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Okay, damn Yuku is refusing to fix the font size. Never mind

It'll look wrong to you because it's spelled the British way and not the American one, you're not going crazy

Tweaking done, first chapter now here for your reading pleasure (well hopefully pleasure )


Book One: Island Paradise
Chapter One - La Isla Bonita


"Addy!"

"Addy!"

"Addy!"

Sometimes, you just really hope that if you ignore someone long enough they'll go away. He can yell my name at the top of his lungs forever for all I care, I'm not moving.

"Addison!"

Okay, that was a low blow. Involuntarily my torso jerks up off the sand, and I glare my deadliest ice bitch glare at the culprit.

"That's not my name!"

"Well it's on your birth certificate and you answer to it so I guess it is!"

Mike leans over the railings, grinning up at me from the balcony. If he wasn't my brother, I would probably hate him. In somewhat contradictory fashion he often gets hated by me solely because he is my brother. It's a sister's prerogative to be contrary, keeps him on his toes.

"State your business and then bugger off."

"Do you care if I have a party tonight?"

What, he disturbed me for this? I never care! "No."

"Cool. I'll leave you to it." He makes a mock military salute at me and I scowl at his retreating back before flopping back down in the sand. I suppose I at least ought to be grateful that he asks.




You would think that when you live in the quietest corner of a nice and somewhat remote island and there's only one holiday apartment block within twenty miles, you would be able to do some sun worshipping uninterrupted. The whole point of us moving to Adora from the rainy shores of England was to get some peace and quiet and sunshine, so my Dad says (I think it also had something to do with Tony Blair being voted into Government but he refuses to admit that). I have had no such luck today; this must be about the fifth interruption within an hour.

First it was Antonio and Mariella wanting to know if I want to go to dinner tonight. I always want to go to dinner, but more to the point they already asked me last night and I said yes. Then one of my kids came bounding over and asked if I'd set any homework over the summer holidays - the whole point of summer holidays is that I am not a teacher for a few glorious weeks. Besides, school only let out last week; he can't have lost his homework diary already. Then it was a couple of lost tourists from the apartment block who were looking for the local bus stop (don't ask me why they were doing so on the beach) and then it was my dear darling brother. I just want to relax with nothing but the sound of the ocean and get a little tanning done - is it too much to ask?

Ahh, I pretend to complain but actually I love it. We've been here about eleven years now and I never get tired of it. It's beautiful, it's sunny, everybody in this little corner of the island knows everybody and it's a world away from everything I used to know. The buildings are all Spanish style and gleam in the sun. The sand is bleached practically white. Where we are you often find a dirt track in place of a sidewalk or pavement; the town's small enough that you can walk almost everywhere. I think the only thing that distinguishes it from all those perfect desert island Caribbean type places you see in movies is the fact the water isn't turquoise… but then the Mediterranean generally isn't so who cares?

My brother and I came of age and moved out into a gorgeous little beach front villa with very reasonable rent courtesy of my construction company owning Dad, as a teacher I'm basically getting paid for speaking English (which for a British person is like being paid to breathe) and if life is better anywhere in the world then I don't want to know about it because here just rocks.




"Hey Addy."

Well there goes my nice quiet afternoon. Oh well, life with Nina is nothing if not gossip filled so it's a fair trade.

"Hey Nina. What's the what?"

"Oh nothing. Taking lots of phone calls from people who don't understand that the water parks are on the other side of the island and that this is not the place to come to for foam parties, calling fumigators, all fun stuff."

"Nice," I smirk.




On the other side of Adora (the cheesily named Playa del Sol) pretty much every resident you see is some part of the tourist trade, be it a hotelier or a souvenir shop owner, but this side is where the real natives live. Nina works in the one holiday block we have and it's specifically advertised as being the anti-tourist attraction for people who just want quiet. The island's small enough that it's not a world away from that kind of stuff if you want it; it's just a little more peaceful around here. As such, we mostly get retirement couples. They like it because it's quiet and the locals are friendly, so we get a lot of repeat visitors; they especially like bumping into my family because we make great translators.

