She grabbed a towel to dry those dishes he’d set in the rack. As she dried one, he reached for it and replaced it on the shelf, but underneath the stack already there. When she handed him the last dish, sadness fell upon her. She’d have no reason to be in his presence now. Though they had eaten in silence and cleaned with no words, she’d been comforted, even slightly thrilled each time his hand brushed against hers.
“Goodbye,” she told him as she backed down the short hallway to Brigitte’s room. As she closed the door, she sighed. “I’m going to feel like an interloper all the time now. This is not going to be good.”
Chapter Two
Étienne wished he were rude and could turn off his phone. Brigitte’s constant text messages were making him insane and terribly guilt-ridden.
Be nice to her, she implored three times a day.
To which he responded that he would be nice if he ever saw her.
Between his hours-long debriefing at the naval base and her odd schedule, they hadn’t crossed paths once since she’d bruised him four days ago. He’d simply added the bruised nose and ribs to the list of injuries sustained while getting out of Syria when asked about it at the base. Trying to explain that a woman in his own apartment had head-butted him would bring too many inquiries and jokes.
Cook for her. You are good at that. He wished he could scoff over Brigitte’s text messages. Instead he answered he would have if only his herbs were still alive. He doubted he could find replacements in the first week of February.
Take her somewhere.
Well, hmm, he answered.
He could easily do that. He had three weeks leave for injuries sustained on duty. He was lucky Genevieve hadn’t elbowed him on the other side of his torso. Those ribs were badly bruised with three hairline fractures. The bindings itched, but he felt better with the tightness around his ribs. The hearing loss in his right ear would fade. He’d spend that time being a tourist with her if she did that kind of thing.
As he walked up the steps to his place, she stepped onto the landing. Her black hair fell straight about her face, and her skin glowed above the vibrant pink scarf around her neck. In her hand was the basket he and Brigitte used to carry groceries home from the market.
Genevieve paused, her brown eyes wide. His heart sank as he realized she was still afraid of him. He needed to change her feelings about him.
He backed down the steps to give her room but also to watch her long legs take the steps with grace. As she passed him, he had a great idea. He’d go with her to the store. He figured she didn’t like to be alone with him, so he’d be in public with her. He reached for the basket.
She tugged it. “No.”
He gave the basket a twisting pull, wrenching it away from her. He took the risk of her not understanding his words, but she’d understand his actions. “I insist.”
A frown or annoyance settled across her mouth as she regarded him with narrowed eyes, but she nodded. “Okay.”
He held out his arm for her to take, but she shook her head. He shrugged and followed her down the lane that wound between the houses and the trees. When they got on the main road, he walked beside her on the sidewalk. She was about to turn into a small market with terrible prices, so he took her arm.
“No. There is a better market. Just this way.” He grabbed her gloved hand and led her across the road and through a neighborhood to the back entrance of a larger grocery store. Even with gloves in the way, her hand in his felt right. He’d missed this close human contact while on assignment. He stole a glance at her, trying to gauge her reaction, but she turned her face from him. He sighed but was determined to make her a friend.
He pulled her to the dairy section to get more milk. Each night as he made dinner, he noticed which goods were gone or what wrappers were in the trash. He wasn’t spying on her. He was intrigued and still in the habit of paying close attention to the people around him. The behaviors that had kept him alive while on deployment weren’t going to go away quickly.
She liked milk, fruit, spiced sausage, and hard cheeses. He guessed that she ate this combination for lunch or dinner, paired with bread or crackers. As most of that was easy to pack for the short trip that he wanted to take to Aix or Avignon, he wanted to get more of it, especially if it were something she preferred.
He picked up a wedge of smoked Gouda and tilted his head. “Do you like this one?” he asked.
A smidge of fear crossed her face. She spoke softly as she pointed to another wedge. “I like comté.” Except she said her words like a question.
“Ah, yes.” He set the Gouda down and added the comté cheese to the basket.
They moved around the store like this. He would point at or pick up an item, naming it in French. She would say the word in English and nod or shake her head. After a few products, she loosened up enough to laugh as each other tried to say the words. Her laugh warmed his heart. His trip to the market was working.
He kept trying to keep her on his left side so he could hear her, but she’d drift to his right, to his useless ear, saying something, and he’d hear only mumbles. Even if she’d spoken in French, he wouldn’t have been able to distinguish one vowel sound from another in that ear. It gave him a reason to touch her hand or arm again, bringing her back to his left side. He liked touching her as it sent lovely waves of happiness through his chest.
He’d implore her to say it again. “Repeat it, please.” After a few times of this, she stopped flinching when he brushed her arm, and he considered it a small victory in winning her trust.
As they unloaded the basket to pay, she tried to name the items in French, and he’d say the names in English. They both messed up so badly that they left the store laughing. She even seemed to bump into him purposefully. Her lovely face lit up when she laughed, and her eyes softened, leaving the hard gaze of distrust behind. He instinctively protected his injured side as she brushed against him, and he wished he didn’t have to as it distanced her from him again. The hard gaze made a comeback.
