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Tim was the one who gave the calmer ‘reality check’ talks.

But the crowning moment of Take it Off was, of course, the season finale, when the contestants would come in dressed in their old fat clothes and pull them off in front of a live audience as everyone chanted, Take-it-off!

Take-it-off! Then the contestants would reveal their new, thinner bodies, clad in spandex, as they wept on stage.

After some journalist exposed the show’s questionable practises, Tim and Shayna disappeared from the public eye.

Here they are five years later, out of hibernation, looking untouched by time.

Presumably they’ve been informed that here, we don’t use the words fat or thin– unless it’s an acronym for something else, apparently.

We don’t say weight, or size. I used to think that was more virtuous.

That was back when I hadn’t heard of gaslighting.

I track these two as they move towards the food. Shayna serves herself an assortment of fruit while Tim ladles out some oatmeal and sprinkles it with fresh berries. Are you the monster?

They walk up to a table of guests. ‘Can we join you guys?’ says Shayna in a voice like sandpaper. I imagine twelve seasons of berating contestants would destroy anyone’s vocal cords. Everyone fawns. Oh my god, of course! Yes, please– what an honour—

I watch them settle. Tim, tanned and blond, is in a leather jacket– who wears leather on a tropical island?– and Shayna’s dressed in yoga pants and a sports bra, exposing a rippling bronzed midriff. I put a mental star next to both their names in the roster I’m developing in my head.

Two tables over, this summer’s Mental Wellness Consultant is holding a court of his own.

Pat Burton, author of The Secret Mind-to-Body Equation , New York Times bestseller, though there are rumours he bought his way on to the list. Chiselled face with a neat silver beard; white hair pulled back in a nub of a ponytail.

Single earring, wide-leg white pants and an A-shirt exposing pale, toned arms. He’s surrounded by five older women, all leaning towards him like they’re trying to inhale him.

This initial inventory is slow work. I take another long sip of coffee, ignoring the restless pit jiggling in my stomach. Like Jessica’s old game with food, you have to give the flavours time to bloom into your awareness. Not rush to conclusions. Open your mind to the possibilities.

‘Bacon. Eggs with bacon, please.’ A voice, rich and masculine, draws my attention back to the omelette station.

The voice belongs to an unreasonably handsome thirty-something man dressed in a waffle-weave Henley and joggers that look more suited to a woodsy lodge than a beachy resort.

Still, he cuts a fine figure. Wide-shouldered, built like a rugby player, with tousled dark hair and a five o’clock shadow.

I try and fail to match him with one of the pictures from the file.

‘I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have any processed meats available.’

‘Isn’t bacon … cured?’

‘I’m afraid that smoking, salting and curing are all considered—’

‘Yeah, yeah, OK. Got it.’ He takes a wider stance and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his joggers. He’s muscled, but not like a body-builder or a movie star. He’s more rugged. More natural. And obviously, clueless. ‘What about sausage? Maybe chicken sausage?’

‘Sir,’ the young chef says patiently, ‘I’m afraid that sausage is also a processed meat. Have you met any of our nutritionists?’

‘You know, it’s OK. I think I’ll just get some coffee.’

‘We have a nice assortment of wild mushrooms—’ says the chef, but too late, the guest is walking towards me, shaking his head.

I scoot aside to allow him access to the carafe. He’s so unlike any other guest I’ve ever seen. I’m having trouble taking my eyes off him.

‘Fuck,’ he mutters. He poured too fast and spilled.

‘Here,’ I offer, grabbing a wad of napkins and mopping up the spill before it can spread further. ‘I got it.’ As I complete the clean-up, he tops off my mug too. Then, we both lean against the counter, bookends on the small alcove, cradling our respective coffees.

‘Don’t tell my boss, but I miss bacon too,’ I admit in a mock-whisper.

‘Nothing like it.’

‘Crispy.’

‘Savoury.’

‘Salty.’

‘And so very processed,’ he adds, giving me a sidelong look.

We share a muffled laugh, followed by a strangely charged silence.

Handsome men are a dime a dozen at the Riovan, but there’s something different about this guy, and it’s not just his shameless penchant for bacon, or his stockier build.

I take him in briefly, in stolen glances, and notice the curl of a tattoo peeking out from under the cuff of his Henley.

There’s an intensity to this guy; a self-possession.

Something… powerful. Something raw. A little tingle sweeps my skin.

Not a response I should have towards a guest. In fact, not a response I’ve had towards anyone… since Jessica.

‘You’re a lifeguard,’ he says. ‘Right?’

‘What gave it away?’ I deadpan.

He grins. ‘Well. I’m an appalling swimmer, so it behooves me to be friendly with whoever’s going to be saving my life.’ He thrusts out a hand. ‘Daniel Black, by the way.’

I snort with laughter. Behooves me ? Who the hell talks like that? As he folds his hand around mine and I feel the strength of his shake, I mentally turn the pages of the guest files again. I know I saw the name Daniel Black, but there were a lot of pages, and a lot of names...

‘I’m Lily.’

His gaze is both direct and disarming. As though his brown eyes can see straight through bullshit. Straight through me. Flustered, I drop my gaze and pull my hand back.

‘This is my first time doing a health trip… thingy,’ he says, his tone low, confidential, a little amused, like we’re both in on the same joke. ‘So… I hope I can keep up. Seems like a pretty intense experience.’

