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1
SEPTEMBER
SKY
The world tourwe embarked on four months ago pauses here, aboard a yacht moored on the Mediterranean. We’re hidden amongst the other luxury boats, close to the St Tropez shore, but not near enough to be seen. The peace is at odds with busy Paris we left two days ago, and a relief.
Dylan can’t understand why I want to return to England, but four months is a long time to stay away when previously the longest holiday I’d had was two weeks in Greece with Grant. I don’t count the crazy Blue Phoenix tour earlier this year. That trip around the States almost blew the band—and us—apart.
Dylan’s already visited many of the places we pass through over the weeks but is as clueless as me about where to go and what to do as tourists. We also underestimate the press attention. There’re weekly shots of me and Dylan. We don’t need a holiday diary; the press are creating a travelogue for us.
Pissed off with the constant intrusion, Dylan borrows a boat from an actor friend. I was wary at first, remembering the last boat trip we took to the island, which resulted in me almost vomiting over Dylan’s shoes. However, the thirty-three meter yacht worth more than my old house is incomparable to a small speedboat, and thankfully my stomach contents remain where they should be.
My first time on a yacht, and this isn’t what I expected. A floating hotel with plushly decorated suites, every inch meticulously clean, and the chrome shining. The boat usually comes with crew, but Dylan rejected them, protective of our privacy.
I recline on the deck, glass of wine in hand, thankful we’re moored far enough away from shore to avoid cameras, or at least see them coming. Nearby boats are far enough away not to be intrusive, the situation peaceful after the city stays recently. The large, blue cushioned chairs half cover the deck at the rear of the boat, and nearby is a gated part, which leads straight into the water. Not for me though.
My broad-brimmed hat casts shadows across my bare legs; legs tanned over the last few months, and I secretly admire my new colour. Annoyingly, this brings more freckles out too; an all-over beautiful tan can never be mine. Dylan spends a lot of time suggesting I sunbathe topless to complete my tan. We didn’t stay in the sun long the first time I did, which means I’ve only done this once. Not that I ever need persuading into Dylan’s bed, and despite the fact we’re together 24/7, our relationship stays strong.
Dylan appears and I appraise him from behind my large sunglasses. As if even possible, the new bronze to his toned body increases his heat level, the tight abs begging for my nails to scrape across them. My eyes follow the curve of the muscle to his black board shorts low on his hips, and to the v shape disappearing into them.
Moistening my lips, I look up to greet him, but his full mouth is pursed, brow dipped as he taps the screen of the phone in his hand. I remove my sunglasses; Dylan rarely looks stressed these days and his consternation worries me.
“You okay?” I ask as he crosses and sits on the edge of the seats. His warm leg touches mine, and I run my fingers along the tribal tattoo snaking around his thigh.
“Liam’s engaged,” he says, continuing to tap a message on his phone.
“Oh wow, awesome news.” I smile, happy for the band’s bass player and Cerys. She deserves Liam much more than the actress he almost married. I like Cerys, she’s normal, but this all happened quickly. Dylan’s face remains stony. “Or not?”
“And they set a date.”
A prickling realisation why Dylan is pouting begins. “You think he’s rushing into this after Honey?” I ask, knowing full well this isn’t the answer.
For a long moment, Dylan gazes out across the azure sea, where the midday sun ripples light across the water; the surroundings calmer than the atmosphere growing between us.
“December,” he says eventually. “Three days before Christmas.”
“How romantic,” I say, then immediately regret the words as Dylan’s frown grows.
“So you want a December wedding?” he asks.
I curl my fingers around his. “Don’t.”
“Butwegot engaged first,” he protests.
“Seriously? Do you know how childish that sounds?” I sit forward and poke him in the chest. “It’s not a competition.”
“At this rate, everybody will be married before we are!”
“Jesus, Dylan, don’t you think you’re overreacting a little? I don’t exactly see Jem or Bryn beating you to the altar.”
Dylan huffs. “I just want to marry you, Sky. Why are we waiting? What for?”
His eyes reflect confusion, and I attempt to hide my nerves. Hasn’t Dylan learned not to push me into something I’m worried about? Over a year since we met, and he hasn’t learnt his lesson.
“Don’t....” I warn him.
“You never give me a straight answer when I ask.”
