Wish You Weren't Here (A Romantic Comedy)

Chapter Five

One thing you should probably know about me is that I absolutely love a list.

A to-do list. A shopping list. A list of all of my lists. I like to be organised. Pretty day planners and notebooks are my Roman Empire.

On the few rare vacations I've taken in recent years, I usually have had copious notes of tourist attractions I wanted to visit. Of restaurants I longed to eat at. I would make these lists months in advance, and I'd normally swoon at the very idea of a beautifully planned itinerary.

But not this itinerary! This is . . . Hell, on company branded paper!

I stare at it in horror. "They've given us so much to do," I say faintly. Suddenly, I understand why Dimitrios implied he was going to be our driver for the entirety of the holiday: I'm assuming he'll be the one chauffeuring us everywhere.

"Well, there's not a lot planned for tomorrow at least," Lewis points out, his voice far calmer than mine. I've only just realised how close we are standing, and I edge away from him. "Apart from the boozy welcome brunch at 11 a.m."

But there's something scheduled in most days from the looks of it. And I'm assuming we're going to have to do them together; after all, we're meant to be a couple! It's not exactly like we can split them up between us like tasks on one of my beloved to-do lists and tackle them separately. That would definitely raise some questions.

So basically, our original plan to avoid each another as much as possible is now effectively null and void.

Shit.

"What do we do?" I ask Lewis, only slightly embarrassed by the whiny edge to my tone. He shrugs, much to my irritation. Why is he taking this so well?

"I think we'll probably have to just go ahead and . . . Do the activities?" His voice is thoroughly unbothered, which winds me up further. And I'm already tightly coiled enough as it is; a human Jack-in-the-Box ready to pop. 

"Wow. You're so helpful," I deadpan. I seize the bottle of fizz from its ice-bucket - suddenly, the thought of further alcohol is more appealing than the sleepless fretful night I'm likely to now have. "Fuck," I mutter, as the cork refuses to play ball.

"Give it here," Lewis tuts, trying to take it from my hand, but I hold on to it tightly.

"Not a chance." I've already had enough of his "help". With a sudden burst of strength likely fuelled by self-righteous rage, I manage to wrench the cork free. "You want some?" I offer grudgingly. He shakes his head, grabbing a complimentary bottle of water and uncapping it with far more skill than I just demonstrated.

"I think I'll stick to the soft stuff for now." 

"Suit yourself." I peer curiously at him after I've poured myself a glass of prosecco. "I've got to ask: why don't you seem to be as pissed off as I am about this . . . Additional forced proximity?"

Lewis doesn't reply straight away, but his eyes pass over me like a torchlight conducting a sweep search. I have no idea what exactly he's trying to locate, but it seems he finds me lacking as he huffs slightly dismissively and looks away.

"I guess I just don't hate you as much as you hate me," he says finally, stalking over to the patio doors.

"Well, I know that's not true!" I throw at his retreating back. I still haven't forgotten the comment he'd made to Drew when he'd agreed to the holiday. He mutters something under his breath in response as he heads outside. I watch him flop onto a lounger, his face devoid of expression, and then I turn my attention back to the beautiful suite, wandering around and taking note of all the extra little touches that makes it so special.