Everybody speaks pretty good English, but there are some things that just never translate well. My friends talk to me in English much more than you might think they would, because they've got jobs where they can use the practice. I'm fluently bilingual anyway so Spanish isn't a problem, but I helpfully teach them how real English people actually talk rather than the textbook English they were taught in school that makes you sound overly formal and like a pod person. We usually wind up half and half whereas the older folks only tend to use Spanish. Either way, it comes in useful knowing two languages.




"So I hear your brother's throwing a fiesta tonight, is it worth going?" She asks.

"He's only going to play all that tuneless crap he brought back from America, I wouldn't bother."

I lied when I said this place was perfect - pretty much all the popular music around here is from the Latin scene. It isn't just music; the whole entertainment industry as I used to know it back home has pretty much passed this island by thus far. It's creeping in, but it's a slow process. When it's Jennifer Lopez there's a happy compromise, but my brother and I basically only get to pick up any mainstream music when we go back to England to see our grandmother. He went to New York for a vacation with his girlfriend and brought back a lot of rap music that really hurts my ears, I have a horrible suspicion he'll be playing it tonight. Also, on a similar vein, we have to wait forever for all the good British or American TV shows to start airing and internet access is slow to the point of being barely worth it.

Sometimes I do pine for life in a more technologically advanced place, but that would mean giving up my beach (not just any beach, my beach)... so I'm thinking no.

"Oh, okay. What are you doing then?"

"Dinner with Antonio and Mariella, I think Dante's coming too. You up for it?"

"Sign me up."

I taught her that one the other day and already she's using it in conversation, I'm so proud. "So who's dropping into our quiet little town this week?"

"Usual. Mr and Mrs Lowenstein are due to fly in tomorrow, we've got a honeymoon couple at the end of the week…"

"So they'll probably spend their time in their room or at Playa del Sol," I immediately say. She nods and rolls her eyes.

"And some chico arrived last night at about four or some ridiculous time. Carlotta says she thinks he was good looking but she was too sleepy to remember. Young. American. Hasn't come out of his apartment yet."

"Probably another one who didn't realise this is the quiet side," I shrug. We get that a lot, and then the result is that they either complain and demand money back (despite the constant warnings in the brochures that we are fairly isolated) or they just spend a lot of money on cab fare to and from where they erroneously thought they were going to be.

"Si. So Julio was thinking we should surf tomorrow."

"Excellent plan," I agree. I have to take these opportunities to socialise while I can.




Unfortunately none of my friends are teachers so while I have all this free vacation time they don't; I have to amuse myself a lot of the time while they're out earning. My brother is self employed, runs a financial advice company; he's free to make his own schedule all year round but he still can't spend every minute with me because he does occasionally have to do some actual work, so I'm told. Besides, living with him is quite enough without being attached at the hip. He's my brother and I love him, but not that much.

Of course, surfing tomorrow means actually remembering where I threw my board wax last time I used it, which was over a week ago. It's too sunny to have to think of such things, I might just have a nap instead.




**




I really wish they hadn't hung that mirror behind the desk in reception. Every time you walk in there it's like this swell of vanity rises up and you can't help constantly checking yourself out in it and panicking about your outfit. Since I am a girl and am already doomed to have had this panic at least six times in my own mirror at home, it's just not helping.

Eleven years in the sun has turned my naturally pale complexion into a healthy looking year round tan. I'm not quite the same colour as my friends - and can only get that colour if I burn first - but it's pretty much eradicated the need for any make up over than some mascara and gloss. I am paranoid that I'm going to wind up with skin cancer though, so I along with the tourists am the only reason that Señora Gonzales actually even stocks SPF. Between the tan and the dark hair and eyes I can sometimes actually pass for a genuine Adoran, but only to someone who doesn't live here. When you look properly you can still see that my features are of English rose and not exotic Latin origin - my face is a little too round and my cheekbones not as defined. Also, I have my Dad's squat British nose.

