It's the last day of Gemma's island holiday.  It's now or never.  Once she's back home in England she won't get a chance to wear the outrageously priced, bright yellow bikini she'd lusted after so desperately.  So far it hasn't made it past the bathroom door.  Now it's lying, along with Gemma's deflated ego, on a chair beside her 'Queen bed for one'.  Another reason to feel deflated.  Bravely, she slips off her shorts and tee, and slides, straps and ties herself into the bathing contraption.  There certainly isn't much of it, she reflects, examining herself in the mirror and wondering what the handsome young gardener will make of her today.

Toting her beach-bag stuffed with towel, sun-screen and her last Harlequin, Gemma totters off in heels more suited to dancing than tripping over sand.  Like the bikini, they feel daring and sexy - exactly how Gemma feels, or wants to feel.  With a death grip on the floaty lemon wrap that threatens to waft away, exposing her to the worlds malevolence, she gives no further thought to her ditched, sensible, safe, black seal-skin.  Tripping her way down the path towards her usual spot on the beach, her eyes eagerly seek him out.  Suddenly he's there.  Blimey, what on earth...frantically she processes it.  The handsome young gardener and sometime room attendant, who Gemma has been 'making cow eyes at' all week, looks different.  He's swopped his trademark pants and shirt uniform for surf shorts, casual t-shirt and thongs.  Gemma blinks.  What is this?  She sashays on, blinking furiously - on autopilot now, her great British reserve in play.  Concentrates on not biting down on her bottom lip - she's no Anastasia...or is she?  Her eyes focus on the flower pinned to his tee: it matches the colour of his clothes.

Now or never.  She's feet away from the focus of her daydreams - the cause of some very uncomfortable, sweaty nights.  The focus of those sweaty nights is grinning broadly and looking immensely pleased with himself.  Gemma is still processing.  Too distracted to spot the pile of beach paraphernalia some kid has abandoned on the path.  Too pre-occupied to note the young man's grin falter and slide...as Gemma's heels catch on a bucket and she pitches forward like a felled flower about to face-plant the unforgiving gravel path.  Dark, strong hands are quick and comforting, and Gemma finds herself upright again, pressed firmly against a dreamy muscular chest.  She gasps, as much at the shock of her tumble, as at her sudden nakedness, for her fickle wrap has taken the opportunity to fly away.  Its departure reveals some serious solar damage to her tender skin; it makes a curious contrast with the blinding white of her, exposed by her new togs.  Her gaze though, remains on the flower pinned to that chest; in view of her now delicate situation she is no longer brave enough to meet his knowing eyes.  Instead, she wonders lovingly at its colour: it is yellow.  Up so close to the pollen, Gemma's nose tickles dangerously and she senses a sneeze coming on.  The second best thing to an orgasm, she's heard.