Unlikely Love: A Romance Single (4 page)

When her skin couldn't take it anymore, she headed back into the bleak hotel. She didn't want to appear on Spanish television for the first time looking like a ghost, but she didn't want to look like a tomato either. Her label would kill her if she messed it up.

Marcus had gone to look around the fake designer shops that lined the streets surrounding the hotel. He was convinced he was going to find some amazing pieces, but Delilah wasn't. She didn't understand why she needed a fake
Chanel
bag when it would only take a few calls to the right people to get a real one.

With her towel wrapped around her chest and sunglasses over her eyes, she wandered into the hotel and through the dining area. It was small, with a few tables, and it appeared to have a self-service buffet in the corner which made her skin crawl. The thought of the food sitting there and having to share it with everyone else was a big turn off for her.

Just as her foot hit the first step, she glanced over her shoulder to see the journalist struggling into the hotel with a large crate of wine under one arm and a laptop under the other. He nearly dropped the wine, but the man who sat in the corner jumped up and caught it. Delilah wanted to laugh at the journalist as he thanked the man and placed his laptop on top of the crate before heading towards her. She hadn't realized that she was staring right at him.

Without sticking around, she bolted up the stairs, clutching the towel tightly towards her body.

“Miss White,” he called after her as she scurried towards her door.

“What?” she snapped, turning around and glaring at him through her sunglasses.

“Fun afternoon?” he asked, panting from chasing her up the stairs.

He had his usual cheeky smile attached to his face, but he'd swapped his shades for his normal glasses. His thick dark hair was casually brushed off his face with the shades. She wanted to tell him that he looked stupid with two pairs of glasses on his head.

He smiled like an excited puppy as he waited for her to speak.

“Yep,” she said, turning to her door.

Her key fumbled in the lock, but it didn't open.

“I got you something,” he said.

She glanced over her shoulder as she struggled with the lock. He set the crate on the floor and lifted his laptop up to pull out a large pink bottle.

“What's this for?” she asked, turning around and leaning against her door.

“To drink?” he raised an eyebrow, “Unless you know another use for wine?”

“Pouring it over your huge head perhaps?” she mumbled to herself, yanking the towel up.

“Take it,” he motioned the bottle towards her.

“I'm alright, thank you,” she turned back to her door to try the lock again.

“I got it especially for you,” he took a step forward.

She fiddled the key in the lock but she couldn't get it to click.

“They said I could take some bottles with me. I think it was a bribe so I give them a good review, but I got to pick which bottles,” he said.

“And?” she sighed exhausted as she rattled the key in the lock.

“I got you rosé,” he smiled, “your favorite, right?”

She stopped trying to unlock the door for a second and peered at him and the bottle, over her shoulder.

“How did you know?”

“I'm a journalist, Delilah,” he winked, “It's my job to know.”

“Have you bugged my room?” she snapped, leaving the key in the lock to turn to him and cross her arms angrily.

It wouldn't be the first time she'd been bugged. Someone had bugged a car she'd been taken to an awards show in, and they got a very nice sound bite of her dissing some of her fellow nominees which quickly circulated the blogs.

“How did you know!” he held his hands up comically, still clutching the bottle, “Busted!”

The muscles in his arms popped as he held them up. She rolled her eyes and went straight back to the key.

“If you don't mind,” she twisted the key, “I'm going into my room now.”

“I saw it on your dresser last night,” he admitted, “rosé. I assumed it was your favorite, and I was right?”

“Ten points for being observant,” she whispered under her breath as the lock finally clicked and the heavy door swung open, “you shouldn't have bothered.”

“Just take the bottle. I can't stand rosé, and it's too expensive to pour down the toilet.”

He was right about the expense. Just from the label, it was far superior to the wine Marcus had bought her last night.

“If I take the damn wine, will you leave me alone?”

“I'm making no promises,” he scratched his stubble with his free hand.

She gripped the bottle, but he didn't let go. She tugged and tugged, but his hands stayed firmly gripped.