Looking at my watch, I sigh in exasperation. Nina should have been done with work an hour ago, why is she not here and ready to go to dinner as promised? We decided to drive out to this great Italian restaurant in one of the island's bigger hotels, but since we have to make a bit of a journey to get there leaving late is not the most helpful thing ever.




I'm interrupted in my tutting and eye rolling by the entry of a guy I can only assume is the Young American who hadn't left his apartment yet. Well, clearly he has now. He's not bad looking, nice face, but I'm guessing he'd probably look better without those big dark circles under his eyes. Still, I guess the jet lag between here and the States can't be much fun. We don't get a lot of Americans precisely because of where we are and how small we are - they tend to stick to mainland Europe or try the Canaries or Greek islands. We get overlooked. I'm trying to guess how old he is; he's clearly not still in college, he's older, but I'm not sure I'd bank on precisely how much older. He could easily be older or younger than he looks, his face doesn't give much away.

"Excuse me, do you speak English?" He asks with a nervous smile.

"Indeed I do," I respond.

"Umm, wow, you're English."

Of course, the accent still gives it away even if I might look like I belong in the Mediterranean. I love the way he just said that the same way you'd say 'you're a Martian.' "Born and raised in the Home Counties. You were expecting a native, I take it?"

"Yeah, you certainly look… I mean, not that I'd assume… sorry."

I'm kind of evil, but I love the way he's blushing. Watching people stick their foot in it when they try to explain their assumption that I'm Adoran is something I've yet to tire of. "It's okay, I get that a lot. Anyway, I assume you wanted to know for a reason?"

"Yeah, umm, sorry, do you work here?" He asks. He seems overly grateful for the way he threw him a get out of jail free card.

"Nope but I spend enough time here that I might as well, what do you need?"

"Food. I landed here at some insane hour of the morning and only woke up about an hour ago. My body has no concept of what time it is."

"In which case there's a tapas bar in town, if you're inclined to use the stove in your apartment and actually cook you can head over to the store and grab some stuff… though I'd suggest you do that anyway at some point for drinks and breakfast stuff. Or you can hop into a cab and go to Playa del Sol where they have about seven zillion restaurants. And McDonalds."

"What's Playa del Sol?" He asks. Oh boy, I'm thinking this guy did not do a lot of research before he came out here.

"It's the other side of the island, about forty minutes away depending on how badly your cab driver breaks the speed limit. It's the tourist spot, you know, all your standard souvenir shops and beach activities and water parks and such. It gets pretty busy there this time of year."

"Oh, okay." He looks oddly uncomfortable with that. "Maybe later in the week or something. I was looking for some quiet."




I try to smile encouragingly at him, but I'm afraid it might come out looking a little odd. No offence to the dude, I'm sure he's a nice guy, but he seems a little odd himself. "You definitely picked the right place. We're within reach of all the tourist stuff and the sight seeing buses but we don't get a lot of folk coming through here, the night life is all on the other side of the island."

Yes, that is definitely relief I see on his face. Maybe he's one of those weird sociopaths who can't be around people or something - if sociopath is the right word for that, which I suspect it isn't.

"Cool. So if all the night life is on the other side then what do y'all do for fun around here?"

He said 'y'all,' so I'm guessing he's from the South somewhere? Eh, I don't really know or care. "We make trips over there a lot, but mostly we just hang out here and spend a lot of time on the beach. The surf's really great out here."

Amazingly, he might have just perked up. "Is there somewhere to rent boards nearby?"

"Not unless you want to go all the way to del Sol, but Carlotta's son Dante has too many boards for one person and if you can convince him you're not a rank amateur he's been known to loan them to guests."

There's a light chuckle and his smile looks a little brighter this time. "I hold my own. So where's this store?"

He listens carefully as I give him the directions - you can't really miss the place, you'd have to be a moron not to make it from here. Still, you should never underestimate how dumb folk can be, especially when they arrive on vacation and switch their brains off.




