In this state, I drift off to sleep once more but am woken again when my phone starts ringing loudly.

Logan groans and I reluctantly jump to life, wanting to silence it before he’s fully roused. Staring at the clock on the bedside table, I see that it’s only eight AM. Too early, I think grumpily. Hurriedly finding my phone, the caller ID tells me that it’s my mom. Strange, I think, it must be past midnight in Brazil where she’s currently holidaying.

“Hi, Mom,” I whisper, scurrying to the bathroom and closing the door.

“Darling!” she cries loudly, alerting me straight away to the fact that she’s well and truly drunk. “Darling, I’m at a disco,” she shouts.

I grin into my phone, and pull on a bathrobe to stave off the cold. Outside the hotel I can hear thunder rumbling, and down the phone line I can hear loud music thumping away in the background. “I can hear that,” I say. “Are you having fun?” I ask needlessly.

“It’s brilliant here. Everyone is so friendly, and I just wish I could stay longer,” she says.

“Why don’t you stay an extra few days?” I suggest before remembering that I’ve promised Mary-Gene an appointment with her.

“Alas, my booming business needs me,” my mom explains. “How are you, sweetheart?” she then asks.

“I am excellent,” I say enthusiastically, smiling into my phone. “I’m in the south of France this weekend,” I tell her. “Logan surprised me by bringing me to the Hotel Beaux Rêves.”

“Uh…” she thinks back, “is that that fictional hotel you’re obsessed with?” she wonders.

I laugh out loud. “It’s not fictional.” Obviously, I’m sitting in it. “But, yes, the one I’ve always wanted to come to.”

“He’s trying to get into your pants,” she says hastily, as if trying to warn me off a conman.

I laugh again. Oh, mom! “He succeeded sometime ago,” I confess, only doing so because I suspect she’ll remember little to none of this conversation after she’s had a good nights sleep.

“I see...” she sounds disapproving. It’s the exact reaction I’ve come to expect from her. The only feelings that she has for men since her divorce from my stepfather six years ago are disdain and disrespect. That a man could be honest and genuinely affectionate is beyond her capacity to comprehend. “And you still think you love him?” she asks, inadvertently telling me that she received my email last week during which I professed my love for Logan to her for the first time.

“Definitely,” I smile again.

She’s silent for a long, telling moment.

I roll my eyes. “Just be happy,” I say, irritated. “It’s a good situation, I promise you.”

“Hmm…”

“Mom!” I exclaim, my irritation turning to anger.

“Alright,” she says in surrender. “I trust you,” she tells me earnestly. Then changing the subject — which automatically picks up her mood — she says, “So, I just called to say hello, and I figured you’d be up early on your way to work, but obviously you’re playing hooky.”

“I never work on Sundays…”

“It’s Sunday?” she shouts.

“Yes,” I tell her, my annoyance all but gone and my grin back in place. Discoing a little too much, maybe?

“Not Monday?” she checks.

“It’s Sunday,” I confirm.

“Oh, goodness, I must be having even more fun than I thought,” she giggles.

Fun being codeword for alcohol more like!

“Stay safe,” I impress, “and I’ll see you later in the week,” I say, electing not to tell her about Mary-Gene’s salon appointment, now certain she won’t remember it.

“Si! Take care, darling. Say hello to Logan from me,” she says.

Ah, progress, I think gratefully. “I will,” I smile. “Love you. Bye!”

A little too inebriated to hang up the phone swiftly, I hear her order another round of drinks before the line finally goes dead. Laughing to myself, I turn my phone on silent — no more early morning wakeup calls, thank you very much — and then I creep back into the bedroom as quietly as I can.

It’s pouring rain outside, and so for the next several hours Logan and I just lie in bed, entwined, semi-awake. Hours of making out, falling back asleep, holding one another, listening to the heavy rain, and making out some more. It’s utter bliss! We’ve never given ourselves the time to spend so long like this, but being on holiday is the perfect excuse for our laziness.

It’s past noon when we finally order up room service, our stomachs grumbling loudly. I call down to make the order while Logan stands at the window, surveying the weather. After I hang up I join him, hugging him from behind. I’m almost shocked to see a blue sky outside. The storm has evidently passed.

“I have something planned for this afternoon,” he says, running his hands up and down my arms. “I thought I’d have to cancel, but the water has settled.”

“We’re going out on the water?” I ask, excitedly.

He turns around and nods. His stomach grumbles again, and smiling, he says, “But first the skipper needs to eat.”

* * *

An hour later we walk out along the hotel’s signature, picturesque jetty, and I sigh happily as I take in the view that I’ve waited years to see. So this is what Fitzgerald saw when he wrote my favourite book, I muse, taking in the stunning vista. Joy rises in me. I’m finally here, I’m finally seeing what he saw…and all because of Logan. Feeling full of gratitude, I reach up mid-step to kiss his cheek.

“I love you,” I tell him, and before he can respond, I repeat my words half a dozen times.

I’m eventually quiet enough for him to say, “I love you too, baby. I love seeing you take in this view, knowing that it means so much to you.”

Oh, Logan! I swoon at his words. His thoughtfulness in bringing me here is so much more than I’ve experienced in my life before now.

“That’s why I’m taking you somewhere special,” he continues.

We’re going somewhere specific, I wonder, I thought the experience was simply going out on the ocean. “Where to?”

“C’est une surprise,” he smiles. It’s a surprise.

At the end of the jetty our boat sits in the water and a man stands on the dock, patiently holding a silver tray with two flutes of champagne on it.

“Bon après-midi,” he nods at us. Good afternoon. “Appréciez s’il vous plaît,” he says, as we take the flutes. Enjoy.

Logan helps me step into the boat, which I do carefully, willing myself not to spill the champagne; this stuff is too good to waste. Once Logan’s onboard as well, the butler-cum-waiter walks back up the jetty drawing my line of sight with him, and I gaze at the charming-looking hotel with admiration. I can’t believe I’m really here, I muse again, brimming with love for the man sitting next to me.

Before I miss my chance, I quickly finish my champagne and while we wait for our skipper to arrive, I take out my phone, hit the camera app, and capture the view in every direction. One attempt at a panoramic shot, which includes the hotel, the ocean vista and Logan on the boat, results in a photograph that I know instantly will end up on my wall.

“La plus belle vue,” I smile at Logan. The most beautiful view. And he really is. No amount of architecture or Riviera views, stunning though they may be, come close to how heart-achingly beautiful Logan is. He is rare amongst men, and certainly unprecedented to me.

He enjoys watching me play the tourist, grinning back at me, before he stands up and puts both of our champagne flutes back onto the dock. “Alright, well… I guess we should get moving,” he says, walking right up to the control deck. He starts flipping switches and pushing buttons and the boat comes to life beneath us.

I stare at him incredulously, my mouth open in surprise, and when he glances over his shoulder to check my reaction, he laughs jovially at what he sees.