Bangkok (That Wedding Girl Book 3) (8 page)

Resting my head on the deck chair, I put my large sunhat over my face as I relish the tropical sun tanning my body in my black triangle bikini. In the distance there’s traffic, but far away enough not to bother me. My cell phone is back at the resort, just two hundred feet away. The events of the last week almost sent me into a near panic attack, but now that feels like a million years ago.

I could sit here all day.
Note to self
, book a holiday to come back here as soon as possible.

“This was such a good idea,” I turn my head to the right to speak to Gabe, in the deck chair next to mine.

“I
told
you,” he replies, his eyes shielded by trendy sunglasses. The large rainbow coloured beach umbrella is tent like, giving us the perfect coverage to bask in this tropical heat without roasting ourselves silly.

After the wedding finished, Gabe insisted staying a few days to explore, and this time he wanted me to join him. I couldn’t resist the offer to enjoy some down time in Thailand. We flew down to Phuket and booked a beachfront resort near Kamala Beach, sixteen minutes’ drive from Patong Beach. Bangla Road is the ultimate gong show where beach loving travellers walk off their hangovers and go-go girls play ping pong at night. But during the day, Gabe and I loved nothing more than peace and quiet, lying on our deck chairs. Soaking up the tropical heat has done wonders for our relaxation. We are only booked to stay here for three days, but I wish it was more now.

“So, what shall we do for the rest of the day?” I ask, my eyes closed.

“Nothing, nothing, and more nothing,” He calls back lazily. “We could always go back to the hotel and lie on the deck chairs there.”

I look down at my bottle of water, which is almost empty. “That’s not a bad idea, let’s go back and get some more iced teas.”

I put my hat over my head and get up, while Gabe remains stationary. “I’ll see you in a little bit then, you look very comfortable there, mister.”

He bobs his head up, waving his hand at me. Okay he’s not coming with me. I think Gabe could lie there all day – he’s tanned a lot since arriving in Bangkok, he’s practically changed nationalities. Throwing my beach cover on and grabbing my bottle of water, I slide my feet into my flip flops and lazily stroll across the sand back to the hotel.

I’ve not been the biggest beach lover, but I am officially converted. The water is warm, bath like even. The sand a pristine silk against the skin.  The salty smell is exceptionally crisp and fresh. The waves roll in blue tips, spreading themselves like fine lace over the beach after they crash in their soft swells.

Not even five minutes pass before I get back to the resort. Hotel guests amble around the lobby and pool area in colourful Hawaiian shirts and dresses, carrying their drinks in plastic cups. Palm trees surround the pool, only to have Kamala Beach on the other side. 

As I walk up to the pool area, I’m gravely disappointed to see that all the deck chairs are taken. Dammit. Never mind, I’ll just take a shower and read a book back in the hotel room. I’ve already gone for a dip at the beach anyway, and I can already notice a light bronze forming on my arms and legs. I’m tanning, properly! Not the usual red, blotchy, peeling skin I get back home, but I’m actually tanning. I will have to remember to take one of those deck chairs later; I want to continue my pursuit of getting a new shade of colour other than ghost white.  

Swiping my key card at the door, I turn the knob to walk into the inviting Deluxe Room located in the Beach Wing section of the resort. With a partial view of the beach, the room is sunlit: modern with timber floors. It feels like an apartment instead of a hotel room, with a separate lounge room for entertaining. I take my flip flops off and go to my suitcase, next to the sofa, to grab a fresh dress.

Ten minutes later, I step out of the steaming shower refreshed and smelling like fresh lychees. I don’t even need to blow dry my wet hair, towel drying will suffice in this climate. Throwing on a fresh cotton dress, I make my way to the lounge where my iPad and phone sits on the brown rattan coffee table.

I flick through my library of books, not sure which one I should start reading.

I scroll down my page, perusing all the colourful covers when my phone buzzes loudly on the coffee table. Ugh. Who could it be? It can’t be Yvonne or Terry; they gave me glowing reviews already. It can’t be the caterers; they’ve already been paid. I sit up and lean forward, and my heart thumps at the sight of the name. Tristan is calling me. I really need to stop getting jittery every time this happens, it’s annoying and stupid. My hands twitching, I grab the phone and slide my fingers to answer the call.

“Hey, what’s up?” I say cheerfully, secretly delighted he’s called me. Even if it’s an expensive call, even if it’s likely work related.

“I take it you had a great time at the wedding, hmm?” He barks down the phone, the anger seeping right into my ear. It’s quiet where he is.

“It’s nice to hear from you too,” I say, confused at his tone.

“Who is he? What’s this shit about him being your future husband? Are you engaged already?”

