his way again, noticing how his wrist rests almost negligently on the top of the steering wheel, the tension pulling the tendons taut. My gaze wanders a little higher, snagging on a little more of that delicious forearm porn, my thighs clenching against the worn leather seat as a wave of nervous anticipation washes over me.
“You look so deep in thought.” The words almost burst free from my lips. “It makes me wonder what you’re thinking.”
“Does it?” He glances my way with definite amusement this time. I think maybe that’s all he’ll offer when he adds, “I was wondering if you’d like to know my name.”
Yes. Desperately. I want to know who he is and where he comes from and if he really got those crinkles at the corners of his eyes from squinting at the sun while on a yacht. But I’m also a little anxious, I think. I don’t want to get into the conversation about how I’m supposed to be in a bar overlooking the azure blue of the Mediterranean, drinking overpriced cocktails while my friends encourage me to flirt with the eye candy there. I don’t want to tell him how annoyed I am at Charles or how sick I am of my job or how my love life is the pits. Mostly, I don’t want to admit to the fear that my life might never get any better than this. I’ve been messed around so much by men, and I desperately want this to be different. Defining. A moment when I stop letting life happen to me and instead make it happen.
“So you’re like, an international girl of mystery.”
“Hardly.” I snort. Good thing he can’t see what’s going on in my head.
“Then you’re unconventional.”
I bite my tongue from making some quip about the Brits and their eccentricity, but I don’t fit the stereotype. I’m not normally a creature of whimsy, and no one who knows me would describe me as quirky or bohemian or anything as interesting as that. But tonight, maybe I can be.
“Convention is overrated. You know what isn’t overrated? Wine.” I turn my attention back to the rain-pelted window, wondering if I’ll need a glass or a bucket to carry me through my charade.
A few minutes later, the car drives through an ancient-looking arch heralding the entrance to a tiny town, the kind that was built when cars were horses and with neither the topography nor the inclination to accommodate the change. Well, save for a car park. As luck would have it, the garage is to the right of this, though in keeping with my luck today, it’s already closed.
“What are we going to do now?”
“I happen to know the owner lives at the top of the village. He’ll be in the auberge, the local inn, right about now.”
“How convenient.”
“I thought so.”
“You must be a local,” I return while thinking it’s more likely he’s holidayed here at one point. Maybe rented a gite or little house in the village.
“Something like that.” He ducks his head, peering out into the dark, wet night. “We’ll need to make a run for it.” He glances across at me as I begin to contort myself a little, reaching down to loosen the strap of my shoes.
“I already broke the heel,” I explain. “I don’t want to add breaking my neck into the bargain.”
“I half expected you to want to stay in the car.”
“Never promise a girl wine and expect her to cry off.”
The little devil named Charles cackles from his position perched on my shoulder. Wine and a chance to watch him take off more than a little tyre, cheri?
“There.” Ignoring his—my subconscious—insinuation, I drop my shoes into the footwell and reach for the door handle. “On three?”
Before I can begin to count down, he’s out of the car and rounding to my side, though I meet him before he can reach my door, sliding the long strap of my purse over one arm and then my head.
“Ready?” Without waiting for an answer, he takes my hand and begins to jog across the parking lot then into the labyrinth of pink-cobblestoned streets.
Oh, Jesus. I’m not sure which burns more, my lungs or my calves, as I dash along beside him. On second examination, I decide it’s my feet as they slap against the wet cobbles that shine slick in the moonlight.
The path opens out to the town square, the stuccoed Hôtel de ville, or local town hall—not to be confused with a provider of temporary