The smile disappears and he looks utterly frightened when Nina bounds into the room yabbering in Español about the nightmare she just had trying to find a nice enough outfit for the restaurant. Thankfully Nina quickly works out he must be the 'Young American' and switches to English, but the boy does still look kind of scared. To be fair, Nina did just burst into the room talking with incredibly speed and volume; for all his clearly non-Spanish speaking self knew she'd just run in saying the volcano would erupt and we were all going to die. The volcano the island formed around has actually been extinct for years, but he didn't know that. He doesn't seem to know much about the place he's paid all this money to fly to.




"Well, thanks for the info, anyway," he tells me. "I guess I'll see you around."

"No problem. See you," I say to his retreating back.

"Carlotta was right. Good looking," Nina observes.

"Kind of strange, too," I muse out loud. "You ever known a guy his age come out here all alone and with no desire to go anywhere near any tourists?"

Her eyebrow arches up at me and she looks a little suspicious. "Lord, woman, how long were you talking to him?"

"Quality not quantity."

I just shrug it off and march her out of the door before she can delay our dinner any further. I'm now very hungry.

Sorry, but this is what happens when you read stories by English people. They write English English

I found it weird at first reading American spelling, but years of fan fic and JJbing later I don't notice it any more

Newness )

Chapter Two - Solitary Man


Once again, I slept later than I intended to. My body can't seem to get over the idea that it's five hours later here than it is back home, and I am suffering for it. It's making life awkward because I don't get tired until insane o'clock at night, and then of course when I've been up that late I don't want to be awake that early. Three days have passed me by in a blur of sleep and feeling totally out of it.

It probably doesn't help that I'm used to having a schedule. Even when I'm not out on promotion or tour, I have a precisely plotted out schedule. Even my down time's scheduled. I get up at around eight - or seven if I have a lot to do - and I have breakfast and I work out. Then I'll have business meetings or I'll do some recording, usually some kind of lunch meeting, and then if I don't have more shit to do I might get the afternoon to chill or play some golf or something. I have a diary. Well, I don't have a diary; somebody has a diary on my behalf.




Sometimes I wonder precisely who has control over my schedule - I ought to be the boss of me but I'm not always sure that I am.




It's beautiful out here. I picked Adora randomly from a travel agent's web site because it called it 'an undiscovered paradise.' Obviously the paradise part was good, but mostly it was 'undiscovered' that appealed. I then picked this resort because it was recommended for retirement couples but it still had a beach; Granny and Grandpa don't seem the type to be listening to me sing about whips, shackles and slaves. The sea's not the turquoise it is in Hawaii or my usual haunts, but it's this pleasant deeper shade of blue. I want to say cerulean? The sand is practically white, and it looks like the kind of place where you can sit without being disturbed. I've barely left the apartment to find out - just been observing from the balcony - but I think I could brave it today. The local kids seem to keep to their own patch anyway.

You could ask what the fuck I've been planning to do while playing recluse in this sleepy little town - it's a fair question. It would be great if I had an answer. Reading puts me to sleep; music is going to be kind of a no go for a while, and from what I understand internet access around these parts is slow to the point of extreme irritation. My Blackberry's only got like a single bar of reception, but then from the way it's been beeping and the way my e-mails are stacking up I'm not sure I want to be checking it. The temptation to just switch it off for the duration of my stay gets stronger by the second. Going by the tourist spots is also a huge no go. It's summer vacation time, and I've had considerable success in Europe if I do say so myself. It'll be crawling with the type of folk who'll recognise me and that's not going to be conducive to a peaceful vacation.

Ahh, who the fuck am I kidding? Life re-evaluation is not a peaceful thing wherever the fuck you decide to try it. There's only so long you can spend being a miserable bastard before you figure something has to change, but working out exactly what is really not fucking pretty. You can tell that by the way that even my thoughts on the subject have become littered with profanity - I like to swear and all, but I don't usually sound this bitter. I thought it was my girlfriend, but apparently she wasn't my biggest problem because I got rid of her and I still don't feel a heck of a lot better.




It's just pretty damn terrifying thinking what else it might be, since the rest of my life is made up of my family and my career. If either of those things are the problem… well, that's a whole other problem in itself, seeing as changing them is not an option for me.

