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“Sorry, mate, we’re fully booked for dinner.”
I should’ve known I was in for disappointment. Michael has been raving about this restaurant all holiday. It’s right on the edge of the town and seemingly full of people my age: every flavour of person going. Would have been a great place for a single guy to maybe meet someone for a summer fling.
Well, end of summer fling, in my case. But needs must when you’ve spent the best part of two weeks in a Menorcan chalet with the entire Spring family.
Grandma is pissed off because everyone’s speaking too much Spanish.
Dad is pissed off because none of his kids can remember any.
Mum seems to have spent most of the last week disassociating with a glass of wine in her hand.
While Tori and Olly have spent as much time as they can gallivanting around the island with their respective plus ones. Olly’s brought his best mate, who somehow has won over our grandparents, while Michael has charmed everyone as usual.
So that leaves me: wallowing in my middle child syndrome as I try and keep the peace until everyone is relaxed enough for me to enjoy one night away from them.
No such luck.
I glance down the street. Every bar and restaurant seems to be full to the brim with couples and groups, laughing and throwing their heads back as they flash sparkling white teeth over glasses of wine. I hate them all, even though I’d love to be like them.
The front of house waiter clears his throat.
“Sir? I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to—”
“He can join me, if he likes,” a voice behind me interrupts. “I had a table booked for two but— er— the other person couldn’t make it.”
When I turn around, I almost bump straight into the guy behind me, he’s standing so close. When I stumble backwards and look up, I feel suddenly like I might be about to enter fight or flight mode.
He’s gorgeous.
Floppy hair that might be strawberry blonde if it weren’t slightly sun bleached; a pale blue shirt flapping in the breeze over a tight white T-shirt; freckles that I’d love to get close enough to count.
He reaches up to cup the back of his own neck nervously, revealing biceps that look biteable.
Frankly, there’s no way I can sit opposite this guy and consume any sort of alcohol. A drunk Charlie is a horny one, especially one on holiday, and I have zero intention of embarrassing myself in front of a fit straight guy, even if we are leaving in a couple of days.
He must sense my hesitation, because he leans in a little closer and I get a waft of aftershave.
“Please,” he whispers imploringly. “Save me from being lonely?”
And how can I say no to that?
The waiter leads us all the way to the back of the restaurant, where the lighting gives way to the glow of candles, and couples sit with their heads bent together over wine. We’re about five feet away from what is presumably our table when I realise I don’t even know this guy’s name.
He holds my chair out for me, like he’s some love interest in a nineties rom com. I feel like I should swoon.
I don’t. Instead, I smile at him politely as he brushes his floppy hair out of his face and sits down opposite me. He almost seems… nervous? Not sure why, this was his idea.
“I-I’m Nick, by the way,” he stammers as the waiter pours us some water from a bottle and hands us both a wine menu. I order a glass of something mid-priced while he asks for the same. A group walks loudly past the window and he jumps slightly at the noise.
Weird.
“Charlie,” I say simply. I feel like I should offer him my hand to shake, but that would make this seem like a job interview instead of a fucking weird couple of hours of our lives. He grins at me like he likes my name and then nods to the food menu.
“Everything here is really good,” he says, his voice still on the shaky side of nervous. “I-I used to bring my girlfriend here every summer.”
He pauses.
“Ex-girlfriend,” he corrects. “We broke up a few weeks ago.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. If dinner is going to become all about me comforting this fit stranger about the breakup of his very straight relationship, then I’m going to need more wine.
“Oh,” I say simply. “Sorry.”
He shrugs.
“Don’t be. Wasn’t meant to be.”
He pauses again.
“Do you believe in fate?”
Oh, fuck.
I don’t, but I feel like I’m going to have to pretend to.
For now, I make a sort of non-committal sound.
Nick blushes a deep red that’s only magnified by the low lighting. It really makes his freckles pop. Shame, really, that there’s no chance of me getting close enough to kiss every one of them. They seem to extend right down.
Nick leans in, just as the waiter deposits our wine on the table. It means that he dislodges his own glass badly enough to spill – the stain seeping underneath the glass. He goes even redder.
“I don’t either,” he murmurs, despite his obvious mortification. “But— I wasn’t going to come out tonight. I booked this table ages ago when we— Before— Y’know?”
I nod, despite the fact that he’s not making much sense.
Then, he fixes me with the most disarming grin I’ve ever seen – all traces of the nervous wreck suddenly gone for a flash of a second – and his gaze drops down to my lips.
Oh.
“Sorry,” he whispers. “I just— I wasn’t expecting you to be so beautiful when you turned around earlier.”
Now, that I can work with.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
His eyes light up.