Never Say Forever

Not many would.

But as I finish this little conversation in my head, any reply, retort, or response is robbed from my tongue as he steps closer. In a made-for-TV moment, the setting sun crests his head, briefly blessing him with a golden halo. Another step closer and the whole of him comes into focus . . .

And oh, my giddy aunt.

He is lovely.

Can you describe a man as lovely? Because if you can, this man in front of me is lovely personified, and that’s saying something, considering we’re standing in the South of France, the European home of the beautiful and the rich. I’m not entirely sure why the two go hand in hand, but they certainly seem to.

Maybe plastic surgery?

Not that this is a face that’s ever met a surgeon’s scalpel.

The shadow of late afternoon sun seems to underscore the sharpness of his cheekbones and strong jaw, accentuating lips that are full and finely sculpted. I hold up my hand to shield my eyes, the sun’s lowering rays making it hard to discern the colour of his eyes, but not their delight, as my gaze travels the length and the breadth of him. And there really is quite a lot to look at; the broad shoulders, a solid chest, and a trim waist defined by a dark leather belt. A sudden breeze irons his pale shirt to the hard lines of his torso, revealing a strip of tanned and toned abs as it flutters then flicks up the hem. Shorts that were probably once a pair of jeans and a scuffed pair of deck shoes complete a very casual look. It isn’t really a look that screams wealthy. More like gardener. Or yacht hand.

“Are you okay?” I’ll credit his response with a smile that’s barely there. Just a tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth. He slides a pair of sunglasses to his chest pocket with such studied nonchalance that I’m certain he’s used to stunning women dumb with his looks.

That must be where the confidence comes from, I think as my gaze slides to the car behind him. The convertible appears so old it ought not to have made it up this far.

I haven’t answered, and I’m back to ogling him again.

“I’ve had better days,” I respond, keeping my response low-key now as I move my attention to the front passenger wheel, prodding it with my toe because there really is no reason to increase my appearance of idiocy. Not when he’d probably already witnessed me hopping around like Rumpelstiltskin on speed.

“Looks like you had quite a blowout.”

I glance up as he begins to fold back the sleeves of his shirt, his gaze following mine to the offending tyre. Pinching the fronts of his shorts, he squats down in front of me, the movement causing the hem of my short dress to flutter against my legs. I don’t think I imagine how his gaze lingers there or how my stomach twists not unpleasantly.

“I can help you with this,” he adds.

“I appreciate the offer, but you really can’t.”

“Sure, I can.” His gaze lifts to mine.

Oh, my. His eyes are fathomless. Blue bordering on black. Indigo? Maybe it’s not the colour that’s so arresting but their intensity. One thing I am certain of is that I didn’t imagine the way his gaze rose, starting at my toes.

My whole body tingles under the weight of his scrutiny as, with a flick of his wrist, he releases the jack, bringing the wheel back to the ground.

Hell. I should’ve known the jack came after those lug nut things were loosened, but in my defence, the last tyre I changed was under the supervision of my dad the year I turned seventeen. I suppose the fact that the jack was lying loose should’ve set off alarm bells. Charles-sounding ones, probably.

I am, ’ow you say, sorree, mon cher. Wee-waa! Wee-waa!

He will be sorry when I get my hands on him.

Charles, you are dead to me.

For at least a week.

“That’s a fierce-looking frown. Don’t worry, we’ll get you back on the road in no time.”

“I didn’t hear your car on the road.” I make no attempt to push away the hair that blows across my cheeks as I glance at the convertible. I can’t decide if it looks like it belongs in a museum or the scrap heap.

Every other car you seem to pass on the Riviera is something with a six-digit price tag. The lure of the lifestyles of the rich and famous is very real. Men out here seem to think a fancy sports car is a must when, in my experience, it often seems to be a classic case of overcompensating. Not for a lack of dick but of decency.

“Aren’t old cars supposed to be noisy?” I ask, directing my gaze back his way.