Even though the time was right, Caro Flynn was finding it hard to let go.

Tears pricked her eyes as she glanced around The Roca Bar for the last time, memories threatening to overwhelm her; the good, the bad, and the utterly heart-wrenching. It had, after all, been her home for the past five years since graduation.

But the moment had come; there was no turning back.

She knew that she would miss it dreadfully. Miss the friends she had made, Mariella in particular, who was her closest friend on the island. Miss the dramas and holiday romances - not always hers.

“You take good care of the place,” she said to the new owners, a couple of ex-pats who had been regular visitors and had fancied retiring to run a bar, handing them the set of master keys that were never far from her side. A pang of bittersweetness overwhelmed her. “And look after Mariella too. Don't work her too hard; she isn't used to it.”

She took one final look around the bar, so different now from when she had first walked in and started working there. The Roca Bar was a club in the Alcudia region of Mallorca, at best half-full on a good night but mostly pretty empty before Caro took it over. She surveyed all the changes that she had made to make it the success it was now. Her heart swelled with pride at what she had achieved.

But the decision had finally been made, after many hours of agonising and several changes of heart, to leave.

The opportunity to replicate what she had done with The Roca Bar back in North Ridge, where she had gone to university, had become too much of a lure.

Caro felt a brief twinge of guilt overtake the sadness as she left. While she hadn't exactly lied to Mariella about why she wasn't going clubbing with everyone after her leaving party, it wasn't quite time to call it a night. She wanted to spend her last few hours on the island alone.

Instead of heading back to the apartment she shared with Mariella, Caro headed off to Juju's. Juju's was a popular bar with locals and tourists alike, which often hosted open mic nights and karaoke. It was one of her favourite places and she loved spending time there listening to music and watching musicians perform. Set just off the main square in the centre of town, it had a cavernlike appearance, with stone walls, low tables made from old beer barrels, and a bar top hewn from local granite. Although there was a pretty big crowd at the bar, she was able to find herself a spot near the back of the room to watch the evening's entertainment with a large glass of the local Mortitx rosé wine.

There were a few people having a go at singing, with varying levels of success, which usually related to their level of drunkenness. A bleached-blonde girl, bursting out of a skintight lycra dress, was currently murdering something that sounded like Taylor Swift, although Caro couldn't be sure, such was the quality of the sound. After a few aborted attempts, the girl finally gave up, making way for a singer with an acoustic guitar, who caught Caro's attention despite the screech of feedback that reverberated through the room as he adjusted the microphone.

“Good evening,” he said, “and thanks for taking the time to listen to me.” His eyes fell on Caro, and although she was sitting at the back of the crowd, she could see him smile at her. Tapping his foot to count himself in, he started to sing.

Caro's eyes narrowed. His voice was soft, evocative, strong.

And familiar.

She couldn't put her finger on where, but she had heard it before.

She studied him. Long dark hair framed his face; a face with exquisite cheekbones that wouldn't have been out of place on a male model, although somewhat hidden by a week or so's worth of beard. And deeply intense, piercing blue-grey eyes, that she could easily get lost staring into, behind a pair of plain, black-framed glasses. He was dressed in skinny dark blue jeans and a simple, long-sleeved black t-shirt, blending in with the holidaymakers' style, but just different enough to make him stand out.

It was clear he knew how to command an audience. The female contingent appeared enthralled as he sang, and even the majority of men were nodding or singing as he ran through a few popular covers. Caro couldn't remember the last time that Juju's had witnessed someone so talented.

Searching the depths of her brain, she wondered again where she recognised him from.

After he finished his last song, he spoke again.

“Thanks for being a fantastic audience tonight. I wonder if you might indulge me and let me sing one last song, something I've written myself.”

There was a general murmur of agreement. He'd been entertaining enough and, by the sounds of his guitar skills, wasn't about to play anything too offensive.

He started to play again, plucking the strings with more passion and confidence than he had done when doing the covers.

