The Little Wedding Island: the perfect holiday beach read for 2018. Jaimie Admans

have to stifle more laughter.

      ‘Enjoy, dears! I’ll be back with a wine refill shortly, and if you play your cards right, there might be a slice of chocolate cake for afters!’

      ‘You’re spoiling us, Clara,’ Rohan says, giving her his widest smile.

      Instead of melting on the spot like I expected her to, she fixes him with a firm stare. ‘I get the feeling you’re someone who deserves a little spoiling, Mr Carter.’ In the blink of an eye, she’s back to her cheerful self, calling ‘toodle-oo’ as she closes the door behind her.

      ‘Well, that was creepy.’

      ‘That was sweet. I think she meant she knew you felt ill earlier and wanted to look after you.’

      ‘Sounded like a threat to me.’ He yanks on an imaginary tie around his neck while making a choking noise. ‘Maybe that’s why they’re so secretive. Maybe every guest who “deserves spoiling” is the next on the hit list for chopping up in freezer bags.’

      ‘Well, I’m in the room next door so if she comes for you with an axe in the middle of the night, I’ll hear your screams.’

      ‘And do what? Lie there listening?’

      I giggle. ‘Pretty much.’

      ‘Look at this,’ he says, poking a fork into his bowl of stew. ‘Talk about meat of unknown origin. What is that?’

      ‘Chicken.’

      ‘Looks like forearm-of-husband to me.’

      ‘You either have an overactive imagination or you’re being funny.’

      His face breaks into a wide grin.

      ‘All right, you’re being funny,’ I say as our legs bump again.

      ‘Do you get the feeling that Clara is trying to play Cupid? The dimmed lights, the candle, the rose petals, the huge glasses of wine and table the size of a postage stamp?’

      ‘I think she might be,’ I say. I don’t add that I’m not complaining.

      ‘I hate that kind of thing. All this manufactured romance. The candle is not romantic, it’s a fire hazard. The dimmed lights aren’t romantic, they’re annoying because I can’t see what I’m eating. What she said just now – my whole personality will change when I find love. I’m so sick of hearing that.’

      ‘But love does change people. To quote Michael Ball, “love changes everything”.’

      ‘Maybe for saps like you and Clara, but not for me. Been there, done that, never doing it again.’ He looks up from his stew and meets my gaze. ‘Sorry. The thing I hear more than anything else is “oh, you just haven’t found the right girl yet”. Like one day I’m going to meet a woman who will instantly change everything I’ve ever believed about love.’

      ‘Which is?’

      ‘Love is a lie. It isn’t real. It’s a commodity used by people to get what they want. And don’t even get me started on weddings…’

      That’s so sad. How can anyone believe that love isn’t real? Even if they haven’t experienced it personally, they still see it around them every day. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him he just hasn’t found the right girl yet, not in a patronising way, just because I think there’s someone out there for everyone and the world will click into place when you meet them, but I bite my lip.

      He looks at me again. ‘Sorry, I went off on one again, didn’t I?’

      I shake my head. ‘Nah. I was just thinking of a guy on Twitter who you would love.’

      He smiles but I feel truly sad as I try not to burn my mouth on the steaming bowl of stew. How can anyone not believe in love? It’s all there is. It’s all we have to look for. We naturally want to find another human we connect with and make a life with them… Work, career, friends, money, all that is fine, but what’s the point if you’ll never find anyone to share it with?

      ‘So you’re not going to be testing out their church of no-divorces any time soon then?’ I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

      ‘Hah. I’d have a more enjoyable time throwing myself under a steam roller.’ He grins and the butterflies take off again. ‘Nah, I told you, I pissed my boss off and got myself stuck with the assignment that no one else wanted.’

      ‘What do you do?’

      ‘I’m the forbidden word around here.’ He looks around as if checking there’s no one in earshot before he leans closer and motions for me to do the same. ‘I am kind of a reporter. I mean, I’m not really, I just write for a magazine, but I am here to write an article about the island.’

      Warmth blooms inside of me. We’re in the same position. ‘Snap.’

      ‘You too?’

      If I smiled any wider, my face would split in half. ‘Yep. I write for Two Gold Rings, you know, the bridal magazine? My boss wants me to find out what’s really going on here. He thinks the people will be more open to…’ I trail off when I realise his face has gone from smiling to deadly serious. ‘What’s wrong?’

      ‘Two Gold Rings… Are there two Bonnies working there?’

      ‘No, why?’ I feel my forehead furrow in confusion.

      The half-smile he gives me is more of a grimace than a smile. ‘I write for The Man Land.’

      ‘Oh, great. Not another one. I suppose you agree with everything that awful R.C. Art twat says?’

      ‘Kind of.’

      My stomach plummets because I suddenly know what he’s going to say before he finishes the sentence.

      ‘I am R.C. Art.’

      My chair legs scrape against the floor as I push myself back from the table like I’ve been burned.

      Rohan Carter. R.C. Art. I should’ve made the connection earlier. I was so busy being wrapped up in how sexy his name is that I didn’t even notice the similarity. ‘No. No, no, no. You can’t be. R.C. Art is old and hairy and bitter and twisted. You’re nice. You make me laugh. There’s no way you are that hideous bloke who writes those awful columns.’

      He doesn’t say anything.

      ‘You lent me your coat. R.C. Art would never do that. He’s way too horrible.’

      ‘You’ve spoken to me on Twitter once. You have no idea what I’m like in real life or why I write the things I do. R.C. Art is a pseudonym from my name and I never use a real photo so no one knows me.’

      ‘I’m not surprised. I’d be embarrassed to be recognised for the kind of bollocks you write too.’ I shake my head. I knew he was too good to be true. I should’ve known from what he said earlier. I should’ve realised he was just as cynical as those awful columns. God, I’m such an idiot. How can I have been stupid enough to think this island had somehow thrown us together in a twist of fate? This whole thing is R.C. Art’s fault, and now he’s gorgeous, funny, and kind Rohan too. ‘You could’ve told me earlier, you twat!’

      ‘I had no idea you were the same Bonnie! I even said I’d met two Bonnies this week. You never told me your surname or where you worked. How was I supposed to know you were the same one?’

      I huff even though he’s got a point.

      ‘Besides, I imagined the Bonnie who attacked me on Twitter was a middle-aged desperado with a lot of cats, not someone nice and otherwise seemingly sensible like you.’

      ‘I didn’t attack you on Twitter!’ I start pacing up and down in front of the table, annoyed that he’s just sitting there with a smug look on his face. ‘You’re the one who screencapped my tweets, cut out your own nasty comments, and called me a deranged obsessive bridezilla