‘I’m not about to shove my boobs in his face in repayment for a flash of his ass,’ I murmur to myself.
Following some stealthy opening of drawers, I pull out a T-shirt and a pair of shorty pyjamas that it’s far too cold for—the laundry gods are not on my side today—and after some circus-worthy contortionist moves, I pull them on without one towel slip. No wardrobe malfunctions on my watch. Images of his butt aside, a cold shower and the thought of a few cramped hours on the wicker framed sofa is enough to make anyone reluctant to bed down for the night. So I putter around the shadowy room, straightening his boots and picking up the remainder of his clothes to slot them into the washing machine. Jeans and socks. No underwear.
He must have chosen to sleep in them.
Hm. He doesn’t strike me as the modest type. If you’ve got it, flaunt it, I say. And the man has it. In spades.
I find myself chuckling as I leave the bedroom, placing his clothes in the washing machine. Then I tiptoe back into the room with a glass of water and a couple of Tylenol, depositing them on the nightstand without once looking at him.
Because looking leads to other thoughts. And looking can also lead to other things.
I make my way over to the 50s era dresser, a fabulous thrift store find, and even in the low light I can see my carefully lined eyes are definitely more panda than feline. I begin pulling the hair ties from the ends of my damp and wilted braids. The relief is instantaneous as I unravel them, and the touch fingers on my throbbing scalp sheer bliss. So much so that I don’t quite manage to stifle a sigh of satisfaction that, on reflection, might have sounded a little bit sexual.
As far as I can remember. It’s been a while, you understand.
‘Rose.’
I turn my head over my shoulder, the sound of my name in the dark a pull I find hard to resist. ‘Sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’
The bedlinens rustle, one muscled shoulder and arm revealed. ‘Venez ici.’
I find myself moving across the room, unsure what it is in his tone that draws me to him.
‘What is it?’ The floor is cool under my bare feet, but the rest of my body is burning as Remy reaches out and takes my hand in his much larger one. I know I should pull away, maybe offer him the water and pills? I know I shouldn’t be standing here gazing at him like he’s a pastry just waiting to be nibbled. But he just looks so tempting. So inviting. Is he looking at me like I’m looking at him? Like he could do with a little comfort, a little company? It strikes me that he and I, we’re alike. Life has treated us harshly, dealt us a rough hand. And maybe we could both benefit from this moment, a human moment of reassurance and faith.
‘Vienz . . .’ His free hand pats the mattress heavily. ‘Come lie with me. I promise your virtue is safe.’
He tugs on my hand as he moves across the bed, making room. I don’t put up much of a fight, crawling in as he pulls back the duvet a little.
‘C’est bon . . . That’s good. Don’t worry, despite my big words, I find I can barely lift an eyebrow. Don’t tell. It’s a secret. I don’t want to ruin the image of Frenchmen everywhere.’
His murmurs are comforting as I settle myself on the pillow with my back to him. And it seems like the most natural thing in the world as his arm wraps around my waist.
‘This is nice,’ I whisper, resting my arm across his as he pulls me closer still. ‘We all need a little hug sometimes.’
‘Et parfois . . . And sometimes we need a little more.’
At that moment, I make another discovery. His underwear is neither in the machine nor on him.
‘Peut-être le matin . . . Maybe in the morning. Sleep well, Rose.’
6
Rose
You’d think I’d have moved vite!
Quickly!
That I’d have jumped out of that bed like a ninja once I realised the man next to me was naked. Not only naked but sporting a little action in his non-existent pants.
Yep, the man had a little wood. A little action in the baguette department.
And oh, I planned on it. I planned on laying very still, maybe allowing myself just a tiny snuggle into my Remy scented pillow, at least until he’d fallen asleep when I’d creep out of the bed, removing myself to the sofa. I planned on it, just as I planned on waking him up every couple of hours to make sure he didn’t die from a brain haemorrhage or slip into a concussion-induced coma.