Why the fuck did I agree to this?

It's bad enough I have to see Ruby Rafferty at the nights out that our mutual friends organise every few months. She's a nightmare to be around. I have to mentally prepare myself for battle every time we cross paths because she apparently takes offence at almost every bloody word that leaves my mouth. And I struggle to keep up with her. I'm actually great at arguing normally but I hate having to do it with her. She's my kryptonite.

I'm desperately in love with her. I have been for the longest time.

And now I'm going to have to spend ten days with her in Crete. Alone. Together. While trying to hide these fucking inconvenient feelings I have. Because she apparently hates my guts, and I'm sure she'd probably be horrified if she realised how I really feel about her.

Even now, on the plane, she's not exactly hiding her hostility. It's radiating off her in waves so strong I can practically see it. She's moved as far away as possible from me; I think she'd actually be hanging right out the window if it was at all an option. When I order a drink and a sandwich from the flight attendant, in my politest tone, I can still sense Ruby bristling with resentment. I literally can't do anything right.

I wish, not for the first time, that I could somehow flick a switch and turn off the love I have for her. Or arrange some sort of transfer to another girl, one who actually likes me back. It's not like I don't have offers; but none of them are Ruby. I'm pretty sure I already loved her when I was sixteen, even though I only met her for the briefest time, and ever since she reappeared back in my life I can't seem to muster any enthusiasm for anyone else.

She was nice to me back when we were younger. Feisty but sweet. The feistiness is still there. The sweetness . . . Not so much, although she's absolutely lovely to anyone who isn't yours truly! She doesn't remember me from our teenage days, and I know I didn't give her the best impression on our first meeting as adults either. Sometimes, I wonder if things could have been different if I hadn't acted like such a douche canoe that night.

If she could maybe have fallen for me, too.

Suddenly, it's like I have no authority over my own body as I find myself unclipping my seatbelt and taking that step across the aisle.  I'm not always in charge of my actions around Ruby. Sometimes, I already know my behaviour is going to annoy her, but I just need some reaction: even the bad attention is at least attention. Her head immediately whips around as I settle into the other aisle seat, her eyes shooting metaphorical daggers at me.

"What the fuck are you doing? Didn't we agree to keep our distance? Can't you just stick to your side of the plane?"

The frustration in her voice eats away at the carcass of my already chewed-up-and-spat-out heart, but I'm in way too deep to back out now. Let the show commence! I force a chuckle, which sounds surprisingly genuine: she'll never suspect the truth. "Come on, we need to at least pretend that we're the happy couple they assume we are. Can't you at least try, Rubik's Cube?"

"Don't call me that. You know I hate it!" She twists her tiny wine bottle open violently, and I have no doubt she's imagining it's my neck.

"And you know that's precisely why I do it, sweetheart," I reply, hoping she doesn't hear the catch in my voice. Deep down, I've always hoped that one day I'll be able to solve her the way I can complete the actual puzzle - crack the code so she somehow loves me back. Of course, I can't tell her that. She'd probably try to skydive off the plane sans parachute.

Once again, I wonder why I've agreed to this holiday. It's fucking insane! I wish I'd never inadvertently put the idea to enter this contest on our behalf in our friends' heads. I'm still borderline horrified they did it in the first place. Yet, deep down, I recognise this really might be my only chance with Ruby - to somehow show her I'm worthy of her love.

I have no idea where to even start with that, though.

Ruby huffs out an angry sigh. "I told you already . . . Bare minimum. That's the most effort I'm putting into this 'relationship'. And you agreed to that, too."

Her words hurt. They always bloody do. I must be the world's biggest masochist for putting myself through the worst case of unrequited love that ever existed. And yet I can't help myself.

I can't bring to admit defeat or walk away this quickly. So I flip through the in-flight magazine, making inane comments about some of the articles and just trying to engage with her in any way. I know she's getting more irritated as I talk, but I can't seem to help myself. I can feel a headache coming on, and I'm not sure if it's because of how tensely I'm wound up inside or because I've been reading for too long without my glasses. Probably both. My nerves are all over the place, and I barely know what I'm saying anymore until . . .

"You can't beat a good hate-fuck, right?" (Honestly, I have no idea how I got to this point of the conversation. It's all a bit of a blur now.)