“Let go then!” she demanded.

“Aren't you going to say thank you?"

With one final tug, she freed the bottle and stumbled backwards into her room, clutching onto the door handle for support. She didn't bother to stick around to act as entertainment for the journalist. Instead, she slammed the door in his face and marched across her room to set the bottle on the dresser. She let her towel fall to the ground and pulled the extensions from her hair before collapsing onto her bed.

The anger and frustration bubbled away for a few minutes but she decided she wasn't going to let him get the better of her. Instead, she sat up on her bed and fixed her eyes on the pink bottle.

It was a nice gesture, and she knew she should have said thank you, but there was something about the journalist that annoyed her.

He seemed to be able to look past her pop star status, to see the girl underneath, and it made her feel vulnerable.

***

“Look at it!” Marcus exclaimed, holding out one of the many
Fendi
bags he'd bought for her.

As she turned it over in her hands, Delilah had to admit they were good fakes, but she could never be seen wearing one. The magazines could spot a fake a mile off.

“The stitching is terrible,” she sighed, casting the bag onto the floor, edging her way up to the headboard of her bed.

“You can barely tell,” he said, opening one and showing her the lining, “It's almost perfect.”

“It's not
Fendi
,” she waved her hand dismissively.

He threw the bag onto the floor and perched on the edge of her bed, instantly noticing the bottle of wine.

“Where did that wine come from?” he asked suspiciously.

“I bought it,” she lied.

“I have your cards,” he said.

“What's with the questions?” she snapped, “You're not having it.”

Marcus raised both of his eyebrows and stared down to the pile of fake handbags. He knew better than to argue with Delilah, and that's how she liked it. The truth was, she still hadn't decided what to do with the bottle. Part of her wanted to pour it down the toilet like the journalist had suggested, but she couldn't imagine wasting what was likely to be gorgeous wine.

Before she could think about it any further, something started to vibrate on the dresser.

“It's your cell phone!” Marcus exclaimed as he picked it up, “How did you get service out here?”

Delilah didn't know. She was sure that she'd had no signal last time she checked. Marcus was about to answer the phone for her, but she snatched it out of his hands, eager to know who it was.

Her stomach turned when she saw André's picture flashing on the screen.

“Who is it?” Marcus asked.

She shushed him before flicking her hair over her shoulder and plastering on her best smile.

“André!” she exclaimed excitedly as she pushed the phone to her ear.

“Hello my darling,” his thick French accent licked and curled around every word, making her skin tingle, “I've been trying to call you. ”

“I've had no signal!” she whispered into the handset, “The label have sent me to this god awful hotel and they won't move me!”

“Oh, that is horrible,” the way he pronounced '
horrible
' made Delilah's stomach wobble, “When I come and stay with you, we'll have to move somewhere better. Only the best for you.”

“Really?” she smiled at Marcus, “When are you coming André?”

“I'm not too sure yet, my beautiful,” he sounded apologetic, “the shoot in Greece has ran over, but I should be coming to you before the end of your trip.”

She tried to tell him that he was meant to be spending a whole week with her, but her phone started to beep at her, telling her that the battery was about to die.

“André?” she shouted down the phone, “Can you hear me?”

“You're breaking up, my beauty. I shall call you when I know more. Kisses from André.”

He hung up, but Delilah didn't care. A smile spread across her face as she clutched the cell to her chest.

“What are you so happy about?” Marcus asked.

“André's going to move me to another hotel when he comes!” she laughed, casting her phone onto the bed.

“You aren't going to have breakfast with me?” Delilah moaned.

Marcus shook his head again and scrolled through his phone.

“I can't babe,” he mumbled through his chewing gum, “I need to go and meet with the studio about your performance. They want your measurements for the costume they're making.”

“And you're sure I don't need to be there? I don't want a repeat of London.”

