Page 13 of Counting Down To You

“We mayyyyy have Instagram stalked you a little before you got here.” Charlotte shrugs, completely unapologetic. “We were curious.”

“And by we she means she,” Elodie says pointedly.

“Well, it’s clearly not a secret,” Charlotte says, waving her knife in the air for emphasis. “She wouldn’t have posted it if it were.”

For fuck’s sake, why isn’t my profile set to private? I take a bite of pasta, playing for time as I chew. They think hot taxi man is my boyfriend. Laughable, really, but is it the worst thing in the world if they think that? I want to keep my head down while I’m here, focus on Robyn’s calendar, and having a long-distance boyfriend might help with that. And, more importantly, I really don’t want anyone here to know about Robyn, and I can’t immediately think of how else I’m supposed to explain the photo.

“How long have you been dating?” Charlotte continues, as I swallow my pasta. “Is he the reason you moved out here? Are you the reason he didn’t come back last year?” She speaks so fast, it’s hard to keep up. And the questions don’t exactly make sense—why would hot taxi man have anything to do with me moving out here?

Elodie clears her throat. “I’m not sure we should be talking about this.”

I throw her a grateful look, though she’s not looking back at me. She is, instead, shooting a warning glance toward the window of the restaurant, where I can see the back of a man’s head as he walks past.

Charlotte ignores the suggestion. “We might as well get it out in the open,” she says with a shrug. “I know I’m not the only one wondering.”

The sense that I’m missing something—something important—intensifies. “Get what out in the open?” I ask carefully.

Charlotte rolls her eyes, the action hilariously teenage. “You’re dating Brooks, right? We knew there must have been a reason you got the job so easily.” She gestures around the table to encompass the general “we.” I frown. They think I’m dating this Brooks person? “It’s okay,” Charlotte says over a mouthful of roasted butternut squash. “Simon’s parents know the owner’s son or something—everyone gets favors around here.” Simon doesn’t even look up at this.

I’m still frowning at Charlotte as I open my mouth to say that, no, I don’t even know who this Brooks is, and I’m certainly not dating him. But there is the creak of the restaurant door opening. As one, the table looks toward the sound of footsteps traveling toward us over wooden floors. And as the person comes into view from around the corner, my heart lunches.

Because the dots are finally connecting, and I’m such a fucking idiot. There he is. Brooks, I assume. His pale green gaze finds mine and dread coils in my stomach. Because, although I’ve only met him once, I recognize him instantly.

After all, I still have a photo of him, saved to my phone. And everyone here has seen it.

Chapter

5

I cannot stop staring at him. At this man, still wearing his black ski jacket, who has walked into this hotel with the confidence of someone who knows where he’s meant to be. Only he’s not meant to be here. He was supposed to be a random person I’d never have to see again. Yet he is, impossibly, standing right in front of me—and staring right back at me. Everyone round the table has gone quiet, like they are waiting to see what happens next.

The man blinks a few times, like he’s trying to place me. Maybe he won’t. Maybe he doesn’t remember me. That would be good. Maybe, somehow, I can brazen this out. I frantically go over what I said to everyone. Did I actually say the man in the photo is my boyfriend? Or did I just allow them to believe it? Is that better? If they’ve all seen the photo, does that mean he knows I posted it on Instagram?

The man is now frowning at me. “You’re here.” His voice is that same low rumble, with a soft, pleasant lilt. I wonder if I’m the only one who notices the complete incredulity in it.

And shit. He remembers. Though maybe it would be worse if he didn’t—because someone else would tell him about the photo on Instagram, surely, and then he’d be reminded.

Oh God, how is this happening? It’s my first day, for fuck’s sake. It’s my first day, they already think I don’t know what I’m doing and at least one member of staff hates me.

You’re being a bit dramatic.

Shut up, I tell Robyn’s voice. This is all your bloody fault.

“Of course she’s here,” says Charlotte, with a not-so-subtle eye roll. Is it me, or has Lucie gone stiff? Is this what she’s been upset about, the whole time?

And, more importantly, God, this is all slotting into—terrible, awful—place. I posted a photo of a random man. Of this man. I did not correct the assumption just now that I have a boyfriend. That hot taxi man is my boyfriend. Shit, that this man is my boyfriend. And now he’s here, staring at me, and everyone is watching, and I’m going to have to explain, and they are going to think I’m completely ridiculous when they find out that not only is he not my boyfriend, but that I don’t even know him. I don’t want to tell them what the photo was about—part of the attraction of being here is that I don’t have to deal with people asking if I’m okay all the time—but right now I cannot think of a single explanation that doesn’t sound totally insane.

“Late on your girlfriend’s first day,” Charlotte says with a teasing head shake, her brown curly hair bobbing with the movement.

I have never wished harder for the floor to open and swallow me whole. Or in painful, bite-size chunks. To be honest, I’d take either right now.

What about the time you attempted karaoke?

We’re not talking about that right now, Robyn.

The man—the elusive Brooks, I presume—turns to look at Charlotte. His expression is impressively impassive, but Charlotte’s cheeks flush, and she swallows, the teasing look falling from her face. It’s the first time she’s shown any sort of awareness. “I’m sorry.” Charlotte’s tone is different now. “I didn’t mean…I’ll just…”

“Brooks,” Elodie cuts in smoothly. “We thought you weren’t arriving until this evening.”