Page 140 of The Stranger

“The only place I think you should roll cheese is into your mouth,” I say.

“Yes! I also think this.”

By breakfast, the sensation of anticipation has taken up most of the space in my chest. It feels like a secret that keeps trying to manifest itself as a smile. But I resist. Walking around smiling at nothing would make me look like a loony.

I can’t wait for tonight. Luc and me and a little privacy.

In my head, Marvin Gaye starts singing about getting it on.

“Bonjour.”

Later, we’re in the kitchen, when a rather subdued Felix trudges in.

“Good morning, Felix,” I say. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes,” he answers, which is better than a grunt, I suppose.

“Zoe made chouquette.” His sister says, dipping her third sugary puff into a tiny cup of Spanish-style hot chocolate. The stuff is thick and gooey and sweet enough to trigger a diabetic coma. “I kept you some. See?” She offers him the plate and he takes one. And wonders upon wonders, he voluntarily takes a stool next to her. I watch as she slides her cup between them, and he smiles as he dips. It’s a heartwarming sight, watching them whisper and giggle, their heads close together as they share the cup.

Zoe’s eyebrows lift and I shrug. Tell you later. I move to the coffee machine.

“Some of us are going out tonight,” she says quietly, sidling up to me.

“Oh?” Uh-oh.

“A few drinks, some dancing, maybe even a few bad decisions.”

“Well, you enjoy.” I lock the portafilter into place.

“Wanna come with?”

“Me?” I do a quick double take. I’m not surprised by the invitation, but I am dismayed about its timing. I rattle my brain for an excuse, hitting the button in the absence of one. The machine begins to noisily extract coffee.

“Alejandro will be there,” she says, leaning closer.

“Cool.”

“I thought you might say that.”

“Why? You’re not still talking about the other morning, are you?”

“He told me he likes you,” she says, disregarding my question. “So…”

“I have the kids.” Ack, my delivery was a little too perky to portray disappointment

“They aren’t invited.” She grins. “And you’re entitled to a night off—ask him.”

“I…” I’ve got plans. Rain check because I’ve been promised a bloody good seeing to?

“Papa!” Sylvie announces, her voice somewhat muffled by pastry.

I glance up—twice—as I do a double take and lose my train of thought entirely. The man is wearing jodhpurs—real, honest to goodness riding pants—that he appears to have been poured into.

“Mercy,” Zoe murmurs next to me. “I think my sole just left my body.”

His shirt is white, the sleeves folded to reveal a little tan forearm porn. The jodhpurs are fawn and indecently fitted, and his narrow waist is denoted by a chestnut-colored belt. His boots are tall, brown and well-worn now, which says this get-up isn’t a prop designed to turn me on. Because I am.

Looking at him does make me wonder why Mr Darcy (the Colin Firth version) even bothered getting his shirt wet when he could’ve been wearing pants like that. Maybe Colin’s thighs aren’t as thick. Or maybe he has a pancake bum. As for the rear version of Luke, I know I’m in for a treat.