Page 5 of The Forbidden Fling

Chapter Two

Diana

Diana swirled the golden liquid in her glass, inhaling the floral aroma, trying to pinpoint the various notes. She pursed her lips. Truthfully, it was a little too sweet for her liking. Probably not worth the headache. As she edged ever further away from forty, even the smallest taste of alcohol left her with a throbbing temple in the morning. But she had to pass the time somehow.

She’d opted for a private transfer to the port, unable to stomach the idea of squeezing onto a sweaty bus with a handful of strangers. Unfortunately, they’d still arrived a moment too late. Even Diana’s fifty-euro offer couldn’t convince them to let her cross the choppy water to the island.

Diana tapped at her phone to light up the screen, but still she had no messages. She’d asked her daughter to let her know when she arrived at Sandy Springs, but their chat sat idle, with Diana’s last three messages unanswered.

It wouldn’t be the first time she’d received the silent treatment from her daughter, but she’d hoped that her agreement to attend this three-week course at Sandy Springs together meant they were finally turning a new page.

So far, no dice.

A raucous bellow of laughter came from the other side of the bar, and Diana narrowed her eyes. She’d already fended off the men’s advances with a sharp bite when they’d spotted her sitting alone. The oldest of the group, a round man with a quickly receding hairline, reminded her of her ex-husband, Jason. The way his deep voice carried over the room, his exaggerated arm movements, and his preference for crinkled polo shirts were enough to induce a sickening wave of déjà vu.

Even though they’d been divorced for over a decade, it never failed to amaze her how quickly those memories could resurface. Remembering dates, deadlines, and other professors’ names—that took real brainpower. But her ex-husband’s cutting words still lingered in her mind, taking up valuable space.

“You’ve abandoned me, and you’ve abandoned your daughter.”

Diana sighed and took another sip from her glass, letting her gaze pass over the collection of pictures and signs decorating the bar. Rain hammered against the small windows; the candles placed on the empty tables flickered, filling the room with the scent of pine. A tasteful collection of mismatched chairs and sofas placed around the room gave the space character. Plus, the wooden bar-top was smooth and not sticky. Sitting here beat checking—then rechecking—her emails in her tiny room, even if the wine was sub-par.

Unable to fight the itch scratching at her any longer, she grabbed her phone and pulled up her inbox. No matter how many times a day she checked, there were always fresh emails waiting for her. Her heart quivered when she caught sight of one from Harvard, announcing who was taking over her socioeconomics classes. She tightened her grip on the phone as she read the name—Selena Borgo, her eager French colleague who was always nipping at Diana’s heels like a perfectly groomed miniature poodle.

Bloody hell.

She fired a quick text off to her agent, Leanne, and sighed, rubbing her forehead. This Sandy Springs course better be worth the leave she’d taken from work. In Diana’s field, she couldn’t afford to sit and admire the view. Especially when Selena Borgo was breathing down her neck. What had started as a visiting post at Harvard had the potential to become something more permanent. Diana wanted to be first in line when that happened.

The door squeaked open, and a woman entered, big doe eyes nervously flitting around. The room held its breath while her eyes steadied on Diana, weighing something.

She wore a simple blue hoodie and jeans, but something about her shifted the energy in the bar. Her make-up accentuated her natural cheekbones, a slender nose, and full lips, her dark hair falling long and straight past her shoulders. A few loose strands framed her face imperfectly. Simple, yet oddly striking.

The woman brushed her hands over her torso, perhaps a nervous tell, before making her way over. Then her clear turquoise eyes, winged with thin black eyeliner and eyeshadow that shimmered under the warm light, locked with Diana’s. The well-rehearsed Portuguese greeting she offered caught Diana by surprise.

“Boa noite,” Diana returned, catching how the woman’s cheeks warmed.

As she leaned on the bar, her soft scent—petrichor and vanilla—filled Diana’s senses. She let her gaze drift over her clean baby-blue hoodie and oversized jeans as she sipped at her wine, trying to guess the woman’s order. Gin. Something fruity, maybe. Diana collected data all the time, observing people. She couldn’t help it.

“Do you have anything non-alcoholic?”

That surprised her again. As did the woman’s accent. She hadn’t expected her to sound so English, so…Northern. She followed her with her gaze as she took her drink and sat on the other side of the room in an orange armchair. A light buzz coated Diana’s skin, from the wine or curiosity about the woman’s presence—maybe both—and she stroked her thumb over the cool stem of the glass.

Her phone buzzed across the wooden top with a reply from her agent.

Leanne: I knew it! Selena would jump in your grave if she thought it’d give her a leg up

You know what you have to do, right?

Diana: I’m not stalking her social media to dig up dirt

Three dots bounced on the screen. She imagined Leanne’s lips pressed together. Fingers moving at lightning pace. Black, springy coils falling over her eyes.

Leanne: She’s squeaky clean. I’ve tried

Diana: I don’t want you to do that

Leanne: If you’re not the lion, you’re the dead antelope

And get writing that damn book! We have to move quick while publishers are still interested