by Ally Blake
Working as a favour was not something he made a habit of, knowing what his skills were worth. But he’d needed the sense of autonomy. The surety he could walk away at any time. In case it turned out he was more broken than he’d realised. In case he was beyond repair.
“It’s lovely, Armand,” she said. “Not what I expected at all.”
“And what was that?”
“Either four bare walls, an army cot, a box full of rations. Or a mini-Versailles.” She shot him a smile, the kind that always left him feeling winded.
Which was when he noticed how much she was shivering.
He swore beneath his breath then strode over to where she was. Without thinking he ran his hands down her arms, friction creating warmth.
“You’re wet through.”
“Rain will do that to a girl.”
“How far did you walk?”
“A kilometre or so.”
He looked around. “Where is your luggage? Did you leave it in the car?”
“I left in a bit of a hurry,” she said, teeth chattering. “No clothes. Just my backpack and me.”
He turned her around and moved her towards the spare room which came with its own en suite bathroom.
“Your bed,” he said, facing her that way as they passed it, then he quickly turned her and walked her into the bathroom.
“Whoa. That’s bigger than Zoe’s whole apartment.”
He peeled the backpack strap from her shoulder, dumped the bag on the stool at the end of the bed and then pressed her into the bathroom. When he realised the next step was stripping her down he let go. Took a step back.
She turned to face him, all damp lashes and hair dripping in straggled ribbons down the front of her jacket. Her make-up had smudged, making her big brown eyes look huge. Her lips were swollen, tipped slightly open as her teeth clattered together.
She took a deep breath in, the breath out rough and jagged. And there was a new light in her eyes—a mania, a hunger. As if a switch had been tripped.
Which was when Armand realised that while he had been blithely convinced he had a handle on his affections towards her, it had been she who’d been in charge of the pace. Giving him the room to want, to imagine, to lean in. To be less mindful of his own boundaries.
And now she’d taken her foot off the brake.
He could have put her up in a hotel. Or she could have slept at the office. Jonathon clearly did not have a problem with the practice, as Armand had walked into Montrose to find IT guys sleeping on beanbags, on couches, at their desks nearly every morning he’d been there.
Knowing she was in trouble, he’d wanted her safe. Needed her close. Because he’d doltishly let himself care.
Nonplussed, he dug deep, regathered his self-control and took another step back. Mumbled, “I’ll put some clothes on the bed,” and walked away, shutting the en suite bathroom door decisively behind him.
* * *
Evie stared at the space where Armand had been before he’d scampered away.
Did he think she was going to jump him? He’d been in the French Foreign Legion, for Pete’s sake. He could probably take her down with one finger.
She shivered at the thought, and not out of fear.
A quick reconnaissance uncovered a heat lamp in the bathroom. The difference was immediate, and welcome. She stripped off her jacket, her damp T-shirt. Nudged off her filthy, wet shoes and socks and climbed into the huge shower.
A long, hot shower brought her back to life, after which she wrapped herself in a fluffy bathrobe and tucked a towel around her damp hair.
She opened the bathroom door slowly, found herself alone.
Biting back a grin, she jumped into the bed—was there a size bigger than king? All those pillows! Oh, the sheets. The softest blanket she’d ever felt. After years spent sleeping on a futon, she nearly wept.
When she was done luxuriating she grabbed her backpack, fished out her phone and sent Zoe a quick message to let her know she had a roof over her head. After checking the time she made a quick call.
Her granddad—always an early bird on the farm, now very much a night owl at the retirement village—answered the phone with, “Well, if it isn’t my little Evie Marie Saint. Christmas Evie. Happy Evie After.”
“Hey, Granddady-O. I can hear noise. Where are you?”
“Playing Mah-Jong. Evie says hello!”
A chorus of voices met her. Mostly female.
“All right with you, love?”
“Sorry I didn’t call this week. It’s been a bit busier than usual here.”
“Busy is good. Means you’re settling in. Making a real life for yourself. That’s all I need to know.”
Evie rested her palm over her eyes, closing them against the knowledge she hadn’t been doing that at all.
She asked after his friends in the village. Took the usual beanie requests. And finished off by saying, “If you need me, call my mobile.”
“Problems with the landline?”
“Something like that.”
She could have just told him she was staying with a friend, but the word felt all wrong. Though what else could you call someone who let you stay in their spare room without pause or hesitation? Maybe there was no word. Maybe it was bigger than words.
The conversation hit a pause. After which her granddad’s voice softened. “Was there something else, love?”
“Um... I was thinking about Mum tonight. More than usual, I mean.”
“Were you, love?”
Evie realised the background noise was quieting, meaning he’d found a private place to sit.
“I miss her,” Evie said.
“As do I. There is no shame in that. Or in not thinking about her every day. Or in feeling like you’ve forgotten more than you can remember. It’s normal. It’s how it’s meant to be.”
“What about spending an inordinate amount of time making sure I don’t make the same mistakes she made? Is that normal too?”
“And what mistakes would those be?”