I laugh in spite of myself, because that’s an awfully casual way to refer to an exclusive wellness retreat that he’s paid thirty thousand dollars to attend. Plus tax.

‘Yeah, the four-week intensive is definitely… intense.’

‘It’s not my normal scene. I guess I gave myself away to the omelette master over there. But, you know, that’s the life of a journalist. You go where the story is.’

Instantly, my skin prickles. ‘Oh, you’re here doing research?’

‘Huge feature on wellness tourism for Fit Life . Have you heard of it?’

‘No.’

‘Ouch.’

I wave a hand. ‘I’m not into magazines.’

‘Not a reader?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

Daniel’s eyes crinkle. He sets down his coffee briefly to push his sleeves above his elbows.

The man’s forearms are rippling with muscle and tendon.

Yes, I imagine them braced over me in a compromising position.

And yes, I immediately toss the thought into the trash bin, where all such thoughts must go.

‘Sorry to have made assumptions. You must get that a lot.’

‘Meaning …’

‘Meaning that you look like a living Barbie doll, and people project their own ideas about what that means on you.’ He pauses. ‘No offence.’

Fuck, this guy is full of surprises. Gorgeous and on point? Unfair.

‘No offence taken,’ I say. ‘Actually… I appreciate that you said that.’

‘I bet that makes it hard to trust people. Romantic partners, especially.’

‘Um…’ An alarm blares in my head. Too close too fast! But also, how is this guy reading me this easily? It is hard to trust people– because there are so few deserving of trust. And for the past five years, let’s just say I haven’t let anyone get past light flirting with me.

‘Sorry,’ says Daniel, eyeing me. ‘I guess that’s another assumption, isn’t it?’

Yes, it is. But it doesn’t mean he’s wrong.

Mom was gorgeous. She liked to date. People assumed she was a slut.

I was only twelve when I realized I was going to be gorgeous like Mom.

I remember the morning it dawned on me. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror in my pyjamas, touching my face, my heart pressed tight between warring feelings of exhilaration and deep dread.

Beauty made Mom’s life harder. It put a target on her back, and that morning, I felt the target on mine, too, as real and physical as my skin, my bones.

Let’s just say I did a lot of hiding in oversized clothing when I was a teenager.

And then …

Jessica.

She waltzed into the bar where I was working in downtown Cincinnati with her bevy of college friends and her fake ID, and everything changed.

‘I’ll have a Cosmo,’ she said in her breathy voice, fixing her big blue eyes on me, and she must have seen something in my wry grin, because she quickly amended her order.

‘Or… what do you recommend?’ For the first time in my twenty years of existence, that night at O’Malley’s I was actually thankful for my looks, because they made her notice me.

Daniel’s gaze is locked with mine, like he’s watching the memories play inside my head. His clear brown eyes don’t waver, and I squirm internally.

‘Well… you know what they say about assumptions,’ I say with forced levity.

He grins. ‘And I’d love to make it up to you. Drinks? Tonight, at the Sunset Bar? Zero assumptions. Just two people talking.’

Suddenly, all I can think of is Vic’s directive during training last night– the same as every year.

We don’t expressly forbid relations between guests and staff– we’ve learned the hard way that putting a lot of beautiful people together has consequences, ha-ha– but we do ask that you exercise good judgement and discretion.

And this is your friendly reminder that all guest-related information and activity at the resort is covered in your NDA.

‘I don’t know…’ I demur. It’s not even that he’s a guest. It’s that I haven’t been on a date since Jessica. I should just say no, right?

‘It’ll be fun,’ he promises, leaning against the counter, easy in his body, his expression frank.

Fun. The mental trash bin disgorges its own version of what fun with Daniel might look like.

‘I…’ To my horror, I feel my nipples harden under the thin red fabric of my suit. The white material of the cotton sweatshirt won’t do much to disguise that, so I wrap an arm around myself and angle my body away from Daniel. What are you doing? Just tell the guy no and take a cold shower!

Across the dining hall, Vic catches my eye and taps his wrist. Right– I’m due at the east pool in five minutes.

‘I’d better get to work,’ I say, pushing off the counter.

‘I’ll be at the bar at eight.’

Damn. Tenacious.

For a second, I flirt with the idea of meeting him tonight.

Dressing up a little, doing my hair, having…

fun. Yes, there’s some rare chemistry between us.

Of course some repressed part of me wants to indulge that connection.

I mean, the way that man touched me with his eyes alone …

But I remind myself that he’s not just a cute guest. He’s a journalist. It would be plain stupid to talk to him, even off-record.

My continued presence at the Riovan depends on a certain amount of invisibility, and the last thing I need is a journalist picking away at the layers.

Invisibility. Huh. A strange callback to my teen years, I suppose, except that this time around, my beauty is the disguise.

‘We’ll see.’ I toss Daniel a parting smile as I walk away. ‘Catch you later, Daniel Black.’

‘Catch you later, Lily Lennox.’

I don’t turn around.

Of course the image of him waiting alone at the bar tonight makes me feel a bit guilty.

But come on. He’ll have no trouble finding someone else to buy a drink for.

Whether he’s after ass or info for his article, the Riovan is full of potential candidates who will be glad to provide either– or both.

It’s only when I get to the pool that I realize: I never told him my last name.