The walk home relaxed her again. When they returned to the apartment, he couldn’t keep a smile off his face as she pulled out the groceries from the basket, repeating their names as badly as she could. He knew she joked with him.
Her dark brown eyes twinkled as she held the cheese up, saying, “Apple.”
He’d take them from her, pronounce their names correctly, and hand them back to her. “Cheese,” he said in fake, stern voice.
She found an apple in the basket. “Cheese.”
He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Apple.” He liked this playful side and the light it brought to her eyes. He wondered if she’d be this teasing in bed.
As quickly as he thought it, he shoved it away. He couldn’t bring in a physical relationship with her. But, ah, to fantasize about her naming parts of him before she touched and kissed them. Those images he would keep while trying to win her friendship.
At least there, he had made headway. It had only been an hour since she’d shed some tenseness. Somewhere between the produce aisle and the meat section, she’d truly relaxed. He hoped she’d stay this way. He’d missed real companionship. That was one serious drawback to working alone. Maybe he’d gain a friend or something more while he improved his English. Something more could be nice, especially with a body like hers.
Genevieve smiled at Étienne’s laugh. It brightened his tanned face and brought levity to his intense brown eyes. She couldn’t believe that Étienne could be so charming. The messages she’d gotten from Brigitte had made her think he was stern and too type A for her. The texts had warned her to be the best of roommates. “Don’t be messy. He fusses and yells,” was followed by, “Loud music makes him grumpy.” The final warning was “Be quiet and stay out of the way. It will be best.”
She’d done all of that and had been miserable. She’d not been able to play the classical music that inspired her, nor had she done any cooking lest she make too much of a mess. But this man before her? Playful, teasing
, helpful, all while flashing a brilliant smile. He wasn’t what Brigitte described.
He carried groceries. He laughed at her bad pronunciation and gently corrected her. He guided her across busy streets by holding her hand, leaving her thrilled at his attention and silently wishing he’d attempt more. More than once while walking home, she’d envisioned him tugging her against his chest before dipping in for a kiss. He was the kind of man she’d let have his way with her. So much about him made her believe he’d be gentle, loving, and very attentive in bed.
Instead of being scary and intimidating as his sister described, his desire to make her happy made her want him. Either he was being very nice for some specific reason, or Brigitte didn’t know her stepbrother very well. She hoped it was the latter, because she was having so much fun playing around with the items and the words. She would have even more fun, playing around with him.
His face, very stern when not smiling, softened with each bit of silliness she threw at him. She knew very well that she shouldn’t call the apple “cheese”, but she couldn’t help herself. To learn, she needed to have fun and feel a connection to the words. The stiff classroom method hadn’t worked well for her, but after an hour with Étienne, she could say so much more. Of course, having such a sexy teacher helped. Damn, he was gorgeous with long legs and a lean torso that she longed to touch.
Feeling bolder, she held up her hand. “What is this?” she asked in her best French. Why keep this guessing game to food? Asking about body parts could be so much more interesting.
His eyes narrowed as he grabbed her hand. He said something that sounded like man. Did that mean hand? Still holding it, he led her to the living room where he entreated her to sit.
She joined him on the couch and faced him as she perched on the edge of the cushion. She’d relaxed around him but not nearly enough to sink beside him on the well-worn sofa. He spread his fingers and brought her hand against his, palms touching. Sparks ignited a fire that spread to her shoulder. A heat hovered between them as she gazed into his eyes. “Hand,” she breathed.
With his other hand, he drew a line down her arm. He asked her a question, which may have been “What is this?”
“Arm.” She swallowed, hoping to calm herself. The light touch of his hand sent such delightful tingles that she shivered.
“Bras,” he said softly.
If it were any other word, she might have melted at the tone of his voice, so deep and sultry. She giggled and that became laughter. All she could imagine were bras on her arms, complete with the boobs jiggling inside a silk and lace cup. The image was too much for her to keep a straight face.
Etienne asked another question, his face twisted in confusion. His fingers gripped her hand, bringing her attention back to him and away from the thought of bras on her arms.
She dissected the French as best she could and decided he wanted to know what was so funny. “Arm.” She pointed to her arm.
“Oui, bras.”
“No.” She pulled her hand from his to remove her scarf. With no ceremony, she pulled the collar of her shirt over her shoulder to reveal her pink bra strap. “Bra.”
His lips pursed, and then one corner of his mouth drew to a smile. “This is bra?” He touched the strap. “Or this is bra?” With both hands, he motioned over her breasts.
Their playful interlude had reached a different level, and her breath quickened as she imagined his hands spreading across her breasts. Her nipples hardened at her thoughts. “Um, breasts in a bra.”
He said the word for bras in French, but she couldn’t focus on thinking when his intense eyes held hers in a questioning gaze. It was almost as if he were asking to touch her. He motioned over her breasts again.
If she were a brave woman, she’d invite him to touch her right there, or she’d take off her shirt and have him tell her the words for nipple and suck and sex. The thought of his large hands caressing her everywhere set her thoughts aflame. He was alluring enough with his intense brown eyes and broad shoulders. He could tell her anything in his deep voice, and she’d love it.
