THE PICTURE’S BLURRY, obviously taken using a telephoto lens, but Neve and I are still recognisable, kissing on the deck of the boat after swimming with the wildlife. I make a fist and press it to the bridge of my nose, as if wishing it away will change the string of events. While Neve and I slept like two spoons in a drawer, blissfully unaware, the story of Slay Coterill’s split from wife number six created a path of cyclonic destruction.
Bad rock and roll icon ditches wife number six...but will sometime on-again, off-again girlfriend of Coterill Junior ever make it across the finish line?
My stomach roils with fury. I glance at the open windows. I left Neve in the shower five minutes ago while I ordered breakfast. I wanted everything about this day to be perfect. And now it’s ruined. Because of me.
The story, which represents everything that’s wrong about my life, everything I’ve tried to distance myself from, pulls me apart. It paints her not as the amazing, strong, independent woman she is—the most important woman in my life—but as the pathetic sidepiece of a man who can’t commit. A man who doesn’t deserve her. A man who is just like his father.
And perhaps the media is right. I’ve denied my feelings for Neve for nine years because of my issues. I’ve pretended and hidden away the vulnerable places in me that prevented me from considering a serious relationship. I’ve brought all of this down on her through my fears. It’s a mess, exactly the kind I’ve dreaded, and I’ve dragged Neve into the circus.
I swear under my breath and slide my phone onto the table with jarring force. Her association with me—I can’t bring myself to call it a friendship any longer—does nothing for her reputation. All I do is bring her down to my level. Slay’s level. I can’t protect her, and I’ve been fooling myself all these years that I could.
Further chills rack me—my romantic gesture of sleeping under the stars could have given the paps even more fodder, a more intimate photo...
With a stomach full of dread, I creep back into the room through the open French doors. She’s towelling her hair dry, wearing one of my T-shirts, the wondrous sight of her making panic surge inside me.
‘Breakfast is ready on the deck. It’s another perfect day in paradise.’ A perfect day for my perfect woman, only I have to spoil the mood with my news. I don’t want to, don’t want to remind her of the reality off this island, my reality, not when things between us are equally magical and fragile. Because I feel her emotional distance like a force field. She’s holding back, and I don’t blame her.
I need to tell her everything—secrets, declarations of my feelings, and of course the crap online. Perhaps then I can make all of this right. Because when I woke this morning, like every morning since we started our physical relationship, I watched her sleep, aching for her to open her eyes so I could be in her company. And I knew that, without her, I’m incomplete. I’m desperately in love with her, and I want to be her everything, as she is mine.
That means being open and vulnerable, and laying it all on the line.
I lift her hand to my mouth, brush my lips over her knuckles. My pulse leaps with trepidation. She’s like hand-blown glass—one wrong move and I’ll shatter the illusion of us with my bare hands—but a trickle of possibility meanders its way through the chaos in my head.
‘I have ideas about how we can spend today horizontal, if you’re interested,’ she says, scooping both of her arms around my neck to draw me down to her kiss.
I lose myself for a few seconds, eager to blot out the world with her, naked and sated. But I’ll have to tell her about the photo sooner or later. And I should have told her the other stuff long ago.
I pull back and hold her hand, my heartbeat seeming to resonate through my fingertips. The happy smile slides from her face.
‘There’s a photo on the gossip sites this morning,’ I say, spewing out the words to get them over with. ‘The two of us kissing yesterday on board the boat—there must have been left-over paps lurking, looking for Slay.’
She shrugs. ‘So? I don’t care. Forget about it.’
She’s right—if it doesn’t bother her, I shouldn’t allow it to get to me. But it reminds me of the exposure I experienced as a child, growing up with Slay, and then later as a teen. Every move I made meant something to people I’d never met until I felt as if I didn’t know who I was, just who I was supposed to be.
Slay’s son.
And I’m more than that. I’m a man fit for this woman.
Neve, my safe haven—what I should be for her. I don’t want her to read some garbage and doubt herself, doubt her place in my life, because she’s a part of me, a vital part, and without her I can’t exist.
‘I know, I just...’ I rub a hand over my face. ‘I feel like I’ve let you down somehow, failed to protect you.’
‘You haven’t let me down.’ She slides her thumb over my bottom lip. ‘I don’t care what they say about me.’
I want that to be true, but we all have our insecurities. Slay is mine.
I nod, although my head feels wooden, clumsy. ‘I just... I don’t want you to read it because I don’t want you to believe what they say. I don’t want you to feel inferior, pitied or second rate. You’re not. The opposite, in fact.’
She stares, a million emotions flitting across her eyes, each of them leaving me more unnerved. ‘Okay,’ she says in an unconvinced tone.
But I can convince her. I can make this right. I can protect her and show her what she means to me in one move. Breath shudders out of me as the idea I’ve been ruminating on takes form.
Why not? We’ve known each other nine years. I’m in love with her. I want this. I can end the gossip and show the world exactly where my priorities lie.
I take her hands, gripping them tightly before slowly sinking to one knee.
She freezes, confusion slashed across her face, and then tries to tug me back to my feet. ‘Oliver, what are you doing?’
I resist, looking up at her with a lump in my throat. ‘Neve,’ I begin, ignoring her frown, ‘you mean more to me than any other person on the planet. When I think of letting you go as soon as we touch down in London, I feel sick.’
Her breathing speeds up, her eyes swimming with emotions, not all of them good.
‘I know you’re pissed at me right now,’ I add, ‘because this is sudden—some would say crazy.’ Yet, the more I think about it, the more sense it makes.
Please let her want the same.
‘The caretaker here is a celebrant,’ I continue as full understanding comes to her wary expression.
‘So, Neve Sara Grayson, will you marry me?