Page 197 of The Stranger

But he shows his love in many forms. It’s in the way he murmurs sweet nothings in French against my skin. It’s in English when he calls me between his meetings, and flights, and oceans, just to check in. He loves me with flowers and badly hidden notes. With coffee placed on my nightstand before an early shift and in the bedroom light he won’t dim until I’m safely home. In crowded rooms, his love is the hand he rests at the small of my back and in the way his lips press my cheek like he can’t resist.

He loves me when he listens, and when he makes me laugh. He loves me when we argue, and when we passionately make up. His love is in the way he shifts in his sleep to find me, and in his eyes seeking mine in every room he walks into.

And now, as he kisses me beneath an indigo Mallorcan sky, with the vines stretching around us in a land we’ve come to love together, the place where tomorrow we’ll come together, I know love isn’t one grand declaration.

It is a thousand small promises, made and kept. It is a life. It is a home—a home that once belonged to another, a woman we’ll honor by raising her children together.

His mouth travels higher, heated breath and bare brushes of his lips igniting my skin. Making my heart beat a tango between us. Then he’s walking backwards, setting my bare feet on the wooden steps.

He doesn’t quite smile as he reaches behind him, pulling his T-shirt off between his shoulder blades.

“Slow down, lover,” I whisper, sliding my finger down between his pecs.

He says nothing as he abandons his T-shirt to the floor.

“I see a new revenue stream in the making.”

“Oh?”

“Bachelorette parties with topless wine makers.”

“If you say Alejandro, you will regret it.”

“Ale who?” I half whisper, half laugh.

“Just as I thought.”

I assumed he’d lifted me to the step to help with our height difference. But not, it would seem, as he steps up next to me. Then steps into the vat.

“I thought this was tomorrow’s plan.”

“Primevère.” He holds out his hand, and well, I climb in after him.

Grapes burst beneath my feet with soft, almost indecent sighs. Cool and yielding, it feels strange, and I give a little squeal as I almost fall.

“Come here.” Luc draws me into his arms as we begin the slow, ancient rhythm of la vendimia. Crush, turn, step. We hold hands as the juice stains our skin crimson, and the air fills with the scents of ripe fruit and warm earth.

“What?” I demand, catching Luc watching me. Watching me as though I’m already wearing white.

“You make me happy.”

“This vintage will be terrible,” I whisper, ducking my head.

“Non,” he says, sounding so impossibly French.

“I have no idea what we’re doing.”

“I know precisely,” he says as his arm circles my waist. He kisses me, and I almost slip again.

“Oops, I’m falling for you.”

“I will always catch you.” We move together until our laughter softens and the motion between us becomes almost a dance, something slow and deliberate. As the grapes slip beneath our feet, Luc’s strong body and his hold steady us both as Casa Alegría, glows like a beacon in the darkness, every terrace and window waiting for tomorrow.

“This vintage will be ours.” He turns me in his arms and pulls my dress over my head before his mouth finds mine again. “We’ll open it alone.”

“Are you suggesting we have sex in this vat—and then make wine out of it?”

He laughs, the sound drifting out into the night. But he doesn’t deny it.