Paris, but it’s still beautiful all the same, down to the terracotta tiles on the roof and the bright goldenrod-painted door.
“Wow,” I say breathlessly. “I can see why you wanted to come here. I already feel at peace.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s all I ask.”
We get the bags, and he gives me a quick tour, pointing out the reading nooks, the living room, the dining room, the breakfast area, and the kitchen, plus the terrace and the rocky cliffs that lead down to a cream-colored beach, the shining gold sea beyond it. Then we head up the gleaming wood staircase adorned with colorful tiles to the second level.
“Which one is my bedroom?” I ask.
“You mean you don’t want to sleep with me? Oh, Gabrielle, you’re breaking my heart.” He presses his hand to his chest in mock despair.
“If only you had a heart to break,” I comment, looking down the hall. “Which room is mine?”
When I don’t hear an answer, I glance back at him, and a line has set between his eyes. Not exactly angry but . . . not happy either.
“It’s your choice,” he says in a clipped voice. “I’ll be down here.” He heads off down the hall, bag slung over his shoulder.
I watch him go and then wonder what that shift in mood was about. I’m exhausted from the travel anyway, so I don’t venture far. I poke my head in the nearest room and see that it has a sea view, and I’m sold. I drag my suitcase in and then flop down on the luxurious bed with glossy wooden bedposts and a vibrant yellow-and-white crocheted duvet.
I must fall asleep, because when I open my eyes again, the room is dark, and it takes me a moment to remember where I am. In that moment, fear rushes at me like a lion pouncing from behind. I fear the dark, I fear the men who lurk in it.
But when I sit up in the bed, I see the faint glow of the lights outside making the room less and less dim as my eyes adjust, and I remember I’m in Mallorca.
I’m safe.
I have to be.
And yet I don’t feel safe. Not alone like this.
I get up, use the attached washroom, and then open my door, though I don’t remember closing it after me. I look up and down the hallway and hear nothing but silence.
“Pascal?” I call out softly.
I think I hear stirring from downstairs, so I slowly head down the stairs and make my way to the kitchen.
There’s no one there.
But the wide back doors of the breakfast nook are open to the terrace outside and banging lightly in the soft breeze, so I step outside and see lights coming from the beach. I’m in bare feet, so I carefully make my way through the terrace to where a stone staircase is carved into the rock, leading in a slight curve down to the sand.
On the sand is a table with two candles lit, two places set.
Not a soul around.
My paranoia takes hold of me again and makes me stop and study the area before I venture any farther. I inspect the corners of the rocks and the shadows, wondering if it’s a trap or Pascal’s doing. Seems a little too thoughtful for his liking. Still, I’m convinced I’m alone.
The sand is soft on my feet, and I walk over to the table and see a note hanging off a bottle of white wine. Dumont label, of course.
The note says, Have a seat and pour yourself a glass.
I look around and then pull out a chair and sit down. The wine is already uncorked and perfectly chilled as I pour myself some. Even though I’m still woozy from the nap, the wine is going down easy. Maybe too easy.
But Pascal is nowhere to be found. Did he mean for me to eat by myself or . . . ?
Or is this him trying to be nice?
Trying to impress me?
I can never tell with him.
The faint sound of a car door slamming can be heard above the soft crash of the waves, and it’s not long before I see Pascal leaving the house and walking down the steps toward me, holding a big paper bag in his hands.
“You’re up,” he says to me. “I thought you might be down for the count all night.”
I blink at him for a moment, illuminated by the candle glow and the soft landscape lighting around the terrace and steps. He’s dressed