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tall windows and cresting his head. All that’s missing is the sound of a celestial choir as he looks directly at me, his eyes warmly reflecting recognition, and—I can’t help it—I beam back like a schoolgirl of the very gauche kind. I think I might also hazard a small wave. And by that I mean massive; I may as well have yelled Cooee across the grand space. Then I notice he isn’t alone: a table for two and his plus one is supermodel material.
    My plate quivers, the tremor, I realise, actually in my hands. Willing my feet to move, I try to make sense of Matt’s moving mouth, his concerned face hovering over mine.
    ‘You okay? You’ve gone a little red.’
    Not surprising, considering my insides are on a spin-cycle somewhere between delight and despair. Blame my idiocy on that smutty dream and resulting orgasm? That has to be it. He’s hardly been hit by the ugly stick since I fell off the ladder, and I managed to retain all of my faculties then. My current reaction makes no sense. I’m all . . . agitated. Stimulated. Stirred . And on top of all that, he’s here with someone else.
    Matt. Oh, hell .
    ‘I’m good,’ I squeak belatedly, thrusting my plate into his hands. ‘Can you take this back to the table? I—I think I’ll go and splash some water on my face. You’re right, I am burning. It must be the champagne . . . or something.’ Words fall in a rush, my smile attempting to fool us both.‘I’ll be right back!’
    As I dash out of the restaurant, Niamh’s words echo in my head. It’s all well and good being who you want to be, but what happens when who you want to do, doesn’t want you?

Chapter Five
    Blame the bubbles for my reactions?
    My palms are clammy, my stomach swirls as my heart continues jack-hammering.
    Or maybe Matt’s right, maybe I am ill.
    Who am I kidding? The crushing disappointment is a give-away like a swift punch to the ribs. But why do I feel so affected, I barely know him. I’ve had one, albeit stirring, exchange and that bloody dream. Maybe I just need a moment alone, a moment to process my reactions rationally, to have a stiff word with myself .
    Or maybe stiff would be just the thing .
    Avoiding the guy playing a grand piano in the foyer, I spot an oversized chair secluded from general view by a massive parlor palm. Deciding it’s as good a place as any for my self-imposed time-out, I throw myself into it, wishing I could crawl into the upholstery and hide. I’ve sworn off men, my head accepts this, but seems to have forgotten to send the memo to my suddenly rampant lady bits.
    Ridiculous. What’s the use of all this analysis when, clearly, he doesn’t date girls like me?
    Wonder if he does girls like me? On a one-off basis? No. I won’t—
    ‘Hello, Ms Saunders.’
    Suddenly, there he is, standing before me. Beautiful. Unavailable. And causing me to shoot from the chair like an electrocuted cat.
    ‘Kai! What are you doing here? I mean, I didn’t know you were . . . here.’
    ‘Didn’t you just wave at me?’ His sly grin grows as he looks at me, he kind of  examines . It’s the best explanation I can come up with. My skin prickles, I feel scrutinized, oddly naked. Nope, not going with that line of thought.
    ‘Wave? I—I thought you were someone else.’ I cringe as the words leave my mouth.
    ‘I’m sorry to disappoint.’
    As he smirks, idiocy flames in my cheeks, my stomach and heart jarred and seemingly jostling for space.
    ‘Oh, I didn’t mean—’
    ‘I’ll recover. Eventually,’ he adds, clearly delighted in helping me make a fool of myself. Like I need his help . . .
    Taking my hands in his much larger ones, the warm softness of his lips suddenly brushes my left cheek. The subtle graze of his stubble does funny things to my knees, our noses almost touching as he leans in for a repeat on the other side . God, I hope he doesn’t notice me inhaling . But he’s so close, I can’t help myself. It’s a bit like walking past a