Forty Eight

Hugo’s catch saved me not only from an ungainly tumble but also from losing the last scraps of dignity I still clung to after the bikini fiasco.

“You really must be more careful, Mrs Cassilas,” he whispered, his still-wet chest pressed far too close for my heart’s comfort.

I eased him away, lungs working overtime, though not from shock so much as from the steady assault my husband launched on every line of defense I had left.

A few minutes later, freshly changed and sipping chilled watermelon juice, Hugo handed me a small flyer.

“I have a romantic idea for this afternoon,” he declared, cross-legged on the bed in a white T-shirt and loose linen pants that made him look like a yoga prince. I narrowed my eyes, wary.

“You know, your last ‘romantic idea’ ended with water in my ears and a bikini nearly swept away.”

“This one is guaranteed to be more elegant,” he said, bright with enthusiasm. “We’ll cycle through the old village—apparently it’s full of aesthetic photo spots.”

My curiosity st