Caro watched, spellbound, as he became lost in his own world, not realising that she was actually holding her breath. She closed her eyes and let the sounds wash over her; his warm, chocolatey voice causing her body to melt.

All too soon it was over and he received rapturous applause. Caro's eyes flew open and she watched several members of the audience flock round him, congratulating him on the set and asking questions. Caro reluctantly turned her attention back to her drink, wanting to stay, yet knowing she ought to leave. She fiddled with the stem of her empty wine glass, looking at the crowd at the bar.

“Can I buy you another?”

She turned and stared directly into those intense, blue grey eyes.

And drowned.

He held out his hand. “I'm Nate.”

Caro hesitated for a moment. One of the perils of being known around the island was that people tended to treat her differently; particularly musicians who had heard of her through the nights she ran at The Roca Bar, as they always wanted to know if she could get them a gig. Usually, she had to tell them to politely fuck off. But Nate appeared perfectly genuine, not to mention incredibly talented, and she didn't want to risk spoiling a good night.

“Olivia,” she said, giving him the name of her best friend back in North Ridge. She was leaving early in the morning; she would never have to explain. “And yes, I'd love another glass of wine, thank you.”

Nate and "Olivia" ended up talking late into the night, until the bar staff were tidying up around them. Three bottles of wine had disappeared, the ashtray on the table was overflowing, and the conversation had drifted along almost as freely as the alcohol. They talked about everything, but each managed to deflect anything personal with questions that sent the other off in a totally different direction or ended up in glasses being refilled or more cigarettes being lit. It felt perfectly natural when Nate reached for Caro's hand to study the infinity tattoo on the inside of her wrist, and stroked the skin there, before massaging her palm with his thumb.

After the bar staff politely asked them to leave, they walked hand in hand along the seafront, looking like any other couple on a romantic holiday.

Coming to a halt outside Hoposa Uyal, one of Puerto Pollensa's most popular hotels, Nate gestured to the building.

“This is me.”

Caro nodded, not surprised that he would be staying somewhere like that. She wondered whether he had a room-mate or hordes of friends that would be waiting for him to come back. She found herself hoping that he didn’t.

They stood awkwardly outside the door. Caro wasn’t sure whether she should make the first move, but wasn’t ready for the evening to end.

Nate traced a finger along Caro's jawline, causing a tingle to course down her spine, pooling at her groin.

It had been the lightest of touches, but at that moment, she knew she wanted him. Taking the initiative, she reached into the pocket of his jeans and located his room key, dangling it in front of him.

“Your place?” she said, with a small smile.

He all but dragged her up the stairs to the second floor.

They crashed through the door to his room, not giving any thought to the occupants on either side, kissing wildly, hands everywhere; touching, stroking, caressing. Gently pushing him away, she kicked off her sandals and peeled off her white and black butterfly-patterned dress, revealing beautiful black lace lingerie and a voluptuous figure; full, creamy breasts, a tapering waist and curvy hips.

Sliding in behind her and discarding his glasses, Nate pulled her caramel-streaked hair free from its messy bun, tracing a line of kisses along her shoulder blade and up to the sweet spot behind her ear. She shivered involuntarily as his beard scratched her skin, feeling his guitar-calloused fingers stroking the tiny intertwined letters of 'C' and 'J' tattooed at the base of her neck, intertwined with thorns. She hoped he wouldn’t ask what it meant.

She turned and pulled his t-shirt over his head, revealing his own set of inks, and she immediately realised why he had been wearing a long-sleeved shirt. Intricate designs covered his chest and ran down his arms, meaning that he would be judged before even opening his mouth. They intrigued her. She wondered what each of them meant to him, if they had their own significance like hers. Running her hands over his chest, she caught his nipple ring with the nail of her index finger and dropped her head, circling the sensitive skin around it with her tongue, feeling him getting harder against her. He unbuttoned his jeans as the two of them fell on the bed, quickly pulling on a condom before the moment was lost.

