says from behind me.
I’m standing at the railing on the deck and staring at the sea, the salty breeze tangling my air and invigorating my senses, making me second-guess everything.
I slowly turn to look at him. “You have a way of sneaking inside,” I tell him.
He walks through the door, his skin looking especially bronzed against the white curtains billowing behind him. With his reflective aviator sunglasses on—the Dumont brand, no doubt—he looks especially movie star-ish.
“Are you all packed?”
I nod and slowly walk toward him. I have one hell of a limp now, but at least I can put pressure on my foot. “It takes about two minutes to cram all my stuff in my backpack. At least it’s all freshly laundered now.”
He winces as he watches me walk and quickly rushes over, grabbing me. “Are you sure you don’t want to take your crutches?”
“Have you ever tried to wrangle crutches on a train? I haven’t. But it looks terribly awkward. I’ll be fine.”
His hand trails across my face. “But I won’t be. I’ll be unable to stop worrying about you. I’ll be unable to stop thinking about you.”
I manage a small smile, trying to mask this lump of wet sadness that’s crawling up my throat. His fingers coast along my jaw, holding my chin with a warm grip. I close my eyes. “I won’t be able to stop thinking about you either,” I tell him.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” he says gruffly, and then he places a soft kiss on my lips.
I’m almost powerless against him—the feel of his grip against my skin, his lips and tongue moving softly against mine. He knows what he’s doing to me; he doesn’t have to beg or ask. He can persuade me just with his body and the way it calls to mine. Intimately, honestly, hungrily.
I pull away, breathless, my face all flushed and my knees weak, and it has nothing to do with my ankle. “I wish things were different.”
He sighs and runs his hand over his face before pulling at the back of his neck. “I do too. But we’ve spent nearly one week together here. Why go to Spain for another two? What’s there for you? Why are you running from me?”
“I’m not running from you,” I say, sounding more defensive than I mean to. I turn away and sit down on the lounge chair, the spotless fabric hot from the sun. “I’m just trying to do the right thing.”
“I would go with you to Spain if I could, but I’m needed in Paris. Not just with the hotels—I could find someone to do my job for a while, but it’s the autumn season. My family needs me. And I need you.”
Fuck. I know that for all the romantic words that usually spill out of Olivier’s mouth, I shouldn’t be affected by this plea, but I am. I can feel the passion in it, the anguish that I myself am pretending not to feel, the same feelings I’ve been avoiding for the last few days.
You’re being stubborn. A stupid, stubborn girl, I think.
And I’m probably right.
I glance up at him, wincing at the glare of the sun. In the reflection of his sunglasses, I look so small and tiny. I look like a liar. I look like someone who is about to run away. “The sooner I get on that train, the sooner I can go back to being a backpacker. That’s who I really am. I’m poor. I’m a struggling student. I should be sleeping in dorm rooms again, and washing my underwear in the sink, and raiding happy-hour specials and tapas in order to eat. I should be just scraping by, because that’s pretty much what my life is about. And I really should see Spain too. Then, after that, I fly home and return to my life. It’s what I need to do. What I have to do.”
He nods slowly, chewing on his lip. I wish I could see his eyes underneath the glasses. “I understand that, Sadie. I really do. As I said before, I respect your wishes, even if I wish they were different.”
I expect him to say something else, to offer some other way of trying to convince me, but he doesn’t.
It’s like he’s giving up.
I have to admit, it kind of sucks.
It means this really is the end.
Perhaps all this time I was waiting for something to convince me, when really I have every reason to be convinced already.
Olivier sits