So I wandered about the town, drifting in and out of storefronts. I bought a couple of T-shirts and a piña colada from one of the kiosks and milled aimlessly along the shoreline collecting shells. I took off my trainers and allowed the ocean water to caress my feet, sitting beneath a beach palapa to finish my drink and watching the world carrying on without me. I missed Caro. I missed chatting to someone. Laughing. I hadn’t laughed for weeks.

After a while a van pulled up on the beachfront – a shabby rental with dirty plates. A half-naked guy jumped out the driver’s seat. He wore black jeans and his chest was bare, his T-shirt dangling from his waistband – his chest was the most magnificent specimen I’d ever clapped eyes on. And I knew immediately it was him – The Hottest Turtle. I didn’t even need to look up and see his face.

I threw my plastic glass in a nearby trash can and followed him at a distance as he opened the back of the van and climbed in, coming out with two empty boxes and a huge roll of bubble wrap which he set down on the pavement. I remembered his aunt Salomé saying she was moving premises and that he was coming to help her.

I still had his note in my back pocket, the one he’d left for me.

The closer I got, the more detail I could pick out from the safety of my straw hat – a sheen of sweat on his back. White paint flecks on his jeans, in his jet-black hair. The tattoos on his side, his underarms, the base of his neck.

But I couldn’t go any closer than that. I couldn’t take another step towards him. This gorgeous man, who I would normally stand on heads to get a piece of, was like The One Ring – luring me in but repelling me too. Because I knew where this would go – I’d start trusting him and calming down and being all happy and when I least expected it, he’d break me. And Rhiannon would come back, full throttle, and he’d end up like Craig or, worse, AJ. I didn’t want to go there again. Like Caro said, you never break your own heart. I had to keep it safe. I had to be on my own.