Still, this was the point of this trip. The logic is that when you spend time away from your everyday life you can evaluate it a little more objectively. Being a miserable bastard is just not my nature. Call me a cocky son of a bitch, but I'm used to achieving my goals and making a success of my life. I have my trials and tribulations like anybody else, but mostly I manage to turn it to the positive and do that whole 'learn and grow' shit with it. This sounds so hopelessly corny, but I'm a happy guy. I may not be one of those hyper perky people who are always skipping around like the hills are alive with the sound of music but I'm content and it shows.

Being miserable is just so unlike me, and I find it utterly exhausting. It's like my head is filled up with nothing but this maudlin, self pitying crap, and I'm not even sure WHY. Everything just feels like serious effort all the time and it's like none of the things that usually motivate me are working. Severe writer's block has set in, and that never happens to me. There have been dry spells before, but nothing even half this prolonged. Nothing makes me happy. Ostensibly, I can't see anything missing from my life… except the girlfriend I kicked out of it because I thought she might be part of the problem, too high maintenance and draining my energy or something, but that's done nothing to help the overall situation. Still, to be honest I don't miss her as much as I expected to so I'm thinking that still might have been a good call even if my reasoning was screwy.

Of course people notice and they care, they want to help… but it all adds up to more conflicting voices in my head. All their heartfelt advice is useless when the problem remains so elusive. As much as it shames me to say it, after a while the concern just becomes annoying. You get defensive, you get snappy, even the most innocent 'how are you doing' seems loaded with back-handed implications, and generally speaking I have just been a fucking nightmare to deal with. How I've managed to keep that to a minimum in front of paparazzi I have no idea, but there's only so long I can keep doing that before the truth outs.




So I figured what's one more selfish decision? I run away to some quiet corner of the globe, probably giving my mother an aneurysm in the process, and hopefully the peace and quiet gives me enough time and emotional distance to maybe work out what the fuck's wrong with me without need for therapists or pills. I don't trust therapists - HIPAA be damned, I'm sure someone would leak the details. Also, I kind of think they're full of shit.

It's weird. I came for peace and quiet and to be away from all the concerned voices, I came to get away from the well meant but useless advice and I have no desire to pick up my phone and call anyone… but I still kind of wish I had someone to talk to. Going to tourist areas is out and to be honest I always find them tacky anyway. I came here to relax and not do much of anything, yet I want something to do. More than anything, I came here to listen to the voices in my head and all I want to do is shut them out.




Well, nobody ever said my shit had to make sense.




***




Look at me, I ventured outside and everything.

After slathering on about ten tons of factor 60 that's probably not going to stop me burning anyway, I got into my shorts and grabbed a towel and came to sit out on the beach. I brought a token book too, but I doubt it'll get read. Pretty much I'll either fall asleep or maybe have a swim. If only Trace knew, his last and rather bitchy e-mail assumed that I was 'gallivanting' and having the time of my life in some far flung exotic locale. It is far flung and exotic - I'm no gardener but I'm fairly sure I have some pretty impressive orchids in my room - but my activity roster is probably about as exciting as that time Ben broke his leg and was confined to a hospital bed in traction for two weeks.

Take now, for example. I have laid my towel out on the beach. I sat down on it. I managed to get a beer and drink some of it. The sun is shining, it's a beautiful day… and for the last five minutes or so I've been picking up sand and watching it pour through my fingers. Before that I was watching a boat go by against the horizon - somebody needs to stop this crazy party whirlwind or I might get dizzy! The owner's son is apparently away for a couple of days so I can't take that girl's suggestion and ask him if he can loan me a board; shame, the surf looks decent. Also, surfing is a little less pathetic than sitting here pouring sand through your fingers like some easily amused six year old.

Possibly the flaw in coming some place quiet to think is that there's nowhere to get away from your thoughts once you've arrived. Maybe I should have brought Trace or somebody with me, just as a distraction. Maybe this whole thing was a dumb idea. My e-mails all seem to think so.

"Oh bollocks!"

