“Don’t.” She groans, hiding her face in her hand.
“It’s true. You were so cute in your tiny dress and your crazy, wheeling arms.”
“I’ve never been more embarrassed.”
“And I’ve never been more turned on.”
“By the crazy lady?” She looks unconvinced. Pink and unconvinced as she takes a sip of her wine. “Do you have a bit of a fetish, Mr Hayes?”
“You know, I’m not sure if I like it best when you call me Mr Hayes or daddy.”
“Stop.” The edict isn’t issued playfully, not that it stops me when I’ve found my stride.
“What? We’re only getting to know each other better. But coming back from the bar to find you’d booked a room.” I shake my head slowly as though, years later, I still can’t believe my luck. Can’t believe my luck that she’s here.
“Like you didn’t plan it that way all along.”
“I swear I didn’t,” I reply with a chuckle. “I’m not saying I mightn’t have thought about it.”
“But you knew there was a hotel up there.” Turning to face me, she curls her legs farther up onto the couch, unconsciously mirroring me as I bring my wine to my lips. “It’s not the kind of place easily found.”
“If you recall, I said there was an auberge.” An inn. “I didn’t mention any hotel.”
“You were obviously wary of scaring me off,” she says, her tone a little prim.
“You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?”
“Not really. I’m just guessing.”
“But you’ve thought about it.” This she neither confirms nor denies as her gaze flicks to a loose thread on her pyjama shorts. And those fucking legs.
“Well, it’s not exactly a regular occurrence, having sex with someone whose name you don’t know.” She looks up from the thread when I don’t answer, but there’s no way either of us is ready to go down that road.
“I’m familiar with the area. The region.” My diversion seems to work, so I spill a little more. “My mother’s family was from Saint Odile. When I was a kid, we used to spend summers on the Cotê and go up into the mountains when it got too hot.”
“That sounds idyllic.”
“It was until she passed.” Passed seems like such an inadequate description for such a terrible way to die. Snatched. Snuffed out. Robbed in the prime of her life.
“How awful.” Her hand briefly presses my arm, her expression so sorrowful on my behalf. “How old were you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“It was a long time ago.” Though the images are printed indelibly on the insides of my eyelids. I can still see the clouds of dust billowing through the streets, people appearing like zombies from beneath it. I wasn’t in the States when it happened. Like most of the world, I watched with disbelief, glued to a screen with tears streaming down my face. All that’s left now are memories. And her name on a memorial. One of almost three thousand souls taken in the name of hate.
But I can’t bring myself to tell her any of that.
“She left me a little real estate up there. I didn’t know it at the time, but that was where I was heading that day.” A tiny house in the hills, a place away from the madness. Sometimes, I find myself there, and other times, I go there to escape.
“You have a house in the village, and you didn’t take me there instead?” The lightness in her tone brings me back to the moment. Back to her. “Or was that the next step in your nefarious plan. Maybe that’s why you didn’t tell me about the hotel.”
“Do I need to remind you who booked the room?”
She tries to hide her embarrassment behind the glass but not before delivering her retort. “Do I need to remind you who kissed the pants off whom by the side of the road?”
“I think you might need to.” I pick up the bottle and top up my glass before moving to do the same with hers. “Because I’m pretty sure I had shorts on when we got to the inn, and I know you were wearing panties . . . mainly because I remember peeling you out of them.”
“You rotten—oh!” Fee grabs the throw pillow from the seat between us intending to hit me with it but before she does, the rim of her glass and the bottle collide. “Oh, no!” Cupping her hand now against the side of the glass, she attempts to stem the spill, her gaze darting to the sage-coloured linen beneath. “Quick, do something.”
Maybe later, I’ll look back and tell myself it was the wine that brought a flush to her cheeks. Or maybe I’ll blame my actions on her for being so fucking irresistible or on the scent of her perfume for invading my senses. But I can’t think of any of that now as I lean closer, not working on instinct but rather need. Her dark eyes flare like embers even as I do just as she’d asked—I do something to stop the spill—and take her hand into mine to lick.