I need to know what the hell he is talking about before I can defend myself. I drop the phone and pick up my iPad and quickly check my notifications. Dean posted that selfie of us from that night and tagged me. He put a caption next to the photo.

Here’s to us, my future wife! Haha

It’s an in-joke, I think it’s cute. What’s wrong with it?

Oh.

Oh.

I take the phone and put it on loudspeaker, not wanting to risk becoming deaf.

“Are you still there?”

He breathes quietly. “Yes.”

“He was just joking around, we just—”             

“Gee you get around quick, don’t you? I thought you were open to dating, but I never thought you were this easy,” he spits out at me.

Every word stung only fuelling the fire that is burning inside of me.  “First,
fuck you
. I’m on assignment here, and I don’t need to justify how I spend my time. Second, not that it’s any of your concern, he
is
a friend. A real gentleman actually, one that isn’t interested in getting in my pants when I’m at my most vulnerable. And third—”

I can practically hear him gritting his teeth. “You know that wasn’t my intention—”

“I wasn’t done talking. Third and most importantly, you don’t have the right to decide who I can and cannot hang out with. Because I’m not yours, I’m not some play thing you can hog all to yourself then discard when your guilty conscience gets to you,” I have to raise my voice to be heard over him, this combined with my anger giving me a sternness, I’d otherwise not have. That should get it clear to him.

“I know you’re not, I just…”

“Then why do you care—?”

“I just do alright!” he shouts, and I’m startled by the anger in the torment in his voice.

Pause ensues. Tristan lets out an impatient breath. “That night when we shared the bed…do you know how hard it was for me?”

My heart pounds at him mentioning that night.

“I know, it was hard for me too.”

Silence ensues, a very awkward one. We’re both thinking the same thing.

“I think you might be the first woman I’ve shared a bed with that I didn’t sleep with,” he laughs mockingly, reverting to his cocky self.

I scoff. “Well I’m glad I can be an exception to the rule then—”

“You are. The only exception.”

Brain failure. More pause.

He sighs loudly. “Lacey, what are we…what are you…”

After a long pause, I’ve had enough waiting. “What, what were you going to say? Finish your damn sentence,” I demand, eager to know. I can hear hesitation in his voice. I really want him to tell me what I want to hear.

“What do you want?” He blurts out, and I can hear the anxiety in his voice.

I swallow hard. It’s been so long since he’s asked me this question,
but never like this
. When we were growing up together he would always ask me what drink I wanted when he went to the fridge. Whenever we would eat dinner with everybody, he would ask me what bowl of sides I wanted. I’m in disbelief he’s asking me this now, after all this time.

“I…I…”

I want to be with you
, but I don’t want to admit it. I can’t. Because he’ll say no, I just know it.

“I’m happy with things the way they are. Let’s stay friends,” I reply abruptly, biting my lip in an effort to stop myself saying anything else.

I hear a quiet breath escape his lips. “Fine, forget I called. I’m pretty hungover at the moment so I apologise in advance for this phone call. Anyway I have to go, enjoy the rest of your trip.”

He hangs up and I can only hold the phone, allowing the numbness to seep into my pores.

Just like that, my holiday is over and I’
ve lost my head again.

End of Part Thre
e

Grabbing the box of tissues, I groan when I realised I’ve grabbed the last one.
Ugh
. Somehow I’ve gone through a fresh box in the last six hours, and my nose is still flowing like the Nile River. 
This flu is ghastly. I have a clown red nose; my voice has gotten so hoarse and raspy that I think I have become a man.
Given how hectic my schedule has been over the last three weeks, I’m not surprised that I look like I’m two shades away from being a living corpse. 
To say I have been busy is a massive understatement, which has clearly taken a toll on my body. Ever since I came home from Bangkok, the enquiries have been flooding in. There was a wedding in Bali five weeks ago, one in New Zealand this past week, and one in Fiji coming up in two weeks. I think I’m starting to getting the hang of all of this and setting myself into a rhythm - I get to plan the wedding from the comfort of my own home, and communicate with the client via phone, email, and video chat. Depending on what the client wants, Gabe and I will hop on a plane and finalise it all there. Even though it’s challenging and testing at times it’s pretty damn fun, and I’m glad I made the switch.

Now, if only my body would heal. I’m sick of being sick.  I’m been stocking up on zinc and vitamin C supplements and drinking ginger tea to help cure me of this blasted flu, and I’m finally getting on the mend. Gabe is a massive germaphobe and won’t even come within ten feet of me, so I’ve been cooped up at my place alone for the last four days.

