“I just roamed around our house, looking at his things and feeling bad. Bad about him, bad about the time we’d wasted, bad about myself especially, putting it all off because I thought my career, which I didn’t even really like that much, was more important. So I decided I was done with all that. What was I going to do, spend the rest of my life feeling bad?”
“And here you are,” said Guillaume.
“Here I am. Doing things and not putting them off. I’m practicing French—destroying the language, I’m afraid, but trying—I’m going to spas and wineries, looking for my next adventure. I’m a bit out of my depth, really, but forging on. I can tell you both the truth, since we don’t know each other. What about you?”
“Well,” said Marlow, “since we don’t know each other, I’ll tell you the truth, too.” So she did—all about buying a one-euro house, how she’d fallen in love with it, how they’d improved it, but how she had to let it go.
“What an adventure!” said Ruth. “So, you’re really going to try to sell the house?”
“I am,” said Marlow wistfully, glancing at Guillaume, who didn’t look too happy about the decision either. “I just can’t make it work with my life.”
“In that case, I might know a buyer.”
“Really? Who?”
“Me.”
Guillaume drove Marlow back to Mirabelle and walked her up the steps with all her building materials from the hardware store. The village was shut down for the night—no lights visible in any houses, including Luc’s. Even Sabine’s bedroom light was out. Marlow stepped up to her door and pulled out her key. Guillaume stood a step down. It made them the same height—put their faces close. She could feel his breath—tiny puffs of warmth on her cheek.
“I can’t thank you enough for today,” said Marlow. “I don’t think anything here in France would have been possible without your help. It’s like you’re not even real.”
“But I am. Here—feel me.” He held out his arm. She touched it—it was warm and strong. She let her hand travel up his arm to his bicep, then his shoulder, and before she knew it, she had her hand in his hair. She pulled him to her and kissed him.
“Yes, you are real,” she said. He moved his hands to her waist to pull her closer, but by instinct, even though she hadn’t heard a sound, she looked up to Luc’s bedroom window and there he was, poised to close his curtains, looking back down at her. He’d seen the kiss.
Marlow’s world tipped a bit. “I better say goodnight, I think,” she whispered to Guillaume, stepping back an inch and gently removing his hands from her waist. She could see that he was confused as to why things had reversed course.
“Bonsoir,”he replied with a sad smile, turning and heading down the hill.
When Marlow looked back up at Luc’s bedroom window, he was gone.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Marlow woke at dawn. A mid-July breeze came in through the open windows. She lay there in her T-shirt and underwear, feeling well-rested. They’d been doing so much manual work, she was sleeping better than at home. Her mind floated to Guillaume last night: his hands on her hips, his lips on hers. Then she remembered Luc had seen the kiss. Her eyes flitted to the window. His curtains were closed.
Had she not told herself to avoid the whole romance thing? Was she now seriously thinking about not one man but two? They were so different. It made no sense. She got out of bed and pulled on some clothes.
Sabine was up and dressed. She was meeting Aubin in Nenier for a day trip to visit his high school friends. They could walk down together.
The streets were quiet. It was overcast and still cool.
“Everything good?” asked Marlow.
“Yep, you?” asked Sabine.
“Think so,” said Marlow. “A bit complicated but, good, I think?”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“It’s a lot. The house, impossible Rémy foiling me at every turn—”
“And two guys?” asked Sabine.
“Hey. You’re not supposed to notice that stuff.”
“I’m not twelve, Mum.”
“And you’re not thirty-nine, either.”