The last time she'd appeared on a similar reality singing show in the UK, the costume department mixed up her measurements with one of the contestants. Usually, Delilah would find some way to make it work because '
the show must go on
', but there was no way she was going to squeeze into the clothes made for the 16 year old contestant from Birmingham. If it wasn't for Marcus running out to the Mall just before closing, she'd have been going out in the jeans and vest she turned up to the studio in.

“I'm sure,” Marcus said, looking up from his phone to smile at her, “it's boring stuff. Get some food and we'll go out when I get back. I think there's a beach a couple of miles that way.”

He pointed through the wall of the hotel lobby before turning on his heels to jump into the cab he'd ordered. Delilah was left standing under the buzzing, blue, fly squatter with Julia staring menacingly at her from behind the desk. Deciding she was better chancing her life in the dining room rather than trying to find her way around the streets alone, she headed into the tiny room.

Instantly, her eyes landed on the table nearest to the doors that led out to the pool. The journalist was sat there, typing on a small silver laptop as he sipped a small cup of coffee. An empty plate next to him told her that he'd finished his breakfast, so he wouldn't be sticking around.

Tactfully, she quickly ducked on to a small table behind a pillar so that she didn't have to make any eye contact with him. She couldn't explain why, but every time he stared at her with his dark brown eyes, she felt like he was constantly trying to figure her out.

“Hola señorita,” a man appeared next to the table holding a menu in his hands.

He was the youngest looking person she'd seen working in the hotel, but he seemed to share the enthusiasm of Julia. He didn't smile, instead he dropped the plastic menu in front of her and pulled a small pad from his pocket, licked his pencil, and waited for her to choose, on the spot.

It only took Delilah a few seconds to realize that everything on the menu happened to be in Spanish and she had no idea what anything was. Glancing over to the buffet, it was quite clear that they didn't lay it out for every meal.

“Do you have a menu in English?” she lowered her sunglasses to the end of her nose to stare at the 20 something man.

“Qué quieres decir?” the words left his mouth at lightning speed.

“Do you speak English?” she sighed, pushing her glasses back up and dropping the grease coated menu.

The man started to rattle off more Spanish that Delilah didn’t understand. The more she tried to talk to him, the louder she got, and the louder she got, the more the waiter's arms started to make gestures as he spoke to her.

“I just want fruit!” she cried, “grapefruit?”

“No hablo Inglés!” he repeated for the tenth time.

Just as Delilah was about to charge out of the dining area to go back to her room hungry, a man slid onto the chair next to her, picking up the menu from Delilah.

It was the journalist.

“Excuse me!” Delilah was startled.

“Don't tell me, I've sat on your assistant again?” he lifted up his backside and looked at the seat.

“Who said you could sit there?”

He smiled at the waiter and said something in Spanish that sent him away. Without answering Delilah, he looked back to the menu and started to scan its contents.

“Oh, they have a full English breakfast!” he raised his eyebrows as he ran his finger over the menu.

His strong and musky aftershave floated across the table, tickling her senses.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

She didn't like being ignored.

“Helping,” he casually sat back in the chair and carried on reading over the menu.

“I don't need the help,” she leaned across the plastic flower that sat between them, “so piss off!”

“Piss off!” he chuckled, “I love it when you British say that! '
Piss off
!'”

He attempted her accent again, but it was even worse than the first time.

“If you don't leave, I will,” she was already pulling her chair out from underneath the table.

“Do you want the help or not,” he dropped the menu and looked over at her.

His dark eyes pinned her back into her chair and made her stomach rumble, and it wasn't from hunger. She cursed him under her breath before tucking herself back under the frilly and stained table cloth.

“I don't like fried food,” she mumbled, snatching the menu out of his hands.

“Who doesn't like fried food?” he snatched it back.

“It's not good for my skin!” she snapped, snatching it even more forcefully.

“Well we can't have that, can we?” he snatched it back.

The smirk on his face sat from ear to ear. Delilah noticed his dimples and registered how cute they made his smile look, before glancing down to the red flower that sat in the middle of the table. It looked like it was once a poppy or a rose, but half of the plastic petals had been destroyed or removed by tourists over the years.