Okay, somebody's got some impressive volume. I look up and I see it's the British girl who directed me to the store (that old lady who owns it loves me - doesn't understand about half of what I say but she understands my money).

It seems kind of mean to laugh, but she's chasing around after a piece of paper and it couldn't be going worse if some Hollywood film maker had scripted it and had a crew member tugging the paper constantly away. Every time she gets close enough to grab the breeze immediately carries it off again, bringing her ever further in my direction. It and she are getting perilously close to the water's edge, and I'm guessing it'll be unreadable if that happens.

"Ahh! Got you, you little bugger!" She yells triumphantly.

Call me stupid (many have), but I still have trouble reconciling that English accent and those very British swear words to her face. She's as tan as anybody else around here, and with her dark colouring she looks like every other resident I've seen around here. Of course this is precisely the second time I've seen her, making a grand total of maybe five minutes if you're generous with the counting, so it's not like I've had much time to reconcile the accent and the appearance.




Apparently I'm laughing louder than I thought; either that or she felt me staring, because she's turned to look at me and has worked out that I think the whole thing's funny. The same female twitch that my cousin makes when she wants to tell me I'm a douche for laughing has appeared on her lips. Guess I hadn't realised precisely how close she was getting to my little spot of beach and that she probably was going to hear me. Hell, she wasn't that far away to begin with, I'm not sure how I missed her; I can see her chair and parasol next to what looks like a big old stack of books - how much reading can one person do in a couple of hours?

"Oh sure. Sit there and laugh at me when you could have helped. I thought you Yanks were supposed to be polite?"

"Oh I'm from Tennessee so I'm a Southerner not a Yankee. Ma'am," I say mockingly.

"Well maybe you should go back there and laugh at other people's poor unsuspecting expense."

The tone is utterly serious, the face is deadpan, but there's a sharp twinkle in her eye that thankfully gives the game away. Clearly this woman missed her calling, because if not for that hint of mischief that would have been a better acting performance than I've seen many a co-star pull off.

"Why'd you think they made me leave?" I riposte.

Now it's her turn to laugh at me. It's a light laugh that seems oddly in fitting with the surroundings - sunny and warm. "I just assumed you were skiving off work."

"Skiving?" I ask quizzically. The tone was clearly joking, but I didn't get the joke.

"You know, pulling a sickie."

"Oh." Well the second one made slightly more sense. My knowledge of British slang is pretty much limited to the following words: bloody, bugger, git, and wanker. That's only because I tend to hear them from the local crews when I tour there. I sincerely hope none of them were directed at me… "Nope, just needed a break. All legitimately taken, promise."

"This is the perk of my job, I get a ton of holidays anyway," she says distractedly as she reads through the paper she picked up with a critical eye.

"Why, what do you do?" It occurs to me as I speak that this is probably the longest conversation I've had with anybody since I left the continental US and it's with a total stranger who's probably just being polite.

"I teach English at the school here," she replies. "Apparently not very well if this piece of paper's anything to go by."

So that would explain the books; she must have brought some grading out with her or something. Maybe she's a good person to ask for what to do around here if she gets so much vacation time. She was definitely helpful before with the store. I've probably done more cooking since I've been here than in the last month back home.

"You set them vacation homework? That's cruel."

"I'm the taskmaster bitch from Hell," she says in a wry tone. "So how about you? And it occurs to me at this point I should have asked for your name before you occupation, but whatever."




It's kind of sad, but the immediate reflex these days when somebody asks me that question is to stare them down and try to work out if the question is sincere. You would not believe how many girls pretend not to know who I am and then, not ten minutes later, they slip up by displaying a massive amount of knowledge that can only have been gleaned from US Weekly or some shit. It's a dead give away that you're lying to me if three minutes after you pretend not to know who I am you're telling me how great you thought FutureSex/LoveSounds was and that you listen to it all the time.

There's nothing in this girl's expression or eyes to tell me that it's a redundant question, so I'll give her the benefit of the doubt. This does seem like a bit of a backwater as far as this island goes, and nobody else has questioned me or so much as taken a second glance at me this far. I'm guessing American music doesn't reach them too quick or something? Either way, I won't look a gift horse in the mouth.




