imagining it would be Marloth—or Dylan—and bumped right into Dylan.
"You," she said, and almost spat with loathing. "You, mate, are the last person I want to see. Why are you here? Just clear the fuck off."
"Now, Mia, and no, no-one can hear anything from your garden, the glass bounces sound back." No doubt his tone was meant to placate, but to Mia in her temper, it did the exact opposite. She saw red, a film covered her eyes and her fingers itched with the effort of not connecting with his face.
"Now 'Mia' nothing. Nada. Nein. Zilch. Go away . Far, far away. Get it? And stop making me talk out loud."
Dylan must have been taught discretion was the better part of valor. With a brief nod, he went.
"Later, Mia, we need to talk."
Mia watched the door close behind him, flung a cushion at it as hard as she could, and wanted to cry again. Damn him, she was going to invest in waterproof mascara and bill the bloody island. Of course they needed to talk, but not now, not when she felt so betrayed. There was only one thing to do. After eating all the chocolate she could find, Mia sulked. Not that she called it that. Her description was a strategic retreat and ignoring assholes. She decided she wasn't sulking, just regrouping.
With a grim resolution, she put the 'do not disturb' sign outside the door and took the phone off the hook. Then she got into her Pj's, made a cup of tea, and climbed into bed. For the rest of the night. And, except for forays to the fridge and the loo, stayed there until the following day.
And Dylan stayed away.
Well, I'd have thought he would have at least had the decency to come and check I was okay. No, thinking about it, I wouldn't have. Because he's a man. And men only think with their dicks, not their brains. Well, duh, their brains are in their gonads. How's Meryl? She's keeping low as well, and the rest? Hope they are enjoying their fantasies! I'm sure as hell not. But then, come on, Mia, be honest — you didn't want a fantasy. Not at first, but then . . . .
"Stop this." Mia said. "Put up or shut up."
There was a discrete knock on her suite door. She'd ignored the last half dozen or so, but maybe it was time to resurface and not just use her mobile to tell Meryl she was fine.
Mia walked to the peephole and looked through. Christophe was outside. Slowly, she opened the door, and stood back to let him in.
"Mia," he said gently." May I call you by your name?"
She nodded.
"Thank you. Mia, you must eat. I can only apologize for my son and staff, but . . ." He rolled his eyes, and handed her a glass of wine. "Maybe not the best thing on an empty stomach, but I think you need it."
"Your son?" Mia interrupted him. "So, Dylan is your son, Blaine your nephew and stupid Marloth works for you? You poor thing, how on earth do you cope? You have my deepest sympathy."
Christophe laughed, and streaks of lightening flashed in his eyes. "I can assure you there are times when I need it. But seriously, Mia, they are good men, just a little—"
She raised her finger to her lips. "I can fill in the rest, Christophe, but the words really shouldn't be spoken by a lady. Not that I'm a lady, but you know what I mean?"
"Oh, yes." He shook his head in amazement. "Sometimes I wonder what they think with. Well, no, I know what they think with, and that's the trouble. And believe me, Mia, you are a lady. Don't sell yourself short."
Mia studied him. What a nice thing to say. Not the selling herself short bit—she knew that was something she needed to sort out—but the lady bit. That was nice. "So what happens next? Should I stay or should I go?" she said, quoting a song she remembered from years before.
"The Clash," Christophe said.
She looked at him in amazement.
"You were wondering who sang that song."
"Did I wonder out loud again?"
He laughed. "Something like that. Food?"
Mia sighed. "I guess so. What do you suggest?"
* * * * *
Dylan looked at the grandfather clock as it chimed the half hour and
"You," she said, and almost spat with loathing. "You, mate, are the last person I want to see. Why are you here? Just clear the fuck off."
"Now, Mia, and no, no-one can hear anything from your garden, the glass bounces sound back." No doubt his tone was meant to placate, but to Mia in her temper, it did the exact opposite. She saw red, a film covered her eyes and her fingers itched with the effort of not connecting with his face.
"Now 'Mia' nothing. Nada. Nein. Zilch. Go away . Far, far away. Get it? And stop making me talk out loud."
Dylan must have been taught discretion was the better part of valor. With a brief nod, he went.
"Later, Mia, we need to talk."
Mia watched the door close behind him, flung a cushion at it as hard as she could, and wanted to cry again. Damn him, she was going to invest in waterproof mascara and bill the bloody island. Of course they needed to talk, but not now, not when she felt so betrayed. There was only one thing to do. After eating all the chocolate she could find, Mia sulked. Not that she called it that. Her description was a strategic retreat and ignoring assholes. She decided she wasn't sulking, just regrouping.
With a grim resolution, she put the 'do not disturb' sign outside the door and took the phone off the hook. Then she got into her Pj's, made a cup of tea, and climbed into bed. For the rest of the night. And, except for forays to the fridge and the loo, stayed there until the following day.
And Dylan stayed away.
Well, I'd have thought he would have at least had the decency to come and check I was okay. No, thinking about it, I wouldn't have. Because he's a man. And men only think with their dicks, not their brains. Well, duh, their brains are in their gonads. How's Meryl? She's keeping low as well, and the rest? Hope they are enjoying their fantasies! I'm sure as hell not. But then, come on, Mia, be honest — you didn't want a fantasy. Not at first, but then . . . .
"Stop this." Mia said. "Put up or shut up."
There was a discrete knock on her suite door. She'd ignored the last half dozen or so, but maybe it was time to resurface and not just use her mobile to tell Meryl she was fine.
Mia walked to the peephole and looked through. Christophe was outside. Slowly, she opened the door, and stood back to let him in.
"Mia," he said gently." May I call you by your name?"
She nodded.
"Thank you. Mia, you must eat. I can only apologize for my son and staff, but . . ." He rolled his eyes, and handed her a glass of wine. "Maybe not the best thing on an empty stomach, but I think you need it."
"Your son?" Mia interrupted him. "So, Dylan is your son, Blaine your nephew and stupid Marloth works for you? You poor thing, how on earth do you cope? You have my deepest sympathy."
Christophe laughed, and streaks of lightening flashed in his eyes. "I can assure you there are times when I need it. But seriously, Mia, they are good men, just a little—"
She raised her finger to her lips. "I can fill in the rest, Christophe, but the words really shouldn't be spoken by a lady. Not that I'm a lady, but you know what I mean?"
"Oh, yes." He shook his head in amazement. "Sometimes I wonder what they think with. Well, no, I know what they think with, and that's the trouble. And believe me, Mia, you are a lady. Don't sell yourself short."
Mia studied him. What a nice thing to say. Not the selling herself short bit—she knew that was something she needed to sort out—but the lady bit. That was nice. "So what happens next? Should I stay or should I go?" she said, quoting a song she remembered from years before.
"The Clash," Christophe said.
She looked at him in amazement.
"You were wondering who sang that song."
"Did I wonder out loud again?"
He laughed. "Something like that. Food?"
Mia sighed. "I guess so. What do you suggest?"
* * * * *
Dylan looked at the grandfather clock as it chimed the half hour and
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