“Falling for the wrong guy. Falling pregnant. Slinking home.”
“Oh, love. She’d never have called any of those things mistakes. Your mother never did anything she didn’t want to do. Including being with your father. Including having you. And yes, even including slinking back to the drudgery of the farm.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know, love. I was joshing with you. The years I had the both of you home with me were some of the best of my life. And hers. If you’d had the chance to ask her yourself she’d tell you the same.”
Evie wiped a finger under her eye.
“Why do you think I keep telling you to sell the farm?” Granddad added. “I knew how much you wanted to go, while fretting I’d feel like you’d left me behind. Know that I’m happy here. Happier still knowing you’re happy there.”
Evie squeezed her eyes shut tight. He’d known, clever man. She hadn’t been making a life for herself. She’d been preparing to flee at a moment’s notice.
Well, no more.
“Thanks, Granddaddy-O.”
“Anytime, All About Evie.”
“Go back to your game. Show those ladies what it’s all about.”
“Will do.”
Evie said her goodbyes and rang off. Feeling light and heavy. Young and old. As if she was at a tipping point in her life. Maybe it was the amazing bedding playing tricks with her mind.
A soft knock came at the door.
She wriggled off the end of the bed, fixed her gown, took the towel from her hair and ran quick fingers through the damp mess. Then said, “Come in.”
Armand pressed the door open but did not enter—keeping himself very much on the right side of the threshold. He had a neat pile of what looked like flannel pyjamas in his arms.
“No s
uit?”
The corner of his mouth kicked up. And every part of her that hadn’t yet defrosted did as a wave of heat rolled down her body.
“Heard you talking. Zoe?”
“My granddad. I make sure to call him a few times a week. Not that he needs me to. The man’s more social than a teenager.”
“I’m sure he needs you plenty,” said Armand in that deep, delicious voice of his.
“Yeah. That’s what I’ve always told myself. But he’s the strongest man in the world.”
“Did you tell him you are here?” Armand asked as he stepped into the room.
Evie’s heart stuttered. “Ah, no. I haven’t even told him I’ve changed jobs, either. He’s strong but he’s not young. If he knew I was in flux, he’d worry.”
“You don’t think he believes in you enough to know you would work it out?”
Evie’s mouth twisted. “I’m just beginning to see that. Turns out I’m the one who didn’t believe in myself.”
His frown was so very French. “And what is there not to believe? You are resilient, no? Determined. When Jonathon hesitated, you did not take no for an answer. And you are stubborn, oh, yes. Sure of your talents. Loyal too. Look how much you care for Zoe and her man, walking through driving rain to give them space. You are inclusive and tolerant, lovely and kind.”
Evie wondered if Armand realised his words had trailed off course there at the end. She had to swallow, her throat was so tight with emotion.
She walked over to him and slid the neat pile of pyjamas from his hands. Then she tossed them onto the bench at the end of the bed before turning back to him. “You think I’m lovely?”
Armand’s eyes darkened and he breathed out hard through his nose. Evie’s pulse responded with a scattered whumpety-whump.
“That’s what you chose to take from all I said?”
She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Maybe a little more. And maybe it’s not actually that I don’t believe in myself. I do. But I’ve come to realise I’ve been acting as if I don’t. I’ve been careful—with work, places, people. I’ve not backed myself and taken any risks.”
Armand watched her closely. Close enough now she could separate the shards of blue from grey in his volatile eyes. She could tell he was mulling over her words but she wasn’t a mind-reader. She was rather glad of it as she said, “Except, that is, when I’m with you.”
Armand’s throat worked.
“I’m pushier, sharper, more bolshie. I don’t know why.”
She thought he might just stand there, all gorgeous and dark and impenetrable.
Then his voice came to her, soft and rough, as he said, “Don’t you?”
“Because you push my buttons?”
“Because you sense that you can push mine as hard as you like and I won’t break.”
She breathed out hard. “Anyone can break.”
His nostrils flared. His voice was barely a rumble as he said, “I’ve been close, so many times. Becoming so brittle I believed one more hit and I might shatter. Knowing too many people needed me to allow that to happen, I hid myself away, went deep into self-protect mode. Until I stepped onto a train one morning, heading into a foreign city, and saw a girl who looked as though she was made of light.”
Evie’s breaths were hard to come by. “Please don’t say something like that just to make me feel better—”
“Your beanie was pink,” he said, stepping forward to run a finger under a swathe of damp hair. His dark gaze followed the movement as he tucked her hair behind her ear. “The kind of pink that only exists in candyfloss.”
Evie stopped breathing as her lungs shut down. She had a beanie in that colour. And had worn it a few weeks ago.
“There was something on top,” said Armand, plucking at an imaginary tuft above Evie’s head.
“A ball of feathers,” Evie finished, her entire body pulsing with every heartbeat.
“You laughed as the train turned a corner, and the shaft of sunlight that washed over you seemed to bask in your warmth. Your laughter echoed inside me that entire first day at work. I hung on to it, like a vine at the edge of quicksand. You were a signpost showing me the way out. I could either continue to exist in a world of grey or decide to see the world through a new lens.”