“I'm a vegetarian as well,” she snapped, this time leaving the journalist to carry on reading the Spanish.

“And why's that?” he asked.

He didn't sound like he was judging, he actually sounded interested. She wasn't sure if she liked it when he dropped the smugness from his voice, because it was replaced with interest and she didn't want to tell him anymore than she already had. She still didn't trust that he wasn't the paparazzi.

“My label thought it would be good for my image. Plus, not eating meat means I cut a lot of stuff out of my diet, so it's better for keeping my figure.”

“And do you always do what your label says?”

He ran his hand casually through his gelled hair and rested back into the chair, looking up from the menu he was still clutching in his hands. As he relaxed into the chair, Delilah couldn't help but notice his half-open dark blue shirt revealing most of his tanned and solid chest. Just as her eyes started to study the light pattering of dark hair, she tore them away and looked into his eyes.

“Not always,” she knew she sounded defensive.

“But most of the time?” he picked a toothpick out on a small pot next to the single pathetic flower and started rattling it along his teeth.

She watched, hypnotized as the small wooden pick bounced from side to side, with only his tongue keeping it in place. Each time his tongue licked against his teeth, she noticed his dimples appear as a reaction. She tried to remember if André had dimples, but she could barely see his face.

“Why should I tell you?” the defense was even stronger.

“You don't have to,” he shrugged, looking down to the menu.

“I'm not going to,” she said.

Secretly, she wanted to tell him everything about her life, and she didn't know why.

“So not the full English then,” he scanned the menu again, “what about the fruit bowl?”

The toothpick transfixed her again.

“What?” she mumbled, looking into his eyes.

“Fruit?” he smiled, pulling the pick out and slotting it behind his ear with poise, “See, here. Fruta.”

He pointed to the small bold letters on the menu.

“Yeah, that's what I want,” his eyes pinned her harder into her chair, “Fruit.”

The man called over to the waiter again who quickly scribbled down '
Fruta
' and disappeared. They sat in complete silence as they waited. Delilah wanted to tell him to leave her alone and to get back to his writing, but she found herself mute. She didn't know the man in front of her and she didn't even know his name, but there was something about the way he spoke to her that intrigued and interested her. Almost as if she was an equal, not just a pop star.

In a matter of minutes, the waiter reappeared and dumped a bowl of fruit in front of Delilah without a smile. It looked fresh and clean, and that's all Delilah cared about. It was hardly the best presentation she'd seen, but it looked like there was a good selection.

“Well, I guess I'll leave you to it,” the journalist winked at her.

He rose from his chair, but part of Delilah wanted him to stay.

“Wait,” she called out.

He turned and smiled at her, waiting for her to speak. It was slightly smug and '
all knowing
' again, which made Delilah change her mind. Reminding herself that she wasn't going to let him get one over on her, she asked him to fetch a spoon to eat the fruit. He nodded, and vanished through the same door the waiter had brought her the fruit from.

She stared at the door and waited for him to return, and when he did, she dropped her eyes to her nails, suddenly interested in a chip in the polish.

“A spoon for the lady,” he whispered, holding the spoon out to her.

Reaching out, she tried to snatch it from him, but just like the bottle of wine, he was reluctant to let it go.

“You could always join me at my table,” he asked casually, with a hint of a smile, “one can get quite lonely.”

“I'm fine thanks,” she responded automatically, “I'll cope.”

He closed his eyes, nodded his head to the side and shrugged slightly before letting go of the spoon. Without another word, he vanished around the pillar, and back to his table, out of sight. Even when he'd gone, and she could hear the rapid patter of his fingers on the laptop keys, she found herself wishing she'd said '
yes
' to his offer.

As she ate her fruit, she didn't taste any of it. Instead, she found herself wondering what it was the journalist could want. If he wasn't interested in writing about her, what did he want? When she finished her fruit, she realized that she still didn't know his name.