In search of more tissues, I get up, tightening the waist tie on my thick waffle robe as I walk to my bathroom. Taking a glance at my reflection, I snivel at the sight. I look pale, more than usual. My nose is no longer red, but my eyes still look very sunken and bruised. My wild hair is sitting loosely past my shoulders. At least no one has to see me like this, all bare and gross. Opening the medicine cabinet, I take out the antibiotics my doctor prescribed, as well as my facial exfoliant. Turning the tap on, I fill up a glass of water, and then fill up my basin. Taking the tablet first, the feel of tepid water rinsing my face feels so good, cleaning all the dead skin off. I feel better already.

Things have been busy with Tristan too. The business is rolling along nicely, and the growth is exponential. I’ve even had the chance to speak with some of the other people in the team and I’m impressed – Tristan has done well. Everyone in the team is incredibly talented and experienced, far more experienced than me. I feel rather honoured to be working with such seasoned professionals, including Valerie Perkins, his Director of Marketing with over twenty five years’ experience. She loves chocolate too! I’m really happy for him, his hard work is going to pay off and the business is his baby.

I’m glad things have been busy, because it’s forced some distance between Tristan and I. I haven’t seen him in weeks; we always miss each other with our respective assignments, so he’s either back in Sydney and I’m away, or he’s away when I’m back home. It doesn’t mean I don’t miss him any less, because I do. A lot.

Even though there is a clear connection between us, I know better than to pursue something that just won’t work. It’s just too complicated, I’ve resigned myself to this. There are plenty of other guys who aren’t my brother’s best friend, plenty of guys who aren’t my boss.

Even if he’s the one that I want….

As I finish moisturising my face I hear a loud knocking on my door. Who could that be? Closing the light in my bathroom, I walk towards it, tucking my hair behind my ears. 
I’m expecting my neighbour Mrs. Winkleman to be in her waffle robe with her small jar which I fill with sugar, or possibly Gabe.

I am so wrong. This is one person I never would have expected to show up at my doorstep. Flannel jacket, boot cut jeans and hiking boots. 

Tristan.
Breathe. Just. Breathe
. This time it’s a lot harder because of my stuffed lungs.

“What are you...?” I trail off.

He smirks, “I thought I’d say hi. It’s been a while.”

It sure is. Does this guy have some special knack for wanting to see me at my absolute worst? Tristan has never been to my place before, and it has to be the one time where it’s an absolute mess. Crumpled tissues lie everywhere, several un-rinsed mugs sit on my coffee table, a few pairs of underwear rest on the couch.

“What’s up?” I say, my voice impassive. It must be important if he needs to show up here.
“You look really sick,” he looks concerned as he looks down at my thick robe. He’s holding a small paper bag.
Just what I wanted to hear. I drum my fingers on the door, trying to act confident when I am really a mess on the inside.
“I’m so glad you could tell,” I say, my voice nasally.

He smirks. “Are you going to let me in or what?”

Why? He will definitely get sick if he takes one more step.
Save yourself!
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“I think it is.”
“Can’t you hear how nasally my voice is? How bad I look?” Where is my foundation when I most need it?
 

He scoffs. “Your voice sounds the same, what are you talking about?” That naughty grin makes an appearance, and I scowl at him. I certainly don’t need to put blush on.
“But you couldn’t look bad if you tried,” he adds, looking right at me. “Here, this is for you.”

Without giving me a chance to react, he hands me the paper bag and walks right in forcing me to back into the living room. The bag is heavy.

What is he doing? And why am I suddenly feeling nauseous?

Closing the door behind him, he analyses my apartment starting with the hydrangeas, to the yellow wallpaper, to the abundance of antiques. I use the chance to look at what’s inside the bag. It looks like a box, black and shiny. I take it out of the bag and hold it up. It’s beautiful. It’s heavy and feels handmade, with some fancy gold embroidery on the top cover. I open it up and I have to stifle a gasp that threatens to leave my mouth. The most beautiful wrapped chocolates, all in different colours and shapes. Gold, silver, green, red.

“Thanks, Tristan.”

He’s on the other side of the room, looking at the kitchen.

“I got the impression you like chocolate, I figured you can store your favourite chocolates in there or whatever.”

I guess he isn’t such a bad boss after all. He continues to looks up and down the living room and its timber floors.

“So this is your humble abode.  It’s not what I expected at all,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow. “Be very careful what you say next.”

He laughs softly. “It’s different, in a nice way. And I’m not just saying that.”

All of a sudden, my nose feels itchy again and I sneeze, the thick and phlegmy mucus inside threatening to make an appearance. 
“Go sit on the couch,” he looks at me, his face deadpan.
“No it’s—”
“Sit,” he barks as he walks towards the kitchen.
 

Groaning under my newly blocked nose, I plop on the couch as I watch him manoeuvre his way around my kitchen. Just a few guesses but he manages to find the utensils, honey and green tea. He puts the kettle on, and drops a tea bag into the mug. 
I can take care of myself, he doesn’t need to boss me around. Even though he technically has a right to do so.

