One thing you should probably know about me is that I absolutely love a list.

A to-do list. A shopping list. A list of all of my lists. I like to be organised. Pretty day planners and notebooks are my Roman Empire.

On the few rare vacations I've taken in recent years, I usually have had copious notes of tourist attractions I wanted to visit. Of restaurants I longed to eat at. I would make these lists months in advance, and I'd normally swoon at the very idea of a beautifully planned itinerary.

But not this itinerary! This is . . . Hell, on company branded paper!

I stare at it in horror. "They've given us so much to do," I say faintly. Suddenly, I understand why Dimitrios implied he was going to be our driver for the entirety of the holiday: I'm assuming he'll be the one chauffeuring us everywhere.

"Well, there's not a lot planned for tomorrow at least," Lewis points out, his voice far calmer than mine. I've only just realised how close we are standing, and I edge away from him. "Apart from the boozy welcome brunch at 11 a.m."

But there's something scheduled in most days from the looks of it. And I'm assuming we're going to have to do them together; after all, we're meant to be a couple! It's not exactly like we can split them up between us like tasks on one of my beloved to-do lists and tackle them separately. That would definitely raise some questions.

So basically, our original plan to avoid each another as much as possible is now effectively null and void.

Shit.

"What do we do?" I ask Lewis, only slightly embarrassed by the whiny edge to my tone. He shrugs, much to my irritation. Why is he taking this so well?

"I think we'll probably have to just go ahead and . . . Do the activities?" His voice is thoroughly unbothered, which winds me up further. And I'm already tightly coiled enough as it is; a human Jack-in-the-Box ready to pop. 

"Wow. You're so helpful," I deadpan. I seize the bottle of fizz from its ice-bucket - suddenly, the thought of further alcohol is more appealing than the sleepless fretful night I'm likely to now have. "Fuck," I mutter, as the cork refuses to play ball.

"Give it here," Lewis tuts, trying to take it from my hand, but I hold on to it tightly.

"Not a chance." I've already had enough of his "help". With a sudden burst of strength likely fuelled by self-righteous rage, I manage to wrench the cork free. "You want some?" I offer grudgingly. He shakes his head, grabbing a complimentary bottle of water and uncapping it with far more skill than I just demonstrated.

"I think I'll stick to the soft stuff for now." 

"Suit yourself." I peer curiously at him after I've poured myself a glass of prosecco. "I've got to ask: why don't you seem to be as pissed off as I am about this . . . Additional forced proximity?"

Lewis doesn't reply straight away, but his eyes pass over me like a torchlight conducting a sweep search. I have no idea what exactly he's trying to locate, but it seems he finds me lacking as he huffs slightly dismissively and looks away.

"I guess I just don't hate you as much as you hate me," he says finally, stalking over to the patio doors.

"Well, I know that's not true!" I throw at his retreating back. I still haven't forgotten the comment he'd made to Drew when he'd agreed to the holiday. He mutters something under his breath in response as he heads outside. I watch him flop onto a lounger, his face devoid of expression, and then I turn my attention back to the beautiful suite, wandering around and taking note of all the extra little touches that makes it so special.

The wicker basket of fancy toiletries in the bathroom. The soft, snuggly robes hanging up in the massive wardrobe. The chocolate truffles in the fridge. I help myself to a couple of them and can't help a quiet moan of pleasure as one dissolves on my tongue. Nothing sends me to metaphorical heaven faster than good chocolate - I am definitely addicted.

When I return to Earth, I realise Lewis has also returned, and he's watching me with the strangest of expressions on his face. Pursed lips, cheeks flushed, eyes screwed up . . . Is he in pain?

Perhaps he's constipated. I've always thought he was full of shit, after all.

"Chocolate?" I ask, extending the plate towards him. I think the truffles must have magic properties because, at that moment, I don't seem to dislike him quite as much as usual. I'm even willing to share! "You need to try them; they're amazing." He takes one, wordlessly, and I can't seem to look away as he pops it into his mouth, chews, and swallows.

"You're right," he agrees, his gaze burning into mine. "They are amazing."

And then he steps forward, right into my space.

My breath catches, panic propelling adrenalin through my veins as I try to back away. I can't. The table is blocking my escape.

His eyes are so dark right now. Practically black. Usually, they're the colour of a Galaxy bar; right now, they're more Green & Black's 90%. (Chocoholic, remember?) He's way too close for comfort, and the nerves on my skin spring into life, prickling like a hedgehog in danger.

What the hell is he doing?

He leans forward and reaches out a hand . . .

And plucks a tissue from the fancy little box behind me. "You have cocoa powder on your nose," he informs me, pressing the tissue into my limp hand. I exhale a sigh of relief as he steps back, and he suddenly looks horrified, as realisation clearly dawns. "Oh god, did you think I was about to make a move on you there?" He asks.

"Not at all," I lie, knowing I must be blushing. Luckily, I can bury my face in the tissue. Perhaps I will stay hidden in it forever.

His laugh is surprisingly kind. "This might shock you, but I don't tend to shoot my shot with girls I know aren't interested in me."

"You tried to proposition me on the plane," I point out, reluctantly uncovering my face. He certainly can't deny that.

He winces. "And that was just a silly joke. I'm sorry. Sometimes, I say stupid things when I'm nervous." Nervous? "I promise, Ruby, I'm not going to just jump on you. You can sleep peacefully knowing that. Oh, and speaking of that, you can have the bed."

"Are you sure?" I'm surprised again; I expected more of a fight. "I mean, we can take turns if you want or . . ."

"Honestly, I'll be more than fine on either of the couches," he insists, cutting me off. "Let me be a gentleman - it seems I'm failing miserably at that so far, so I'm trying my best to redeem myself."

I'm not going to argue any further on this - the bed is perfection, and I'm taking this win. The only problem will be having to go back home to my boring but perfectly functional IKEA bed after ten days of floating on a cloud. "Okay," I nod. "Thanks, Lewis." Those two words paired together feel strange in my mouth. Have I ever had reason to thank him for anything before? I don't think so.

I stick the prosecco in the fridge with the truffles and head towards the bedroom. We aren't any closer to resolving the itinerary issue, but it's well after midnight, so it can wait until the sun is up. I barely stifle a yawn as I traipse up the small set of steps.

But the soft "Sweet dreams, Ruby," that follows me out of the room somehow stays with me as I ease myself into the Bed of Dreams, and an unexpected smile warms my face as I close my eyes.

Maybe, I reluctantly think as I drift off into a well-deserved sleep, Lewis Sheridan isn't actually as bad as I thought.

You just know Ruby is going to change her opinion again by the next chapter, though, right? 😉🤣