“I don’t see a problem with that.” In the darkened car interior, his teeth are a flash of white. A sudden thrill washes through me, and I know I shouldn’t feel like this, but the anticipation of what’s to come is almost killing me.
And what’s to come is . . .
Me. I’m sure of it.
I’m sure my mother would have a fit if she could see me now, but the only stranger-danger risk I’m in is that I might explode from anticipation. But I am my mother’s daughter, aka cautious, so I take a moment to assess my current situation.
Have I been lulled into a false sense of security by his help or his easy manner?
No. I don’t think so. I’m not getting serial killer vibes from him. Maybe because I’m sitting in the front passenger seat and not the trunk.
Or the boot, as we say at home.
Or le coffre d’une voitre, when in France.
I wonder if he speaks any French. It would be pretty hard to work in the region without the language. I also wonder if he feels as I do. Needy and reckless, almost like I’m operating a little outside of myself.
“Are you going to tell me your name?” The sound of his voice brings me back to the moment, my answer somewhat of a shock to even me.
“I might.”
“Only might?” he answers, amused.
“Maybe we could just see how this evening goes.”
“Interesting.” The lights from a car going the opposite way sweep over his face, highlighting his expression before shadowing it again. I’m not sure if that look was amusement or determination. Maybe a mixture of both.
I bite my tongue to prevent a dozen questions from offering up every thought in my head. Maybe it’s the darkness that makes the moment feel like a confessional. Everything is easier in the dark. Except maybe finding your bed without stubbing a toe or two. I glance furtively 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.