Sheridan, you massive tool!

"W-what?" Something undecipherable flickers in Ruby's eyes at that.

"Oh, come on, you know what I'm talking about." I find myself smiling all of a sudden. I might as well commit to the act; she already clearly thinks I'm an arsehole, after all! And, occasionally, it's fun to catch her off-guard. "Sometimes you meet someone who annoys the absolute shit out of you, and the only way you can possibly make yourself feel better is to shag them right out of your system."

She's staring intensely at me now. Every once in a while, she looks at me like she's really "seeing" me, and I can't help but wonder what she's thinking in those moments. Whether, despite the animosity between us, she ever wonders, "What if?". If she's ever considered kissing me. Being with me.

She's so fucking pretty, even when she's mad. She always has been. Wavy light brown hair, full pink lips, wide hazel eyes that can go more gold or green depending on her mood. They're decidedly greener at the moment, which I know spells danger. And yet I continue to push because I'm a massive idiot and I always say the wrong thing around her.

"You've never felt that way about anyone?" See? My mouth is still moving, still gushing stupidity. I can't seem to stop myself. What do I think is going to happen? That she's going to turn around and say "Oooh, yes, Lewis, let's go hate-fuck each other's brains out in the loo right now?" Of course not! And I wouldn't want that anyway. I've been dreaming so long of being with her and a quickie in the airport bog would thoroughly cheapen the experience.

She's turned away again now, clearly intent on ignoring me, and somehow, that makes me worse. "We could just . . . do it, you know," I find myself saying next. Digging that hole a little deeper with each sentence I utter. "Clear all that sexual tension up with one quick ten minute session?" What sexual tension, Lewis? She can't stand you!

Her laugh is disbelieving. "You must be dreaming if you think there's any sexual tension between us. Anyway, I'd rather not be another notch on your bedpost, thanks very much."

There's probably not as many metaphorical notches as she imagines. Sure, I went through a brief wild phase when I was younger, like a lot of folk do, but I've actually been a serial monogamist for a long time. And, since I met Ruby again, I've not wanted to share my bed with anyone but her.

So yeah, I know it's my own fault for bringing it up, but her clear assumption that I'm some sort of manwhore still stings. I'll just have to brazen it out, though!

"You're missing out." I shrug, picking the magazine up again. I manage to control my tone, schooling it into one of nonchalance, but I don't have the energy to regulate my expression too, and I feel the teasing smile drop from my face. It's exhausting trying to keep up this act sometimes. Then I realise she's watching me once more, and I feel the instant need to be "on" again. "There's probably only going to be one bed in this suite, after all," I grin, throwing in a cheeky wink for good measure.

I have absolutely no intention of fighting for the bed, by the way. She can have it. I actually want to show her I can be a gentleman, but I also want to torture a little because she's been making my life a misery for years, whether she means to or not!

"Don't remind me." Her beautiful face puckers up in a scowl, reminding me once again how much she seems to dislike me, and my heart pounds dully in my chest.

This is so fucking stupid. I need to stop being such a dick - she's obviously as uncomfortable with the whole situation as me, if not more.

"Ruby," I say quietly. "Look, I know this isn't the ideal situation, for either of us. But we'll make it work. I'm not sure how," I add hurriedly before she can say anything else. "But . . . Let's just agree to try, okay?"

She studies my face briefly, carefully, and I notice her eyes have returned to their regular colour, as if my words have relaxed her a little. Then, she nods slowly. "Deal."

"We can work out the sleeping situation once we're there," I add reassuringly. "And I know you'll not be wanting me around, so we can give each other a wide berth apart from that. We can both still have a good holiday. Separately."

God, this so isn't what I want to say. I want to tell her she's all I think about when she's in the same room with me; how she often haunts my brain even when she's not. I want to beg her to give me a chance to prove I'm not the twat she thinks I am - to use this holiday as a way to get to know me: the real me and not the version she seems to see. But I know she's not ready to hear that.

And she might never be.

I squeeze her arm lightly, despite knowing I probably shouldn't, as I rise to return to my original seat. Slumping down in it, I snap my seatbelt back on and close my eyes, weariness and sadness churning together into a paste in my gut.

The next ten days are going to be absolute torture . . .