In a split second decision, I take the risk. "Justin Timberlake," I tell her as I hold out a hand.

She shakes it firmly and with a smile. "Addy Elliott."

"Addy… that short for Addison?"

Her face clouds over and her lip twitches. "Not as far as I'm concerned."

"Oh. I never asked."

She tips me a wink. "Smart lad."

Well, it's an inane conversation but it beats sifting sand through your hands. "You lived here long?"

"About eleven years now. You were going to tell me what you do?"

"I'm a banker."




WHOA. Where the fuck did that come from? That cannot have been me who just said that shit.

It sounded like my voice, I mean, after years of singing and giving endless interviews I am naturally pretty familiar with the sound of my own voice, but I cannot have said that. Saying that would make no sense, since I am not a banker. Therefore, I can only conclude that somebody who sounds incredibly like me but who is also invisible must have answered for me. Because why would I say that? It's a dirty lie. The only thing I know about banks is that they bleed me dry on interest for my credit card bills, why the fuck would I say I was a banker? Where would that cracked out decision come from and why would my mouth decide not to inform my brain of it first? See, it can't have been me who said that.

Denial's a fucking river in Egypt.




"Oh. I'd like to pretend that sounds interesting but my mother told me it was wrong to lie. No wonder you needed a vacation."

"Yeah, what can I say?" I squeak uncomfortably. Well, she doesn't seem to suspect that it was a humungous falsehood. Possibly moving the conversation on and never bringing up my occupation ever again is my best course of action here. "Real life is boring. So what do you do for fun around here?"

"We're pretty laid back around here," she shrugs. "We tend to just hang out, sunbathe, swim, surf. If you were a girl I'd say shopping but every guy I know hates shopping, and every now and then we give in to the tourist traps and go to the water parks for the day or something. Though we try to avoid doing that in high season because it's rammed. There's some good hiking around here too."

"Cool. I kind of came here for the peace and quiet and then realised I'd given myself a little too much peace and quiet," I confess. The way she laughs, I suspect I'm not the first person who has done this.




My eyes scoot over her body and take what's probably my first real look at her. Behind the tan, she's got a nice face. Her eyes are a really rich brown, her face is pleasantly rounded and there's a small dimple in her cheek when she smiles. Most of the girls around here seem to live in bikini tops and shorts, and she's not bucking the trend. She's not the tallest person going, if anything she's a little petite, but to my discerning male eye she seems well proportioned. It's really shallow of me to say this, but if she looked like some hose beast I probably wouldn't talk to her. Maybe it's because she's lived here a fair while, but she seems more Adoran than English in personality, too. The locals around here are very friendly and open and she's no exception, but I don't see that so much when I visit England.

Of course in England they know who I am. Why the fuck did I say I was a banker again?




"Well… I don't often say this to the tourists, but you don't seem like a psycho so if you get bored you'd be welcome to come hang out with us," Addy offers with a smile.

"Yeah. I bet you say that to all the guys," I tease.

"If you knew me, you wouldn't say that." If I detected a tone there it can only have been for half a second, because she's already back to light and breezy. "My brother and I live in the villa with the blue shutters about ten minutes' walk down the beach from here," she points out the direction to me, "and we're usually the base of operations so stop by. You'd probably be saving me from some boredom too; it gets annoying being on holiday while everyone else works."

"I'm betting it's more annoying for them working while you chill, so sorry but I got no sympathy."

"And on that note, since you're being mean to me yet again," she pokes her tongue out, "I am going to go get back to the marking that I swore I was going to get done today before the rest of it gets carried off with the wind."

"You know all you had to do was say gone with the wind and I would have had a great Rhett Butler joke opening."




Okay, maybe it's a good thing she's going now because that was a bad, bad joke and she needs to leave before I let out another one. And before I let out more stupid shit along the lines of "I'm not a platinum selling globe trotting musician/actor/entrepreneur, I'm a fucking banker."