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.

“Yes. Travel.” He touched her shoulder and then his as he finished speaking in English. “You. Me. We.”

“To Avignon? Like, Sur le pont d’Avignon l’on y danse, l’on y danse. Sur le pont d’Avignon l’on y danse tout en rond.” She danced a bit as she sang the song she’d learned in French class in high school.

“Yes. I insist.” He wiggled his eyebrows before knitting them tightly together.

“I knew you would say that.” When those words came out of his mouth, she smiled. She loved it when he insisted. It usually meant something good was about to happen.

He frowned.

She didn’t like the frown, so she squeezed his hands, lifted on her tiptoes, and kissed him on the cheek. In probably the worst grammar and pronunciation ever, she replied in what she hoped meant “I would love to go with you.”

“Good.” He wrapped her in a hug, grabbed her shoulders, and kissed her, on her lips, with his lips so brief she nearly didn’t believe it happened.

She touched her mouth, surprised at his action but craving more. If she only knew how to say, “Kiss me again.”

Instead she said, “Practice, if you please.”

His eyes crinkled at her attempt, but he obliged, leaning in, both hands touching her face. He pressed his lips against hers softly, barely enough for her to feel them. Zings of delight leaped down her spine to her belly.

This was what she had wanted, this thrill of his soft lips connecting with hers, bringing desire with each subtle movement. She wrapped her hands around his neck, pulling him closer. Her lips parted as he deepened the kiss. Delicious heat spread across her skin as the velvet of his tongue sought hers. She pressed against his hard chest silently begging for more. His hands trailed along the side of her face and down her arms. A burst of desire came to life when his fingers spread across her back at her waist.

His mouth sought her neck, and she dropped her hands from the back of his head to the sides of his torso. Muscles rippled beneath her fingers. Her breath caught as he nibbled at her ear lobe. She gripped his sides, and he winced, pulling his mouth away from the sensitive spot he’d found beneath her ear.

“Sorry.”

“C’est bon,” he answered as he moved her hand lower. He tilted her chin with a light touch and pulled her bottom lip between his.

For a moment, her mind whirled away from reality as his lips brought her such pleasure. As her hand began to migrate from his hip along his side, his hand stopped her. Not there again, she chided herself.

More of his velvet tongue tangling with hers and more of him making her want this always. Thrills from where his fingers played along her back made her sigh. Ah, to have this all the time. To meet him after work. What does he do for a living? Hell, what would she do for a living here? She was a costume shop girl with dreams of being a designer. She could sew, though. Maybe she could sew for a tailor as she figured out exactly how to make this living with Etienne thing work.

When she realized she had stopped kissing Étienne to think of the future with him, her eyes widened. She backed away. In a few minutes her thoughts had gone from a dalliance to figuring out a life with him in it.

“Um.” She put her hands on his lips and backed away, stunned by how swiftly her thoughts had flown. “That was…You are…My god…I…”

She swallowed, trying to wet her mouth and get her thoughts in order. She couldn’t express herself properly. In complete frustration, she ran from him into her room. She turned out the light and sat in the darkness, unable to process the kiss and how she felt.

****

Étienne knocked on Genevieve’s door the next morning, unsure whether she’d talk to him or even go on the trip he’d planned to Avignon. He had even found a place for them to stay with two rooms connected. It was a guesthouse run by a former colleague. She’d not been able to speak to him after the kiss, and he knew exactly why. He’d had the same reaction—shock at the fervor of his emotions.

As he kissed her, part of his life flashed in front of his eyes—her moving in with him, her sketches of buildings and clothing on the wall beside their bed. Before he knew it, he’d stopped kissing her to wonder how he would get her a visa to stay in the country with him. Would he finally have the reason to get out of special forces? Yes, he decided. Genevieve was worth it.

That’s when he freaked. He didn’t know her. Did she have family? What did she want to do? Did she want to live in France? Did she have a boyfriend? He did not even know the words to ask these things. He needed to write all of this down and use the Internet to translate everything for her to read. When she ran from him, he understood. The same panic he’d seen in those wide eyes resided inside him.

He’d put those emotions to work and wrote down all of his thoughts on his tablet. He got it translated and saved it for her to read as they drove to Avignon. The nearly two-hour drive would give her time to answer his questions and to read his description of his life.

First, she’d have to answer his knock. He called to her, “Genevieve, we travel today. You will like Avignon.” He rested his head against the door. He’d spoken in French, of which she could only understand a few words. He switched to some of the English she had taught him. “Open the door, please. I insist.” When she snatched it open, he nearly fell into her as his head still rested on the door. He righted himself and grinned at her.

“You insist much.” Her face was stern, but beautiful as a smile tugged at her mouth. When she stopped resisting the smile, her eyes lit up as well.

He touched the shiny, sleekness of her straight, black hair. “It is good.”

“No kissing.” She puckered her lips and wagged a finger in front of them.

“I understand.” He’d spent time listening to an English show with subtitles the night before to get better at understanding her quick speech.

Pride swelled his chest that he’d understood her words, but quickly it fell as she started some sentence in which he understood only you, understand, and the grunt at the end. “Stop.”

“Oh,” she put her hand on her mouth. “You aren’t that good.” Her face transformed from a twisted look of frustration to a self-satisfied smirk with a raised eyebrow.

Something about her look made him want to kiss her again to show her just how good he could be and not just at picking up languages. Need for her growled in his belly despite the reservations about jumping into a relationship with her too soon. Ah, to throw away the plans of the day to simply get to know the curves of her body and what would make her cry out in orgasm. He lifted his hand a mere centimeter.

Her head shook, and she stopped his hand with hers. “It is too much.” Her French was passable.

He sighed, but he agreed. It was too much and too soon. Beautiful, creative, and willing to deny herself pleasure, Genevieve was turning out to be even more wonderful than he’d thought. At first, she was a pretty face living with him. Then, she became a challenge to befriend. Now, he realized how much he wanted to know her better. He had so many questions. “Here. Read, please. I drive.”

“Yes.” She reached for a small bag, but he took it from her to carry it with his. When they got in the car, she bent her head to the tablet. “I read.”

He told her how to say it in French, and she repeated it with a small smile.

He took a deep breath and steered the car onto the road trying not to grip the wheel too tightly. Instead, his nerves caused his leg to shake. He hoped she wouldn’t run from his questions.