Chapter 3

I could think of better ways to spend a Saturday morning.

For instance, just one of my suggestions could've been joining the flocks of tourists all headed for Larkfield Beach: dense throngs from the town's hotels and long-stay car parks, all merging to form a continuous gaggle stretching the entire length of the seafront.

Though I would've inevitably found myself sandwiched between classic examples of Lythoria's rowdiest families, doing anything within my power to drown out the noise of screaming kids left, right and centre, that still would've had the edge over this, right here.

Rare sunshine was streaming through the windows of Sunset Bay, but I was stuck on the uppermost floor, struggling to push the world's heaviest cleaning trolley through a narrow corridor and doing a job that was, to put it simply, somebody else's.

It had been nobody's fault that one of the maids had gone home sick in the middle of her morning shift, but it did mean that I was the one enlisted to cover the last three rooms on her round.

I was now two down, but still with one unfinished: that, of course, had to be the Sunset Suite.

Since we'd decked out the room at the beginning of the year with themed décor and matching furnishings, it had seen an invariably small number of guests through the off-peak season, and therefore never really required much of a frequent cleaning.

But now, heading into the chaotic summer period, it was looking inevitable that the maids and I would be spending a lot more time up here on the third floor.

It wasn't necessarily a bad thing, especially not to have the extra cash flowing into the business, but the stairs and I were set to get to know each other a lot better over the upcoming six weeks.

My trolley rolled to a stop in front of the lightwood door at the end of the corridor, its peephole headed by a large silver anchor.

I took a deep breath, an image of the boy from yesterday creeping along a familiar pathway into my mind.

I hadn't meant to keep thinking about him, but all of last night had somehow ended up consumed by the version of him, a reflection of the memory, that drifted around inside my head.

Maybe it was his strange behaviour in the lobby yesterday – his odd impatience and insistent manner – that drew my thoughts back to him every time I tried to steer them away.

Whatever it was, Brian Fields remained very much a person of interest as far as I was concerned, and I couldn't help but feel intrigued by what had to be his role in a much larger back story.

I knocked the door: three short raps, firm but not intrusive, followed by a pause intended to be filled with a response.

When it didn't come, I tried again, just in case my call had gone unheard.

But still there was nothing, and a distinct lack of aDo Not Disturbsign hanging on the handle, and so on this I assumed that Brian Fields must've vacated the room sometime this morning.

So I went inside.

My guess, as it turned out, had been correct:

Brian Fieldswasnowhere to be found.

But what Ihadn'tcounted on was for none other than a very startled, verynakedDalton Coleman to be standing in the middle of the room.

Clearly fresh out of the shower, he wore nothing but a towel and a deer-in-headlights expression as we stared at each other.

And I went to scream.

However, he beat me to it.

Dashing across the room with lightning speed, he reached me just in time to clamp a damp hand over my mouth, effectively silencing whatever sound had been about to escape.

I wasn't exactly sure what the words now lodged in my throat were; I guessed they had to be something along the lines ofOh my God.

As he kicked the door shut, I seemed to fall back against it, the both of us ending up awkwardly squished up against the hard surface.

For a moment we were still, the only sound being that of our slightly hitched breathing, intermingling with one another.

But I came to my senses soon enough to remember his lack of clothing, shoving him away from me instantly.

The force seemed to come as a shock, because he stumbled backwards, gripping onto the fold of his towel in an appreciated effort to keep it in place.

"Shh!" he hissed, still unnervingly close, sensing my compulsion to exclaim.

"Please!

Don't scream!"

"What thehell," I hissed, "is going on here?"

"Look, I'll sign whatever you want," he garbled, boyish features creasing into a worried flown.

His blonde hair, darkened with moisture, stuck to the sides of his head, his blue eyes inked with worry.

"Posters, CDs, body parts – within reason, of course.

I'll sign it all if you justkeep quiet."

He was much too close, leaning into me in a way that felt like he was on constant alert, waiting for me to overstep the boundaries set by his stern orders.

I was here, with my face inches away from Dalton Coleman's, and though thousands of girls – including my own sister – would've killed for a chance like this, I just felt irritated.

"You," I told him, jabbing my index finger towards his face, "are disgustingly conceited, you know that?

You're just assuming you can buy me with your autograph?

How do you even know I'm a fan?"

He looked taken aback.

"Aren't all teenage girls?"

I resisted the urge to shudder.

"No, actually," I said pointedly.

"At least, I like to thinkIhave enough sense to be otherwise."

"Ouch."

This time he looked genuinely hurt, his expression drooping at the seams, and suddenly I felt bad.

I hadn't meant for my declaration to come across quite so harshly; I'd simply let the irritation get to me.

Maybe this was partly directed towards myself: for not realising sooner that the strange Brian Fields who'd come to the check-in desk yesterday was actually the guy on the cover of the magazine I'd been looking at five minutes beforehand.

I was usually on the ball, not one to miss a trick, yet somehow this had been orchestrated right underneath my nose.

And that was what seemed to anger me the most.

"Sorry," I added apologetically, an afterthought.

"I didn't...

I didn't mean it like that.

You're probably a nice person, really."

"You're just not a fan.

Fair enough."

I sighed.

"I just... not really.

To tell you the truth, not at all.

But it's nothing personal."

I didn't know if this weak addition could pass as consolation, but I felt compelled to try anyway.

"Look, I'm not trying to be rude or anything, but what on earth are you doing staying at my parents hotel?

A hotel inLarkfield-on-Sea?"

He ran a hand through his hair, dishevelling the damp style.

"It's kind of a long story."

"Doesn't bother me.

I've got time." I shrugged.

"In fact, the longer I stay here, the longer I get to delay cleaning this room, which is what I'm supposed to be doing right now.

So I'm all ears." My voice trailed off, gaze raking down his still very naked body, stopping awkwardly at the towel slung over his hips.

"But, uh, feel free to put some clothes on first.

In fact, please do."

"What?

Are you saying you're not enjoying this?" He gestured downwards, a mischievous smirk materialising across his impish face.

When I kept my eyes firmly fixed on his, expression impassive, he shot me an incredulous look.

"Wow, you're really not a fan, are you?"

He said it like it was a foreign concept: something he was having trouble getting his head around.

Nevertheless he grabbed a couple of items from an open suitcase, ducking into the bathroom to get changed.