Page 86 of Harper's Holiday Romance

Or something to that effect.

“That does sound like something I’d say, but I’m more impressed you remembered it.” Billie smoothed out the back of my hair. It took fewer than thirty seconds lying down to create bed head.

“I remember it vividly because I disagreed.”

“I know you did. You’ve always been a sucker for a love story.”

Billie pulled me towards the door. She adjusted my top, passed me my handbag, and added a squirt of perfume as we passed the bathroom. It was like a very low-budget makeover show.

“Trust me.” Billie smiled. “Nobody knows what the future holds, but the last thing you want is regrets.”

They were the final echoing words I heard as the door softly closed in the frame behind me. I was on my own.

What was I supposed to say?

I edged closer to her room. I took four steps forwards and three back, pacing the small seating area in the middle of the seventh floor. I walked into the corridor of the stairwell. I considered running down all seven flights and not coming back. I could walk the full length of the resort, return to my room, and pretend to Billie that we’d had a conversation, and it didn’t work out. I could chicken out, take the easy route, and go on with my life like I hadn’t just experienced this amazing connection.

A saying came into my mind like it had been amplified through a megaphone.

Be comfortable—

Be uncomfortable—

Be something being uncomfortable.

Get comfortable being uncomfortable. Bingo.

It was the one quote I could remember because it wasn’t too long-winded. I knew in my heart nothing worth having ever came easy. It was a fact of life.

What did I have to lose?

I spent the next five minutes giving myself a pep talk.

All you have to do is tell her you like her. Tell her she’s beautiful, wonderful, and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to forget her. No, scratch the last part. Tell her you want to spend the next three days handcuffed to her body so she can’t leave. No, absolutely not; that’s creepy.

I edged closer to her room.

“Julia, I want to tell you something,” I whispered.

“Julia, I really like you. Do you like me?”

Jesus. My brain stopped producing meaningful words the closer I got to the giant wooden door that separated us.

“Julia, I don’t think I can spend the next three days with you. If I do I run the risk of falling in—”

Nope. No. I couldn’t say that. This wasn’t a rom-com. It was real life. There was no way, categorically no chance, come hell or high water, that I was falling inlovewith Julia Hanlow. So what if I craved her like I craved my favourite food? So what if she made me more sexually adventurous? And so what if the thought of never seeing her again was panic inducing?

All the subtle clues were there: nausea and stomach butterflies so intense it felt like my insides were being eaten. My heart was racing so fast I feared my veins might burst and the blood would start oozing from my pores—dramatic, I know. My cheeks were flush, palms sweaty, and my head hurt. This feelings business was too extreme. It was exhilarating too, in a weird way, but terrifying.

I stood outside her door.

One deep breath. Two. Three.

You can do this.

I reached to knock on the door and noticed it was slightly ajar.

“Julia,”