Never Say Forever

“I’m going to take that as an encouragement.”

“You can take it however you want.” I shiver. Now that we’re no longer wrapped around each other, I notice the night is drawing in, and the air is beginning to cool.

“Is that a promise?”

“That all depends on what you have in mind.”

“How about I fix this, and you follow me to Saint Odile.” He points to where the terracotta buildings cling to the side of the cliff face.

“The little village up there?”

“The little village up there,” he agrees, “where you can make good on your promise.”

“That’s very forward of you,” I reply a little saucily.

“There’s a decent auberge up there. An inn,” he adds, his soft smile tempering my own. “You could buy me a glass of wine.” First. He doesn’t say it, but it hangs in the air between us all the same.

Get to know each other first. Before. Avant, as the French say.

My gallant, my chevalier; his words are so sincere. But the way he looks at me is not so gentlemanly. More like he can’t wait to get me naked. The limb-flailing, sheet-twisting, scream-loud-enough-to-wake-the-goats-on-the-hills kind of naked.

The exact kind of naked my bruised ego might appreciate.

“I have a confession to make.” His brows rise but not before his gaze falls to my hand. Is he double-checking there’s no trace of a ring? If at all possible, I think I like him a little more just for that. “I don’t have one of those spare tyre thingies. Or even one of those little patching kits.” I have an awful habit of scrunching up my nose when I’m uncomfortable, and I find myself doing so now, adding in a small shrug for awkward measure.

“And you let me take the tyre off, why?”

“In my defence,” I reply quickly, “I did try to stop you. But do you know how hot it is watching a man do manual labour? Well, you probably don’t,” I consider, given my gaydar is completely silent. “But it is. Was. You were. I mean, the plumber who fixed my leaking tap last month was not a joy to watch, mainly because he exposed so much crack, I could’ve parked a quad bike in it.”

“Okay . . .”

“Go ahead, laugh, but it’s true. Not all men are created equal,” I continue, digging a hole big enough for me, my mortification, and Fred the Fiat, apparently. “Not all men would’ve stopped to help me. But you did. And . . .” I pause to untangle my suddenly clumsy tongue, wondering if I should just pitch myself off the side of the cliff and be done with it. “I’ve had a really crappy day on top of a really crappy couple of months, and the truth is, I just enjoyed watching you too much to stop you.”

“You enjoyed watching me take off the tyre?” he asks a little uncertainly.

“Yes. It’s not a weird fetish or anything. Your muscles definitely helped.”

“I guess . . . I admire your honesty.” He looks like he wants to chuckle again.

“As much as you’ve admired my legs?”

Ha! Touché, am I right?

“You caught that, huh?” he says, making his way to the other side of the car. Opening the driver’s door, he climbs in.

“What are you doing?” I deliver my question through the passenger window, my fingers curled over the glass. Maybe I should buy a sign for the dash like they have on roller coasters—you need to be this big to drive this car, or in other words, somewhere under five foot five—because he looks like a giant sitting in the driver’s seat, even sliding the seat all the way back. “This thing isn’t going anywhere. You’ve already taken off the tyre, remember?”

“I remember. I’m taking your honesty and your legs for that drink.” The engine turns over, and I pull back from the window when it becomes clear he’s securing Fred. Windows up, car locked, he rounds the car placing both the keys and my tiny purse in my hand. “We’ll drop off the keys at the village workshop,” he murmurs, tilting my chin. “And maybe later, you can watch me take off something other than a tyre.”

I die. Right there on the spot.

It seems like the drive to the village will be a short one, and absolutely preferable to a hobbling trek uphill. Especially as a fat raindrop suddenly splats against the windscreen, the first of a sudden deluge that sounds like a thousand hammering fingertips on the car’s canvas soft top.

“Looks like we made it just in time,” he says as he turns the key in the ignition. The car unexpectedly thrums throatily to life, more a roar than the rattle I’d expected.

The wipers at least have the decency to squeak.

“That glass of wine is definitely on me,” I demur, ducking my head to stare at the downpour. Storm clouds gather higher up the mountain, dark grey staining the twilight’s lighter shades. “This dress is dry clean only and would probably be more doll than woman sized by the time I traipsed up that hill.”