Breathing through my nose as quietly as possible, I sit here, secretly giddy that he’s making a cup of tea for me.

After a few moments he comes back with the tea and honey, setting it down on the coffee table. Sitting on the couch with deliberate distance from me, he starts to pour the golden syrup into the hot drink when I grab the bottle from him. I see a cut on his wrist, it looks fresh.
“No, that will just get rid of its nutritional content, here let me.”

“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” 
I flip the lid open and pour it into the spoon, eating it straight. Yum, it coats my throat in the most delicious way.
I put the spoon down and grab the mug of tea, blowing into the piping hot liquid.
“So, can I ask what I did to deserve this unexpected visit?”
He looks at me drinking the tea. “I landed my biggest event to date, and it happens to be a wedding.”
He doesn’t have to say anything else, because I know what he means. “So that means—”

“We’ll be working on the wedding together.”

“Perceptive one, you are.”

I swallow hard. Tristan personally oversees the big fish clients, and to date I have not had the chance to see him at work. This should be interesting…

I shrug my shoulders. “Sounds good, when do we start?”

“Now, if that’s okay.”

I do have that one in Fiji to finish up, but I’ll work this one in as well as giving it to Gabe to take care of

“So where’s this one?”

“Paris.”

I blink rapidly. “As in Paris, France?”

He nods. “The client is paying big dollars for us to plan the whole wedding. So first class, and all accommodation and expenses are paid for.”

Paris, the City of Lights? My dream destination? Calm down Ryan!

I clamp a hand over my mouth, hardly able to contain my excitement. Baguettes, berets, croissants, black jeans. I’m there.

“I take it you’re excited, since you’re speechless. And you’re never speechless,” Tristan says.

“We’re going to Paris?” I gush, trying to avoid sounding like a twelve year-old girl.

He rolls his eyes. “Oh right, it’s supposed to be romantic and all?”

I didn’t expect him to say romantic. That’s not his style.

“Of course it is! It’s the City of Love.”
Oui oui
!

He looks at me appraisingly before looking away. Again I’m forced to look at the freshly cut wound on his wrist.

“I’m glad you’re looking forward to the trip, I am, too.” He clears his throat and quickly resumes a steely resolve. “I am going to warn you in advance, I am going to piss you off from time to time.”

“I didn’t need you to warn me about that,” I tease.

“I expect this event to go without a hitch, do I make myself clear?” He demands, his voice brusque.

I do a salute gesture. “Aye, aye, Captain Groucho.”

“So, if you wanted to get started now—”

His mouth pops open as I grab his hand and inspect the wound. I can’t ignore it anymore.

“When did you get this? It looks bad.”

I graze the cut gently, careful not to touch it too much. The blood has dried up, but it still looks nasty.

He shrugs carelessly. “Just cut myself a bit before. It’s nothing.”

It’s not nothing. His excuse is lost on me as I get up and go to the bathroom to grab my antiseptic and a bandage. I go back to the couch and sit down where I spray a generous amount on the cut.

How can anyone let a gash like this go untreated, it’s beyond reason!

“You really don’t have to.”  I can feel him focusing on me intensely.

“Yes, I do.”

He watches me in silence as I start to apply the bandage on the offending area. Much better.

“It’s a shame I haven’t been able to see you much lately,” he says casually but I can hear the tightness in his voice. “I didn’t have anybody to keep telling me to drink green tea.”

I laugh. “Well I think you can remind yourself perfectly fine. Work’s been hectic huh?”

I feel his eyes staring heatedly as I finish up wrapping the bandage, nice and tight. “It has, everything is progressing nicely. All my employees have their own backlog of clients, the most important priority is client satisfaction. I want them to be blown away by what they get. Of course that means I don’t get to be home as much—”

“I missed you,” I blurt out. There. I said it. I don’t even regret it, I just wanted to tell him. 

I peek up to see him looking slightly embarrassed. He looks so handsome like that, and I blush. Why do I have to be sick right now, why? What I wouldn’t give to have perfect make-up, a nice dress on and my normal voice back right now.

He quickly looks downwards, clearing his throat. “You know what I wouldn’t give right now to…but you’re sick.”

Dammit, he’s right! Curse my immune system. I think of the only appropriate response.

“Let’s save the fun for Paris alright?”

His eyes widen slightly, pleased with my comment. “Alright then. I think I can wait until then for some fun, can you?” 

I blush at the way he is looking at me. His mouth is sinfully delicious, oh god I can’t forget how yummy he is. I’m keen for another taste, another feast.

“I don’t think a bit of delayed gratification hurt anyone.”

Paris, here we come.

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