“I saw her flirting with you.” I scowl. “And you’re only human, male at that. You can’t blame me for jumping to conclusions.”

“I can, actually. Yes, she offered to show me around her staff quarters, which may or may not have been a euphemism for something else. And to be honest, she seems perfectly nice. But just because I’m a man doesn’t mean I have sex with anyone offering it. I do have some morals.”

I smile in the dark, but make a harrumph noise. “I wouldn’t know. I barely know you.”

“I know. But I’d like that to change.” His tone is quiet and serious, and I feel a thrill run through me at his words. I don’t know what to say, so I just sit quietly. He sighs and shuffles around, stretching his legs out on the lounger and interlacing his fingers together behind his head.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m keeping you company.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t. I want to.”

“Why would you want to sleep out here when you have a perfectly good hotel room inside?” I echo his earlier words.

“I don’t know. I guess I prefer the company.”

We lie on our individual loungers, so close I can hear him breathing, and look up at the night sky.

“There’s the Southern Cross,” I say after a while.

“So it is.” He chuckles. “I almost had that tattooed on my shoulder once. Thought it was a good way to show the world what a proud antipodean boy I am.”

“Seriously?”

“I was drunk. It seemed a good idea at the time.”

“So what stopped you?”

“I don’t really want to say.”

“Why not?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“OK, well, now you have to tell me; it’s only fair.”

“How do you figure that?”

“I’ve already embarrassed myself tonight by jumping to conclusions. If you tell me it might help me feel better.”

He sighs. “I was in the chair, the guy had the needle poised and ready, and then I saw a picture on the wall that I, in my drunken wisdom, decided was much cooler, so I got that instead.”

I wait. He is silent.

“So?” I prompt. “What did you get?”

“I don’t want to say.”

“Oh, come on. You can’t tell half a story. That would be incredibly annoying. Just tell me.”

He sighs again, exaggeratedly. “Fine. Homer.”

“Sorry, Homer?”

“Simpson. Homer Simpson.”

I stifle a laugh. “You got Homer Simpson tattooed on your shoulder?”

“Yes. Holding a can of Duff beer.”

“Why? I mean, seriously?” I laugh outright then. “How could you think Homer was cooler than the Southern Cross?”

“Like I said, I was drunk. And in my inebriated state, I thought Homer was a good representation of the way I should view life.”

“Which is?”

“Fearlessly, I suppose. Although stupidly could be another way of saying it. I don’t know if you’ve ever watched an episode, but I have. A fair few, in my younger days. He never lets anything stop him from doing what he wants, or going where he chooses. And somehow, no matter what scrape he gets himself into, it always works out OK in the end.” He says it emotively, rousingly, as if he’s giving a motivational speech.