It was brief, it was dirty, but as the crashing orgasm they shared subsided, it appeared to unlock a release Caro hadn’t realised she needed.

* * *

Caro woke abruptly some time later, momentarily confused by her surroundings. Where was she? As the room came into focus, she realised she was in a hotel. And that she wasn't alone.

Glancing over at Nate, who was snoring softly beside her, she remembered the glorious end to the previous evening. She gently traced the outline of one of the tattoos on his shoulder with her fingernail and watched him twitch, but not stir. Reaching into her bag for her mobile to check the time, she spotted numerous missed calls from Mariella. It was just after ten and she was due to fly out from Palma at one.

“Shit!” She grabbed her clothes and hurriedly pulled them on. She debated whether to leave Nate a note but couldn't find anything to write with. They hadn't swapped numbers and she couldn't see his phone to text herself his details.

Then she remembered that she'd lied about her name.

It was highly unlikely that she would ever see him again, so she quietly let herself out of the room, a smile creeping across her face.

That was certainly one way to remember her last night in Mallorca.

* * *

“Where the hell have you been? I've been out of my mind with worry, your last night on the island and I didn't know where you were...”

Mariella had already packed the last of Caro's things and was standing, arms crossed, in the centre of their living room. She reminded Caro of how her mother reacted to her nights out when she had been a teenager. Or at least she would have if she hadn't been wearing denim hot pants and a tiny crop top that was knotted under her breasts; not exactly the most maternal of outfits.

“And you're wearing last night's clothes. Who did you hook up with?” she said. “Was it Paulo?”

Caro was already stripping off her dress, heading into the bathroom for the quickest shower ever, and chose not to answer. “I'll tell you all about it later,” she said. “I'll be ready to go in a few minutes.”

She made the flight with moments to spare, after yet another tearful goodbye with Mariella. She’d had to call in a favour from one of her taxi driver friends to get her to the airport as quick as possible.

Being the last person on the plane was never a fun experience, and Caro slunk into her aisle seat, trying to be as invisible as possible, as the passengers surrounding her in business class threw poisonous glances her way. Even the cabin crew had been overtly frosty. The business man she was seated next to was already snoozing as the plane took off, and she was grateful for that. The last thing she needed was someone giving her more grief about why the plane was late. When the crew finally came round with the drinks trolley, Caro gladly accepted a glass of wine from the steward, despite the beginnings of a creeping hangover.

She couldn't stop thinking about Nate, how they had talked and talked. And connected. Had things been different, she would certainly have left him her number.

With a sigh, she put on her headphones and pulled a copy of Roccia from her bag and idly began flicking through the pages to pass the time. A short article in the news section about North Ridge caught her eye. She took a large sip of wine a read on, always interested to read about new local talent.

Recently signed to Numb Records, Alik Thorne and the rest of the Blood Stone Riot boys play their last gig at The Vegas in North Ridge next week before decamping to record their as yet untitled four-track EP at the renowned Newcomen Farm studios.

Set for release in the next few months, the band are also to film their first video to accompany the title track, "Bleed Like Cyanide," in addition to playing a number of low-key showcase gigs in preparation for their debut appearance at the Wilde Park Festival.

Caro almost spat out her wine in shock as she re-read the article and studied the picture that accompanied it more closely. There was a black and white photograph of a singer, caught by the camera snarling into the microphone. He was wildly attractive, with chiselled cheekbones, eyes flashing with passion, and bare-chested, showing an array of tattoos and a nipple ring.

She knew she had seen him before.

Knew that she had recognised his voice from somewhere.

In the magazine shot, he was clean-shaven and his hair was shorter, and he wasn't wearing glasses; looking totally different to the man she had left in bed that morning. But she certainly recognised the tattoos, having spent time up close and personal with them.

With him.

He had lied.

His name wasn't Nate.

Suddenly Caro was acutely aware of the fact that she had just slept with one of the hottest new properties in rock music.

Shit.