“Armand...” Evie began, but she had no idea what to say. Except the truth. “I’ve never met anyone like you before. You are far more than I’m used to.”
“As are you to me,” he said. “And yet here we are.”
Then slowly, achingly slowly, he dropped his lips to hers. Pausing a millimetre from the promised land. His dark gaze capturing hers. “Is this what you want, ma chérie?”
She knew what he was asking. She’d made it clear how determined she was not to start anything with someone from work. But that train had left the station.
Yes, yes, yes, a voice whispered in the back of her mind, and this time it was her own.
She tipped up onto her toes and closed the gap, her mouth brushing against his. Once, twice. Tentative as a butterfly unfurling its wings for the first time.
And then Armand took over. Tilting her face to better fit his mouth to hers. Sipping on her, gently, slowly, tenderly—until her whole body whimpered with a need for more.
The hand on her cheek slid down her neck, over her collarbone, tracing the edge of the bulky gown.
Evie’s head tipped back as Armand’s mouth followed, so gentle, so thorough, she could barely keep her head. Air hard to come by, senses reeling, all she could do was feel. To risk. To live.
Shifting closer, his knee nudged hers and she stepped back, the backs of her knees knocking into the edge of her bed.
Without overthinking, following all possible paths in her mind in order to find the safest route, she let herself fall. And fall. And fall.
CHAPTER TEN
EVIE WOKE THE next morning with an all-body stretch. When her hands and feet kept going without meeting lumps or edges of a futon her eyes snapped open.
Sunlight streamed through plantation shutters onto a moulded ceiling a mile above the bed. She looked over to find a second pillow with the indentation of a head. But no head. No Armand. The scent of freshly brewed coffee told her he was around somewhere.
She grabbed the pillow and hugged it to her chest, squeezing her eyes shut tight as memories of the night before bombarded her like a movie-highlights reel: the feel of his hot skin under her hands. The warmth of his mouth on her. The way he’d curled himself around her, protecting her as she slept.
Feeling herself dropping off in drowsy bliss, Evie forced herself to roll out of bed and turned on the shower. Only once she went to get dressed did she realise the only clothes she had were the ones she’d worn the night before. If she wasn’t careful it was going to be a serious walk of shame.
She grabbed her phone to text Zoe, in the hopes they’d make the same train, but Zoe had already messaged:
Sorry about last night. But thank you. Taking a sickie today. Can’t get out of bed.
So much for that idea. In the end she turned her dinosaur shirt inside out and back to front and hoped for the best.
Downstairs, Armand was already dressed—in the bottom half of a suit and a white T-shirt, his shirt, tie and jacket hanging over the back of a kitchen stool. He leant against the kitchen bench, eating a croissant and reading an actual old-fashioned newspaper.
Her heart clutched, sputtered and flipped over on itself. She tried to swallow but her throat was too tight.
What had she done to deserve such a man?
Not that he was hers. Pfft. Not at all! They’d spent a night together. The most wonderful, tender, amazing night of her life.
But no matter what happened from here, it paid to remind herself he’d be heading back to France when the job was done. Meaning this...whatever it was, had a ticking clock.
&
nbsp; It would end—just as her last job had ended, her last apartment had ended. Being strong enough to be with Armand and then to watch him walk away—that was the last step in her transformation. Into knowing she was living her own life, for real.
She must have made a sound—probably something between a sigh and a sob—as Armand looked up. His eyes gleamed before his mouth curved into a smile. “Good morning, Evie.”
She couldn’t help herself; she grinned like an idiot. “Hi. Any more where that came from?”
He reached over and grabbed a plate piled high with croissants. And carried them over to her. She plucked one off the top—no, two—and took a bite. He put the plate back down, then leaned over and kissed the top of her head.
“Coffee?” Armand asked as he pushed away from the bench.
Evie pressed his back, her fingers lingering a moment as she remembered the glory of all that warm skin and hard, curving muscles beneath the shirt. “Let me.”
She saw the fight in him, the difficulty he had letting someone else be in charge. Before something relaxed in him and he said, “D’accord.”
She worked out how to use the espresso machine quick smart, grabbed cream over milk and proceeded to make two coffees.
“Merci,” he said when she handed his over, offering up the most glorious smile. Private, intense, scorching.
“Any time,” she said.
Then Armand looked over her shoulder and swore, in French, and motioned to the clock.
She took a few quick gulps of yoghurt, downed her espresso in one steaming, bitter shot. Then ran around like a lunatic, tracking down her jacket, her beanie, her shoes. “Armand, have you seen my...? Oh.” There they were, resting by the fireplace, all dry and toasty warm. She sank down onto the floor to pull her shoes over her chilly feet and she sighed in bliss. “Oh, I love you for this!”
The silence that met her was palpable. She slowly glanced over to find Armand watching her as he buttoned his shirt.
“I didn’t mean—”