A burst of laughter broke free. Thank God for a man with a sense of humour.
“Agreed!” We carried the rest of the wine and the platter back to the view, making do with uncomfortable chairs while I told him about our adventures in Venice.
“And then, in perfect English—I mean, it sounded like he’d learnt English in England, he wishes us a good evening and says, ‘I hope you enjoyed the gondola ride.’” Jean-Luc threw his head back and laughed, and it echoed out across the valley before us. What a lovely sound.
“Jaelee, she is, ah, how would you say?” He rolled his wine glass between his hands as he mulled over his choice of words.
“In French or in English?”
A finger pointed at me as if to say, “Good point.” “Perhaps it is more flattering to her in French.” He raised his eyebrows at me.
“Perhaps it is more flattering if we don’t finish the sentence.” He replied with a wry smile. “Anyway, Lou and I tipped him—heavily—and gave him a gushing thank you, which, I hope, made up for it.”
“She was very bold, that night in Paris.”
“When she approached you on the street?”
“Oui.”
“She was. I get the feeling she is quite forthright in general.” His look told me I needed to explain “forthright”. “She is clear about what she wants.”
“Ah, oui. That seems true.”
“Her being forthright worked out for us, though,” I said.
“It did.”
“But I can’t help thinking, maybe her path in life would be smoother if she was more …”
“Empathetic?” he supplied.
“Yes, sort of. Maybe, more kind. No, hold on, that sounds wrong. She is kind, in her own way. She’s generous and she can be very thoughtful. Only I think her manner … sometimes she could be less abrasive.”
I could tell from his face it was another “look-up word”. “Harsh,” I added, to clarify.
“I understand.”
“Do you get to converse in English much?” I hoped my non sequitur made sense.
He smiled and tilted his head. “Is it obvious?”
“What do you mean?”
“That I don’t.”
“No. I just had a thought that it might be a little exhausting for you, translating everything I’m saying.”
“It is not conscious, or it is a little for the first few minutes of speaking, yes, but soon I start to think in English and it is fine.”
“Good. Parce que mon français est très mauvais.”
“She says in perfect French.”
I shrugged. “That’s my problem. I can say I don’t know how to speak a language in such a way that I sound fluent in the language. It can be very confusing for people.”
“I am sure.”
We finished the bottle and Jean-Luc went back inside for another of the same. He opened it while standing in the doorway, and he lightly scolded us for quaffing too quickly. “I only have one more bottle after this one.”
“No problem. I think we can pace ourselves for the rest of the night.”
“But there is tomorrow night too, n’est-ce pas?”
I hadn’t thought of that. “Tomorrow night?”
“Oui, you are here until Tuesday morning, yes? I have booked for two nights.”
It was both a lovely and a terrifying thought. Most of me wanted to spend the night, have the whole of the next day with him, then spend another night with him before saying goodbye—so much of me—maybe ninety per cent. But the cautious me, the part that knew I wasn’t going to start a relationship with him, hesitated. For a second.
I let the ninety per cent win. “That sounds wonderful. What do you think we should do while we’re here?”
Besides have lots and lots of sex. Oh, and take a bath.
Chapter 16
After a hot-pink sunset so beautiful I’d rushed inside for my phone so I could take photos, Jean-Luc cooked us a quick and simple dinner of pan-fried trout, baked potatoes topped with farm-fresh butter, and steamed asparagus—my favourite.
I love most meals I don’t have to cook myself, but Jean-Luc clearly knew what he was doing in the kitchen and everything was delicious. I also loved watching him gracefully move around the compact kitchen, as though he’d lived in the apartment for years, instead of a few hours. I let my mind linger on the fantasy again, the one where we lived together and it was the end of a normal workday. It was naughty of me, indulging those thoughts. Perhaps I could blame the wine.
I loved the food, but Jean-Luc had served me as much as he’d served himself and being “just little”, I was nearly full when I placed my knife and fork next to each other on the plate.
“That was delicious,” I said, hoping to reassure him.
“You are finished?” He eyed the half-a-potato and small piece of trout I’d left on the plate.
“Yes. I loved it, but I think you’re like Anna, wanting to feed me up.” He smiled, seemingly satisfied with my answer.
“So, you do not have room for dessert?” he asked as he stood and cleared away the plates.
My mind leapt to something extremely adult and a little crass, so I left the thought unsaid. “Uh, not right this minute, but I do love most desserts. What’s on offer?” Is it you?
“Just this.” He held up a block of dark chocolate Lindt.
“Hah! Brilliant. I love dark chocolate. A lucky guess.”
“No,” he shook his head, “I, of course, knew this about you.” We both knew there was no way he could have known. I’d been mad for milk chocolate as a teen.
“Right, I see.” We smiled at each other across the kitchen island.
“Or, I could run a bath for you?”
“Oh, yes, please.” Once he’d said it, all I could think about was luxuriating in that bath. And once I’d followed Jean-Luc into the bathroom, where he turned on the taps and poured in a generous dollop of bubble bath, all I could think about was sharing the bath with him.
He lit the three candles that sat on the windowsill and flicked off the bright bathroom lights, and the room filled with a warm yellow glow. “There,” he said, turning to me at last. “Oh, let me get your wine.”
“Bring yours too.” He looked at me, his head tilted to the side and a slow smile spread across his face.
“I’ll be right back.”
***
“This may be the best bath I’ve ever had.”
“Really?”
“Actually, I’d like to go on the record to say that this is the best bath I’ve ever had. There’s that,” I said, pointing to the view, “there’s this tub—amazing—and the bubble bath smells divine. I mean, honestly, I am being spoiled for every other bath for the rest of my life.”
“Anything else?” he teased.
“Hmm. Oh, and the wine!”
“I see.”
We were head to toe in the giant bath and the bubbles were high under my chin. They only came up to Jean-Luc’s chest, which was muscular with fine dark hair in a triangle that I knew trailed down his stomach in a thin line. He had a terrific body—not too bulky like some guys—just deliciously fit and masculine. I stared at this chest and arms shamelessly while he held one of my feet captive between his hands.