Sunday morning passed in a blur of fucking and fried food. It was completely and utterly unhealthy sustenance, but at some point in the night Marie and I had had a sleepy conversation about things we missed about home—and an English breakfast was one of them. I’d resolved to make one when we got up—which was closer to lunchtime than breakfast time.

I didn’t have all of the essential ingredients in my fridge, unfortunately—it seemed black pudding was elusive in L.A.—but I did a damn good job of the bacon, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, fried bread, sausages and baked beans. Marie was in charge of making us each a mug of English breakfast tea while I was working my culinary magic—or at least it smelled like magic.

When we finally sat at the table, me in shorts and a t-shirt, Marie in last night’s dress, we shared an excited grin before tucking in. “Oh my God,” Marie said, after chewing and swallowing a mouthful of food, “that is so good. I think we may have made a mistake here. After eating this, we’ll be booking the next flights home!”

I laughed. “I know what you mean. The bacon and sausages aren’t quite what we’d get in England, but they’ll do in a pinch. At some point I’ll find one of those supermarkets that sells proper British food.”

“Oh yeah!” Marie said, waving her fork around excitedly. “You’ll have to let me know when you find one. I haven’t had a bar of proper Cadbury’s chocolate in far too long! Like six days or something. The stuff they have over here just doesn’t taste the same. It’s a different recipe or something.”

“Oh you’re a chocoholic, are you?” It suddenly occurred to me how little I really knew about her and I resolved to try to rectify that.

“Not just chocolate. Pretty much anything sweet. I have a real sweet tooth.”

I felt as though I was going to fall backward so shot out my hand and touched the lip of the unit holding the sinks. Steadied my weak knees.

In the shower, in the female changing room, was a man. Naked, toned, dark-haired and delicious. He stood with his back to me, his head and neck lowered and his palms pressed to the tiles as his shoulders took a thrashing from the heavy downward spray.

His butt was a fraction paler than the rest of his sun-kissed skin. Pert and small, perhaps clenched too, judging by the dents in the outer edges.

I knew I should go. Get the hell out of there. But what was a guy doing in the female changing room? Indignation and surprise kept my feet stuck, as though they were lead weights anchored to the floor.

Suddenly he straightened, turned and gave me a full frontal view.

His eyes were shut and that was my undoing. Because that exquisite moment of seeing Travis Connolly, unguarded and in all his naked, dark-haired, tight-muscled glory, was not something any red-blooded woman could turn away from.
He shoved both of his hands through his hair, flattening it over his head, and then stared straight at me.