Bait & Hook

29. Marinaside Crescent

Oh, drat! Carla's not here until tomorrow; need to clean and tidy this myself. I set my bag down and closed the door behind me, looking around to decide where to begin. Roxy said eighteen thirty or a bit later, so time for more than only surface stuff. Change the bed first, in case we start there. Oh, my! So easily stirred.

Should wear jockeys around her to prevent being trouser-trapped again. Do that now, so I don't forget. Need to change out of sailing clothes, anyway. I glanced at the clock – 18:03 – should finish tidying up before half-past. Be relaxed when she arrives.

My mind continued to hop about while I stripped the bed and got a fresh sheet, duvet cover and pillowcases. Dinner here? Or at Chambéry again? Here – more control of time and space. Ummm, private and more intimate. Darn, she stirs me.

Appears I stir her, as well – for a while, then she becomes remote. Memories of her previous? Or fearing it's too soon for commitment?

Commitment? Yeah, that again. Surfaced often the past short while. But her mention of relationships shows she's thinking of it, as well. Allow it to evolve, though. Pressing at this early stage might scare her away.

Other matters first. What to cook? With her adventurousness and spontaneity – said dinner is whatever she jigs – she's likely similar to me. We can pop up the street to Urban Fare and see what inspires us.

And cooking? Might be better to invite her to join me with it – the passion she showed preparing lunch. Oh, God! The passion she showed before lunch.

Finally, with everything appearing clean and in order, I settled into my chair and tried to relax. Should I pop up to the florist? Gillian loved flowers – I suppose most women do. Too late for that now. Get some while we shop for dinner.

After another glance at the clock, I shook my head. Behaving like a silly schoolgirl waiting for her first date to ring the doorbell. I picked up yesterday's edition of the Financial Times and began scanning articles, looking for distraction.

I was well into the edition's third analysis of the financial implications of Brexit when I again looked at the clock. Oh, my – more than an hour and a quarter. Far beyond her estimated eighteen thirty.

Darn! Didn't even think to check for messages.

I scrambled to take the phone from my pocket and turn it on. Dead? Yeah, of course. Hours of showing her photos. Forgot to charge it. Amazing how she distracts me.

Then quickly to my desk, I turned on the computer, and when it had loaded, I went to the ship.us site. No new messages. After refreshing the page, still none.

I looked at the time on the screen – 19:26. Almost an hour late. Something must have befallen her. Oh, God!

And I've no way to contact her but on this site.