15 July 1991

In Greece, the night air is warm, and the idea of a platonic holiday with your best mate, Dexter Mayhew, seems increasingly like a farce, especially after a dinner that went south faster than you could say "faux pas." Then comes the impromptu decision to go skinny dipping—a move so quintessentially Dexter, with his devil-may-care attitude and that infuriating charm that's hard to resist.

Floating there, under a blanket of stars, he tries to smooth over the evening's awkwardness with an apology and a confession that somehow manages to be both endearing and exasperating.

"I mean I felt the same. I didn't write you poetry or anything, but I fancied you," he admits, with that self-assured grin and chuckle, "I fancy you."

But before you can even process it, your heart already beginning to soar, he adds, "It's just my problem is that I...I fancy pretty much everyone."

His laughter cuts through the night, as carefree as the man himself. "I just don't think I'm ready for a relationship. I think...um...I think we'd want different things," he says, the smirk evident in his voice. "But if you...you wanted a bit of fun. No strings, no obligations...I'd be up for it."