Page 126 of The Stranger

I straighten my tennis dress before I sit back down, then slide on my sunglasses. As I reach for my water bottle, I chance a quick look Luc’s way. His mouth curves. Barely. And my pulse gives one hard thump. Between my legs.

Fine, so you caught me looking.

How long is this going to go on? This game he’s been playing since Friday?

I’d left him sitting at the piano the previous night with the understanding I’d think over his offer. I’d practically floated up the staircase, high on the smell of his cologne and lure of his promises. All the sexytimes and none of the feelings we could squeeze into a few weeks.

When I saw him there, on the piano bench, my first instinct was relief. I was flattered, I suppose, that he’d returned. Then seduced as he opened up about his life and his loves. The words felt like tiny treasures he spilled into my hands. I was greedy for them.

And I did think about his proposal. Probably a little too much. And, I confess, I might need to add the vision of a tanned and wet naked torso version of Luc to those thoughts. But I digress. Because ultimately, I’d decided that I couldn’t accept his offer.

His offer of all the sexytimes… for a limited time.

I’d told him the following morning that it didn’t feel like a decision I had to make but more like I needed to follow my moral compass. That two weeks of fucking this thing out of my system, no matter how beautifully he put it, didn’t seem right. Fun, but not right.

He hadn’t seemed slighted or even that surprised when I’d given him the news. He’d just tipped his head. Barely. Said he understood, and then went back to his newspaper. I hate to admit this, but his reaction was a total anticlimax. Not that I was expecting tears and the beating of his chest. But a little disappointment wouldn’t have hurt him.

But, as it turned out, his response was a ruse, and it quickly became clear that Lucien du Beaumont has a problem with his hearing. As in, he seems incapable of hearing the word no.

And so began his targeted campaign, beginning within minutes of me tactfully and carefully explaining why I couldn’t be his Mallorcan fling. It started with a cup of coffee he made for me. As if that wasn’t weird enough—as if Zoe hadn’t looked at him as though he’d grown another head—he’d placed it down with a glance that seemed to say, See how I know you? Then he’d slid me the sugar… because he doesn’t know me at all.

“Papa, Primrose doesn’t take sucre,” Sylvie admonished. My attention skated his ways with a superior look as she’d added. “She is sweet enough.”

A perfectly innocent remark. A repeat of something I’d once joked myself. But her father turned it into something else entirely as he’d swiped his thumb over the full softness of his bottom lip with a look that seemed incendiary.

“Yes, ma puce,” he’d said. “I’ve discovered for myself.”

Milk foam inhaled can be quite painful, it turns out. But at least Zoe was out of earshot. When I’d stopped coughing, I’d scowled at him, my lips twitching with all the words trying to escape when he slid his thumb between his lips as though recalling my taste.

I hated how every molecule of me seemed to lean closer to him.

Later that afternoon, there was the incident with cake. I’m still not sure if he made me sound like an addict or deranged.

“Looks delicious,” he’d said as Zoe set down the delicious-smelling afternoon treat. She’d made coffee for the adults and set out fruit and smoothies for the children.

“Almond, Papa, your favorite,” Sylvie announced. “We all helped make it.”

“Then I’m sure I’ll enjoy it all the more.”

“I cracked the eggs and Felix measured the flour,” she added enthusiastically.

“With the precision of budding scientists,” Zoe reported. “Napkins,” she added with a snap of her fingers. “Excuse me.”

“And what was your part in this?” As his taunting gaze slid my way, I imagined myself kicking his shin under the table.

“I was there in a supervisory capacity,” said prim Prim for the win.

“No, you helped clean,” Sylvie piped up. “You licked the mixing bowl.”

“I—” The heat in my face felt suddenly immense. “Good batter should never go to waste.”

He’d made a low sound that wasn’t hard to interpret.

“I cleaned the spoon,” Sylvie said proudly. “But not so good as Primrose did with the whisk.”

“The whisk?” Her father cupped his chin as though this was the most interesting thing he’d heard all week.

“Yes, and she got her tongue into all the difficult places.”