Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
“Should I come with you?” My offer is half-hearted, not only because my bum is now warming nicely by the fire but also because I keep making a fool of myself. There’s every chance I might turn into my mother and insist he gets out of those wet things. Though not necessarily because I worry he might catch a chill.
“You should stay here.” Stalking across the space, he comes to stand in front of me, his gaze heated as it dips. My eyes follow his to find he’s not the only one suffering a wardrobe malfunction, the rain having rendered my dress almost transparent but for the camouflage of the floral pattern.
I fold my fingers under my elbows, which does nothing to hide the hardened points of my nipples. Regular old Fee would never have the nerve to be so audacious and would probably apologise for looking like something that the cat dragged in, even if the way he’s looking at me makes me feel more like a queen than a bedraggled kitty.
“At least it didn’t shrink.”
“No, it did not,” he answers, his tone suggesting it didn’t need to.
“Do you think I should take it off?”
With an amused shake of his head, he meets my eyes. “I have no idea what to do with you.”
“You don’t even blush when you’re lying.” My voice sounds huskier, and the words? I have no idea where they’re coming from.
“You’re right,” he says, those dark blue eyes never leaving my face. “I have all kinds of ideas for you.”
“I like a creative man.”
The huff of his soft chuckle blows across my cheek before he pulls away. “Don’t go anywhere,” he says, ducking under a low ceiling beam on the other side of the room.
“Never. You promised me wine, remember?”
With one last look of amusement, he disappears into the murky corridor beyond.
I don’t know whether to giggle or squeal as bubbling anticipation builds inside me like a bottle of fizz. Because neither would be cool, or even seemly, I crouch down and stroke the dog instead.
“Someone’s getting lucky tonight,” I whisper, rubbing one of his velvety ears. “Spoiler—it’s me!”
“Mademoiselle?”
I pop upright, jack-in-the-box style, clapping my hands to my arms as though cold, hanging on to what little modesty I have in this dress.
“Oh. Bonjour. You startled me.”
By her expression, she already knows she did. “I see you’ve made Claude’s acquaintance.”
I pause for a moment, my attention sliding to the beam my acquaintance just ducked under. His name is Claude? He so doesn’t look like a . . . aaah. She means the dog.
“Oui.” Now that I’ve stopped patting him, Claude sits up, his baleful hound-dog eyes pleading for more. “He looks like a good dog.”
“Well, he’s good at being a dog,” she answers with a sniff, bringing the sides of her cardigan closer across her ample chest. “And he has fleas.” Okay. My hand retracts from his coat sort of awkwardly. “Don’t worry, they’re not catching.” She pats her steel grey hair. “And he isn’t allowed upstairs into the rooms.”
Rooms. That’s right. This is an inn. With rooms.
And beds.
Not gutters.
Or cramped back seats.
My mind lingers, beginning to whir with scenarios and possibilities. He’ll come back, and we’ll drink wine. Flirt. Maybe retire to a rented room where we’ll get to know each other a little better. In the naked sense. But maybe this could be on my terms, not his. Maybe this could be where Fee gets her groove back and makes all the moves. I’m tired of being told lies, pretty and otherwise. My luck has been so bad with men that when my last boyfriend turned into will-o’-the-wisp, I didn’t even have it in me to cry. My love life is terrible, my job is going nowhere, and not to sound melodramatic, I feel like things might spiral out of my control.
Like before. Dark times from not too long ago.
Before I know it, my mouth is running ahead of my brain.
“Do you happen to have any free rooms this evening?”
“Of course.” The woman inclines her head. “It is the end of the tourist season,” she adds, probably for appearance’s sake.
“Great.” As I twist my purse from my hip, she makes her way to the reception desk, lifting the counter before taking her professional post.
“Are you visiting the Saint Odile?” she asks, flipping open the huge, old-fashioned registration book and swinging it around to face me.
“Sadly, no. My car broke down.” I guess it’s as good an explanation as any, I decide, as I lift the old-fashioned pen chained to a stand. I find myself prevaricating, the pen hovering over the columns.
Name. Address. Nationality. Passport number.
I know she’ll need some proof of identity like a driver’s license, passport, or similar.
Proof of who I am, at least in document terms.
I want this. Tonight. But this is not who I am. Is it?