“I’m glad you like it.”
“Come on, who wouldn’t,” she said with a shake of her head, despite what she’d just been saying. After all, even Mia and Sal would surely see the appeal of a place like this. It was beyond beautiful.
He didn’t answer; it was a rhetorical question anyway. They walked the path in silence, but as they approached the house, the path narrowed and their arms brushed. Skye bristled, the contact doing a thousand unwelcome things to her central nervous system, so she hung back a bit, on the pretext of picking a stalk of lavender and rubbing it between her fingers. Matthieu took the old, stone steps two at a time then pushed one of the doors open, turning to face her as she stood at the bottom of the steps.
His expression shifted to one of amusement. “You look as though an executioner’s blade awaits you inside.”
“Do I?” She didn’t move.
“Yes,” he answered slowly. “And I would like to know why. Do I strike you as someone who habitually invites farm hands to the cottage to do something evil with them?”
“It’s not that,” she demurred with a roll of her eyes. “Only,” she frowned, a line forming between her brows. “I really can’t see why you invited me here at all.”
“To wash off your mud, remember?”
Actually, she hadn’t remembered. In fact, Skye had completely forgotten she was caked in dark brown puddle juice. “Ugh, right.” What a fool she was for thinking there was anything more to this! She shook her head apologetically, beginning to walk up the steps, then hesitating. “Is there a servants’ entrance?”
He balked at that. “You’re fine. Just kick off your shoes.”
She regarded him for several seconds before doing as he said, removing her brown leather boots and placing them beside the door, before realizing one of her socks had a hole in the toe. She didn’t meet his eyes as she padded in the door. At least she was no longer dripping wet.
“Which way?”
“Let me show you.”
The house was charming – so much more so than she’d expected. It was furnished like a real family home, with old, much-used furniture and pictures on the walls. She wanted to linger, to trace the faces with her eyes, fascinated by people and their pasts, and the way photographs served as a snapshot of a single moment in time. But instead, Skye fell into step beside Matthieu, moving too fast for her to glean more than an impression of the space. Wide corridors, high ceilings, terracotta tiles, farmyard furniture. The bathrooms had all been remodeled, but in a quaint, cottagey way, the kind of décor that would grace the pages of her mother’s Country Style magazines. A large claw foot bath stood in the center of the room, and along the wall there was a free-standing shower. No curtain, no glass, just a huge area of floor with a drain to take the water away.
“Towels are under here,” he moved towards the vanity and withdrew a big fluffy white towel. “A robe is on the back of the door. There are toiletry items in the drawers. Make yourself at home. Put your clothes out when you are undressed and I’ll set a load of washing going.”
Skye stared at him. “It’s okay. I can do it.”
He rolled his eyes. “Back to thinking of me as some kind of chauvinist, unable to operate a washing machine?”
“No, but –I mean, it’s private.” She felt as though she’d landed on the surface of the sun.
His expression was droll. “I’m sure we’ll both survive. But have it your way,” he shrugged. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
“Which was…where?”
“Down the corridor, on your left. You can’t miss it.”
She gnawed on the bottom of her lip and then finally nodded, waiting until he’d left the room before expelling a breath. She wanted to get the mud off, but in that moment, time seemed to stop, and despite the bizarre turn of events, Skye couldn’t help relishing the experience. This house was unlike anything she’d ever seen in real life. She ran her finger over the edge of the bath then walked towards the ancient window, admiring the red flowers in the window box directly outside, and then the view of the rolling lavender bushes, all the way to the thick, verdant hedge. In the distance, she could see the rolling hills of the winery, but they felt like a billion miles away for all they reminded Skye of her job.
She smiled as she undressed, folding her clothes despite their muddy state and placing them on a cane rocking chair in the corner, before showering, washing her hair to remove all the muddy water, and standing beneath the steaming hot water and simply enjoying the sensation. The showers in the staff accommodation were a little less giving with the water pressure and heat. Skye relished the pleasures and only when she thought of Matthieu sitting in the kitchen waiting for her did she flick off the taps and reach for a towel, drying herself quickly.
In the mirror, she caught a glimpse of her reflection and startled. She wore no make up – she never did to work – and her hair was darker, thanks to the water. She rung it out over the sink, finger combing it until it had dried off a little, patting it with a towel, then plaiting it. She didn’t have a hair tie but it held well enough. The idea of being naked except for a bathrobe was anathema to Skye, so she pulled her underwear back on—it had escaped the worst of the puddle—and then buried herself in the bathrobe. It was generous enough in size to swamp her, but worse than that: it smelled of Matthieu. Any hope she’d had that this was simply for guests evaporated and she was forced to deal with the fact she was doing something so intimate as wearing this man’s bathrobe, an item he presumably donned himself when he stepped out of the shower. Naked. Her brain scrambled and breath burned in her lungs.
The image was impossible to shake.
With a small groan, she gingerly picked up the pile of her clothes and cracked open the door, looking left and right before making her way down the corridor as instructed. The smell of coffee assailed her as she grew nearer, but it wasn’t that which stopped her in her tracks. It was the outlook. On this side of the house, the land sloped, so there was a far greater view of rolling, vine-covered hills, bathed in golden sunlight, and in front of the windows, there was Matthieu, changed into a dark, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of navy jeans. He was the epitome of casual elegance. He looked disgustingly gorgeous, and ridiculously, untouchably wealthy.
Sky looked away, her chest hurting with the force of breathing.
“Better?” He prompted.
She nodded uncertainly. “Um, where’s the laundry?”
He poured two cups of coffee and pushed one towards her. “I’ll take it. You sit, make yourself comfortable.”