Page 45

My first and last real summer romance was when I was eighteen years old.

I was travelling with a friend through Europe after we’d finished school and we were having the time of our life making our way from one amazing city to another, with no set plans for anywhere at any time.

We’d show up to a city, find a hostel where we could stay and if we liked it there, we’d stay for a few days, or if we didn’t think it was quite our vibe, we’d pack up our backpacks and head to the next destination.

We were young, we were single, we were free of responsibilities and worries – and we met some brilliant people along the way.

One of those people was Romain, who we met in Hvar, Croatia.

Travelling with a group of friends from Paris, Romain was staying at the same hostel as us, and to say he and I hit it off would be an understatement.

He was gorgeous, funny, smart, and the French accent is top-tier sexy.

I saw him making eyes at me the first night of our stay when his group invited us to join them heading out for the evening, and as soon as we got talking, that was it. I was hooked.

It lasted just under two weeks – very handily, my friend developed a crush on one of his friends, so she was happy to head to Dubrovnik with them after Hvar.

It was the perfect holiday fling: we saw sights during the days, got drunk in the evenings, partied together at night – we fancied each other so much, we couldn’t keep our hands off one another.

But then it was time for us to go our separate ways – he was going back to Paris, we were travelling on to Split and then Italy.

We messaged each other for a while, but eventually, our contact fizzled out.

It didn’t matter, though; it was better that way, better to cut ties before things got complicated and reality set in.

He would always be up on a pedestal for me, though: a dream-like fantasy of a guy, the beautiful, perfect Romain.

I’ve always known that no romance could ever be as carefree and perfect as those two weeks in Croatia. I was wrong.

I was completely, fucking wrong.

Because my God, this past week with Leo has been mind-blowing. Like something out of a film, I feel like I’ve been living my very own romantic montage. All it needed was a Hall I’ll make sure of that.

I’d make an exception for Leo, but for him to read anything about the way I’m feeling at all would require him to talk to me or even look in my direction.

But he does well to avoid both for such a long period of time that I wonder whether I’ve upset him.

It was a bit awkward this morning when he left the flat for training.

Neither of us spoke about tonight – he’d banned me from mentioning my flight home all week, because he argued that by lingering on when I was leaving, I wasn’t committing myself to enjoying the now .

‘Like when you’re surfing,’ he reminded me, when my legs were entwined around his in my bed, his hand resting on the dip of my naked waist, ‘if you focus too much on what might happen in the future, you miss what the water is telling you at the time and, whatever you do, it will never be as good. You should live in the moment.’