Page 9 of Counting Down To You

Would it be better if I’d taken one of him on his own, I wonder? “Yes,” I say. And then I have a brainwave. “I’m so sorry,” I say, trying to channel my inner Robyn. “I thought you wouldn’t mind. I’m sure you must be used to it, after all.” I add a broad smile. Maybe a bit too broad, actually. I probably look like a maniac.

“Used to what exactly?” And now a hint of impatience has crept into his voice. “Random women taking my photo without permission?”

Brazen it out, Ali.

“Well, yes.” Then I make my eyes as wide as I can. “You are the guy from Downton Abbey, right? I mean, it was a while ago, but…”

His eyebrows, the same color as his hair, shoot up. I’m a little surprised how calm he is, actually. Maybe strangers often compare him to actors from period dramas. “Downton Abbey?”

Seriously, Ali—Downton Abbey? It was the first thing that sprang to mind, but I cannot now think of a worse TV show to have picked. He looks absolutely nothing like anyone in Downton Abbey. But too late now. Nothing for it but to power on.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I must be confusing you!” Oh shit, I’m going into babble mode. “You must get it all the time, right? You look so like him. But, now that I think about it, his, umm, jaw is a bit less…” I trail off, zero idea where I’m going with that. A bit less sharp? Although sharp is maybe too harsh. Chiseled seems appropriate here. And, God, he has a very direct stare, doesn’t he? He could give Farah a run for her money.

He makes no attempt to help me out of this one, but, rather, continues to look at me with equal parts bafflement and suspicion. Well, fair enough, I suppose.

“Are you getting in any time soon, love?” the taxi driver calls from inside the car. “Only the meter’s running.”

Thank fuck for that. “Sorry, yes,” I tell the driver.

I don’t look at the man as I step past him, trying not to feel intimidated by the way he barely moves out of my way, and slide into the cab. I shut the door, then give him what I hope passes for an apologetic wave. He’s still watching me as the taxi pulls away from the pavement. I let out a slow exhale, glad that nothing worse came of it and he didn’t demand compensation or something.

I check my phone only when the taxi has turned the corner at the end of the street. In the photo, he’s looking down at me, rather than directly into the camera like I’m doing. His brow is slightly furrowed, but he looks more bemused than anything else. His eyes are very focused on my face, and one of his hands is still on the door handle, so his arm is stretched out behind me. It looks like he’s opening the door for me. Like, maybe, he’s planning to get in the cab too. Tucked under his arm is the present and box of chocolates and I wonder now who they are for. If, maybe, he was also heading to the hospital. It makes me feel a bit guilty to have ambushed him, if that’s the case. But I can’t help noticing that it does also look, in the photo, like the presents might be for me.

And, okay, it’s not perfect. I’m sure Robyn could have done better. If you zoom in, you can definitely see he’s confused and potentially slightly annoyed, rather than beaming into the camera, which is probably what Robyn was envisaging. But it counts. He is hot and he is in a photo with me. Which means, I think with a smile, that I am two for two—two challenges done in two days.

I open up Instagram. Robyn didn’t specify that it had to be a grid post, thank God, so I upload the photo to my story. Hopefully no one will see it. Adam almost definitely won’t. He’s probably not social-media stalking me like I am him. I try to think of a caption for it and settle on a version of the truth.

Châtel, here we come!

With that, I silence my notifications and shove my phone back into my carry-on. I’m smiling as I look out of the window. It was a ridiculous thing to do, but I can still feel the adrenaline pumping through my system. Because I’m doing this. I’m going to France, I’m going to pretend I know what I’m doing there. And I’m going to complete Robyn’s calendar, no matter how ridiculous it gets.

Chapter

4

I try not to take the absolute fucking nightmare of a journey as a sign, but by the time I reach the village that is going to be my home for the next month, I am completely knackered. The flight was delayed, meaning I was stuck at the airport for hours, then some sort of blockage on the roads out here meant more hours sitting around waiting for the car the hotel had arranged. As a result, I don’t arrive until the early hours of the morning, and my main impression of the place is of endless white, softly illuminating the dark.

The car—a posh BMW with lots of room for luggage and complimentary water in the backseat—pulls up outside the front of a hotel, tires crunching over compact snow. We’re on the outskirts of the town, and the only light is coming from the building itself. I can’t see much of it, especially when the driver—Ed—switches off the engine, the headlights dimming. From what I can tell, it looks like an enormous wood cabin and modern hotel combined. Wooden balconies stretch out of the front, and a thick layer of snow sits on the roof. There is a Christmas tree to the right of the entrance, white lights twinkling silently. And to the back is the mountain, seeming impossibly vast as it blends into the night.

I’m here. I’m here. But no matter how many times I repeat it, it still won’t sink in.

Ed smiles back at me through a bushy beard. “Careful when you get out. It can be a little slippery.”

I nod, bracing myself as I open the car door. Ed is already at the trunk, taking out my suitcase with practiced ease. He is smartly dressed in a suit, and I wonder how he doesn’t feel the cold. His shoes, though, are practical boots, which makes me question my choice of Converse. Comfy on the plane—maybe not practical in a ski town?

He gestures to a path at the side of the hotel, where a forest of pine stretches out to the right. I let loose a soft breath and taste my first sip of mountain air. It’s almost eerily quiet as we crunch round to the back of the hotel, Ed insisting on carrying my suitcase. We walk along a pebbled path that has mostly been cleared, but there are pockets of snow in places, and I can feel icy water seeping through my shoes.

Ed leads me to a small cabin situated just off the main building.

“Got the key here,” he says, a touch of northern England in his accent. “Hang on.”

I mentally prepare myself as he fumbles in his trouser pocket. Cal warned me that staff accommodation could be a bit “down and dirty,” and that you often had to share a room with someone else. I’m therefore expecting university-style accommodation, and I have come armed with a torch in my bag in preparation for needing to get ready for bed without switching the light on. But when Ed opens the front door and switches on the light inside, I see something else entirely.

I’m looking into a wood-paneled room with a comfy-looking sofa angled toward a woodburning stove. On the opposite side of the room is a small kitchenette with a slate floor and a small wooden table, two chairs either side of it. I can feel the warmth of the cabin from here, can smell a hint of pine.

Maybe it’s bigger than it looks. Maybe there are several rooms hidden somewhere, and everyone shares this space. Although even then it’s better than Cal described—it is so tidy, so cozy.

“Is my roommate out, do you know?” I whisper.