushed off time and time again, so by the time she was officially diagnosed it was all through her and she went downhill quickly. She died just under six weeks later.”

  “Oh my God. James, that’s terrible.” My heart breaks to see the depth of sadness and grief on his face, and I feel a deep, bone-numbing sadness for what he must have been through, losing his mum so young and so horribly. “What was she like?” I ask, then add quickly, “I mean, only if you want to talk about her. I understand if you don’t.”