Never Say Forever
“Ah. Perhaps your stay has something to do with the handsome young man in the bar?” I look up into the woman’s very eloquent expression. “You arrive together, but perhaps you are not together.”
“My car broke down,” I find myself confessing. “He stopped to help me. I don’t really know him.” And I don’t want to leave behind enough information to risk becoming his booty call.
“Ah.” She drags her understanding out over several syllables.
“I’m sorry if that’s shocking. It’s just—”
“Non. You do not need to explain to me. Young people did not invent passion, you know. Or sex.”
“Of course.” I shrug uncomfortably and go back to my pen hovering when the shadow of the opposite leaf begins to close over it.
“Give me your driver’s license,” she says hurriedly. “I will take a copy for security. I won’t register you officially.”
“Do . . . you accept cash?”
“Always,” she answers with a smile.
Our transaction is no sooner complete when my companion, my gallant, returns. He holds a wine bottle in one hand, and a pair of wine glasses dangle from between the fingers of his other.
His smile is open as he brandishes the bottle in my direction. “Your car—”
“What kind of establishment do you think I am running?”
We both turn to a haughty voice behind the counter, my own stomach swooping to my bare toes.
“Not a piece of luggage between you and barely enough clothing to satisfy a church service!”
“I’m sorry?” But that’s not really what he’s saying because he doesn’t sound sorry at all. To my ears, his delivery was a little more like what the fuck. But his French is perfect as he launches into a volley of, “I’m not quite sure what—”
“A room booked, my goodness. Our best double, no less!” Her gaze sweeps him quite critically, up then down.
Oh, God. I should interject and tell the truth. Explain that the wanton hussy with the (now) frizzy hair just assumed he’d like to spend the night with her playing a game of hide le saucisson. Or I could lie and say I’d booked the room for myself, and the woman is just confused.
Before I have a chance to decide, the nutjob, sorry, the woman behind the counter bursts out into a raucous smoker’s laugh. “Oh, my goodness. His face! I’m sorry, my dears,” she says, once composed, “but I could not resist.” She straightens the registration book, which makes me think she’d be a terrible spy.
He opens his mouth to answer, closing it again only to clear his throat. Then his brows dip, retracting rapidly when he notices the old-fashioned key gripped between my fingertips. I become aware that his mouth isn’t the only expressive part of him as his eyes darken and his understanding becomes very, very apparent.
“Ah!” The woman cackles again. “Ah!” she says like this is the greatest of mysteries. “Go, go!” She makes a shooing motion with her hands. “Discover the delights of room number four!”
Wordlessly, I find myself turning and heading for the low-hanging beam on the opposite wall, utterly mortified at providing our host with so much entertainment.
“I was young once, too!” Her words follow us down the hallway as, with a wince, I realise neither of the rooms in this corridor are number four.
With any luck, our room will be so far away, it’ll be morning before we reach it.
What the hell was I thinking?
His shoes echo behind me on the stairs.
What the hell is he thinking?
Well, I guess I’m about to find out because the door to room four is the first on this floor.
I fit the key to the lock and with a deep exhale, push on the door.
3
Monsieur Chevalier
“I’m sorry about downstairs.” Without turning or switching on a light, she makes her way to the window, her body framed by the moonlight. The rain has subsided, a steady trickle against the windowpane replacing the earlier deluge.
“You have nothing to apologise for.” I close the door softly behind me and follow her across the sparsely decorated room. Placing the glasses on the windowsill, I splash a little of the uncorked bottle into each as she stares down at the dark flowing liquid, almost as though mesmerised. She follows the motion as I raise the glass to her mouth. “I like a woman who knows her own mind.”
Her eyes are dark and trusting over the rim as I tip a little past her lips.
Trust. Would she trust me if she knew what I was doing on this mountain? If she knew what I was running from? But you can’t outrun the past, especially if that past isn’t your own.
Her gaze lowers demurely as I take a sip from the same glass, and she turns back to the window, almost as though the action was too intimate. Can that be the case for the woman who boldly booked this room? I’ve been in enough anonymous hotel rooms before but never have the circumstances been like this. Never have I been turned on like this.