Page 150 of The Stranger

“You look exhausted,” she says softly, her accent marking her as Parisienne.

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that.” Her thumb passes over his cheek with such practiced affection. “You should have called me.”

“I didn’t know you were here.”

“That doesn’t matter, Luc.” Her expression softens. “For you? I will always come.”

Something small and fragile cracks behind my ribs.

I’ve no idea what’s going on. Why she’s touching him with the confidence of someone who’s no stranger to him. Why his arms are looped around her waist or why she’s looking at him as though she adores him. But I do know she looks like she belongs. In this gleaming hall, and in his arms. In the parts of his life I know nothing of.

She looks like she knows him. Meanwhile, I know fuck all. I’m a summer diversion.

“I’ve missed you,” she says affectionately.

“I’ve missed you too.” His tone speaks of sentiment.

“You can’t keep shutting me out. Not after everything we’ve been through.”

“Life is… complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Oh fuck. An optimist. I think I must snort as she glances toward the staircase.

I step backwards, my heel striking the edge of the stair. The tiny sound seems deafening, but Luc doesn’t call my name. He’s too occupied with the woman whose familiar hands touch him.

My overwhelming instinct is to turn and flee. To move quickly and silently until I reach the landing. Cowardice would be so much easier. I could slip into my room, close door and pretend… what?

That I don’t care?

That I don’t matter?

That I would let another man treat me badly—again?

That’s not happening.

Because primroses are brave. Even if he didn’t mean it when he said it. They’re also a little ridiculous, I decide, as I lift my chin and continue down the staircase.

Luc glances my way—not because I’m stomping like a troll or anything—and does a double take. Maybe he forgot I was here. However temporarily.

But then, for one unguarded second, something moves across his face—a flicker of the man who whispered such beautiful words against my skin. The woman’s gaze follows, and she makes a noise that sounds a little like astonishment. But whatever that was, it rapidly wipes his face clean.

“Primrose.” He turns to face me, his tone cool but courteous. “I didn’t realize you were there.”

No shit, Sherlock.

But I guess that the woman remains tucked tightly against his side says it all. Up close, she looks sort of ageless, like she could be aged anywhere between thirty-five and fifty. My money is on forty-plus with access to an excellent dermatologist. She’s tall and elegantly trim and has the kind of effortless elegance that makes me feel like I’ve dressed myself from the charity bin.

Her gaze flicks over me with a gleaming sort of interest as I stand in front of the pair.

“This is Primrose,” Luc offers eventually. “The children’s nanny.”

Ouch. And I don’t say that for funsies because that really fucking hurt. Arsehole. What a douche. It’s not that I expected him to offer up the truth—to say that I’m the woman he whispers sweet filthy French nothings to. The woman he’s been chasing for weeks.

Just the nanny.