Wish You Weren't Here (A Romantic Comedy)

Chapter Eight

Dinner is awkward, of course. That's hardly surprising; it's me and Lewis, after all!

Koutouloufari, however, really is beautiful. I instantly fall head over heels in love with it. Traditional tavernas - many including roof gardens with fabulous views over Hersonissos and the nearby sea - line the narrow streets, and the entire place just seems to hum with life and colour.

It's perfect. Exactly my kind of vibe.

Dimitrios drops us off at the restaurant Milos recommended, and we're led into a pretty outdoor space, surrounded by brightly coloured flowers and trees. With the cloudless sky above us and the sun still burning brightly, it would make an excellent photograph for a postcard. I imagine sending the image back home to Lauren, emblazoned with the classic caption "Wish You Were Here". Then I shoot a glare at Lewis, who is casually studying the wine list as if he doesn't have a care in the world; I really wish he wasn't here!

It's a good thing I'd already decided on the lamb because the owner of the restaurant insists on bringing us over to the outdoor wood oven to show us the meat being cooked; I would have felt super guilty if I hadn't wanted to try it. That being said, I find it hard to act particularly engaged as the owner tells us more about the cooking process.

Lewis, on the other hand, is actually genuinely fascinated - or putting on a very good act - as he seems engrossed in the guy's monologue and even manages to ask a few pertinent questions. I'm struck, admittedly not for the first time, at just how good he is with people. He could charm the metaphorical (and probably occasionally literal) pants off anyone. Apart from me, of course. I'm immune . . . and he doesn't exactly make an effort with me anyway.

"Did you really care that much about that guy's meat?' I can't help but ask once we've ordered. I've opted to get the aubergine starter: something light to counteract the heaviness of the lamb. It's only when Lewis snorts loudly that I realise how carelessly I worded my question.

"Well, he's not really my type, to be honest," he laughs as I cringe. He shrugs. "But he was clearly very passionate about his food, and it's nice to be nice."

"That's rich coming from you," I snigger, and he frowns.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asks mildly. Curious dark eyes fasten to my face, burning into mine. I'm briefly transfixed, trapped in the fire of his gaze. "Are you trying to say I'm not nice?"

"Not to me, anyway," I find myself blurting out. He shakes his head.

"That's not true." His voice is quiet all of a sudden, and he abruptly breaks eye contact, looking away and dragging a hand across his face. "I - I've tried my best with you." He sounds somehow . . . Defeated?

I am about to demand that he elaborate further, but the waiter chooses that precise moment to appear with the wine; and, of course, we're invited to taste it before we commit to a grape. I've personally always found this little ritual so odd in a restaurant - even if I wasn't a massive fan of the wine, I'm highly unlikely to denounce it "inedible swill" and demand a better variety! But maybe that's just me; I generally don't like to make waves.

"So we have a free day tomorrow!" Lewis says quickly as soon as the waiter leaves us alone again. It's almost as if he's desperate to change the subject. "I was thinking I could clear out early, and you can have the suite to yourself." He smiles, and it seems kinder than usual. "You'll be able to laze in the pool without worrying about me disturbing you. Even wear that transparent swimsuit if you want!"

I'm immediately suspicious . . . and then have to tell myself off for instantly jumping to the conclusion that he must have an ulterior motive. What's wrong with me? I accuse him of never being nice to me, and then when he is, I question it? Maybe I need to give him the benefit of the doubt once in a while!