But, she wasn’t that kind of woman, which is why she’d left New Orleans during Mardi Gras season. Parades would begin tomorrow, and Brigitte would be so happy catching beads, eating too much, and meeting so many people ready to have a good time. All Genevieve wanted was a quiet space for thinking and creating and coming up with ideas, like bras on arms. She wouldn’t ask for sex, but it wouldn’t hurt to dream about it, particularly with such a nice and hot guy around.
“I’m hungry. It’s why I went to the market.” In French, she attempted to say, “I want to eat.” She may have imagined it, but she thought the expectant look on his face fell into disappointment, but the transition to happy was so quick, she couldn’t be sure of it.
“Ah.” He stood rapidly and strode to the kitchen. Immediately, he began pulling groceries from the basket and putting them on the counter.
He said something that she didn’t understand, but at the end was clearly the word dinner. He followed it up with the words that started off this entire evening, which she had figured out meant, “I insist.” The coy wink he sent her way cemented her translation.
She could handle a man cooking for her, so she went about setting the table and opening the bottle of wine they’d purchased. If he intended to prepare dinner, she would make it a date. Then the next time he had his hands over her bras it wouldn’t be having sex on the first date. She snuck a glance at him as she took two wine glasses from the shelves. Sex with this playful bronze god could be a good thing.
Chapter Three
Routine. Never had Genevieve loved that word as much as she did after living with Étienne for another week. Instead of feeling boring, the way they interacted with each other beat a steady, exhilarating rhythm. She never saw him in the morning. He rose earlier than her, but he always left a café au lait on the counter, waiting for her. By the time she reached it, the temperature had dropped enough for her to enjoy it. He’d figured that out after they shared coffee after dinner.
He had said something in French that she didn’t understand, but the way he fluttered his hand at her steaming hot mug as he chattered at her was unmistakable. He wanted her to drink it hot, fresh.
“Too hot.” She searched her brain for the French opposite of hot. He’d taught it to her as they shopped in the market.
A grunt preceded the word for cold, and he frowned as he took a sip of his own mug of coffee.
“Yes, Exactly!” She crowed in French as she’d mastered exclamatory words. She liked it on the colder side.
“No, no, no.” He twirled his finger at his temple as he called her a crazy American. She didn’t need a dictionary to figure that one out.
Since that evening, he’d left out a cooling mug of café au lait for her. She’d grab a pastry or a boiled egg that he’d leave her and gather her sketches from the day before. She’d photograph them and file them on her computer. She didn’t have a sewing machine here, and she couldn’t afford the ones she’d eyed in a fancy fabric shop in the city center, so she’d have to wait to create one of the outfits. After cataloging, she’d take a walk along the beach or into the town, sketching and observing and journaling.
She roamed for hours, skipping lunch or buying a treat at some shop. Everything inspired her, even though the buildings were more modern than she expected. This was a sleeker town, meant to draw in tourists. She kept telling herself that she’d take a trip to Aix or Avignon, but the lanes of this town always called to her, drawing her in.
Eventually, her feet would tire, and she’d find her way home. Étienne would be reading something on his tablet or listening to something. He’d stop immediately and greet her with a hearty, “You have returned. What did you find today?”
She’d made him say that into her translator app, which helped her understand it. Each day he’d say it with a happy grin. The first day was surprising that he cared. The second day charmed her. On the third day, when she realized he
really wanted to hear what she had discovered, her heart melted for this big, strong man with a soft heart.
Her descriptions of her day using language never worked, so they found another way. Sitting beside him on the sofa, she’d show him her sketches as they shared a glass of wine or some farm cider he’d insisted on buying. He insisted a lot, and she never minded as his intention was to share his culture with her. He’d point out bits of her drawing and say the French word as she supplied the English. His understanding grew in leaps and bounds. Her progress inched ever so slowly, frustrating her, but amusing him.
“Practice, Genevieve. Practice.” He’d chide her in French, but then his leg would brush against hers. She’d lose all sense of what he said as her hormones went into overdrive, begging for him to sit closer or to touch her one more time.
She managed to breathe out as her heart fluttered with the contact. “Yes, practice. I know.”
In his deep voice, he scolded, “No ‘I know.’ Say it in French.” He poked her, not too hard, with one of his long fingers.
When she frowned, he said her name in the French way but drawn out, “Jean-vee-ev.” His bass voice, saying her name, distracted her and stole all memory of the words in French. She loved his voice and his patience.
He squeezed her hand, pulled her to standing, and led her to the kitchen. “You need to eat.”
“Yes, I need to eat,” she repeated in perfect French. She had that phrase down perfectly. She followed him, enjoying the view of his tight ass at the top of his long legs.
Part of their routine, that wonderful rhythm, was for him to cook as she set the table and cleaned up after him. Usually, after cleaning, it was late enough for her to go to bed, but this night, he changed the routine.
He took both her hands in his and said something about going and Avignon.
She dissected the sentence. “You?” Was he going to Avignon? “Or me?” She tilted her head and pretended to steer a car with her hands.
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