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Thomas has it all: nobility, money, the girl, and a position waiting for him at the family business. But when he thinks about the life ahead of him, he can't breathe. So he takes a gap year backpacking.
Nadia...
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Frigid wind darted through the streets of Cusco, skating across puddles, and sending wisps of mist into swirling eddies. Little broke the pre-dawn torpor. A stray dog, an intoxicated tourist stumbling home, rubbish collection crews. Otherwise, the valley was at peace.
Moonlight illuminated the downstairs room where Nadia sprawled diagonally across a sofa bed, her arms and legs splayed, and one foot dangling off the edge. A thin track of saliva trickled down her face and pooled on the pillow. She was snug. Safe. Enveloped in the peacefulness of slumber.
A beeping slashed through the silence.
"Argh!" Her hand darted to grab the phone, but it slipped off the bed and skidded across the polished wood floor. "Oh, for fuck's sake!"
Nadia threw back her duvet and pushed up on to one elbow, peering into the dimness. Too much hard liquor, the altitude and the early hour made her head a thick, fuzzy hell. All she wanted to do was to fall back into sleep.
The beeping persisted. Too loud, too insistent.
She rolled to the floor, crawling on hands and knees as she made towards the glowing-white screen hidden below a couch. Reaching under, she stretched her arm to its limit and swept back and forth until she grasped it.
She slid back and sat up on her haunches, finger poised to push 'Stop,' and gasped as she read the reminder: 'Inca Trail 5 a.m. collection.' Her heart leapt. Then she registered the time: 3:45 a.m. She needed to get cracking.
The night before, Mr Bossy Pants had ordered her to the shower and then to bed. Now she had no idea where to start. Coffee, she decided.
With a groan she stood and padded over to the kitchenette, her body shivering with cold and excitement. There was something special about being awake at this time, before everyone else, as if she was in on a secret. It was invigorating. The sensation was compounded by memories from the previous evening, setting her on edge.
The tap faucet squealed as she filled a jug. Water slopped onto the bench when she poured it, with sleep-deprived clumsiness, into the drip machine. Ignoring the puddle, she grabbed a fresh paper filter, spooned in coffee grounds, flicked the switch and let the appliance do its work.
Done, she turned, and, still wrapped in a disorientated fog, pulled herself upstairs to wake Thomas.
She found him awake, dressed in a half-zip sweater of grey-marl wool and a pair of navy chinos which hugged his long legs in a way that should have been illegal. Standing, hands on hips, he looked every inch a model surveying his perfectly organised packs, ensuring that all was in order — as if it wouldn't be.
He turned to look at her, his hair slicked back, face freshly shaved with a slight-pink sheen, the scent of bergamot and clove emanating from him.
She reached up to touch her hair, feeling a mass of static fuzz as she caught a whiff of her own scent: Eau d'Sweaty Sleep. With a loud huff, she spun on her heels and stomped downstairs.
