Page 167 of The Stranger

“Monsieur LDH,” I wheeze. “That’s what I call you. Please!”

“What is the meaning?” His thumb swipes at my tears.

“Oh my days,” I rasp. My stomach hurts from laughing too hard. And from being sexed within an inch of my life.

Luc’s warning comes in the form of another pinch.

“No, please. Stop!”

“Monsieur Lethally, Devastatingly Handsome?”

“Good guess, but no,” I splutter.

“Monsieur… Likes Disobeying His Nanny? Leaves Doctors Hot?”

“Nope and no. But also yes,” I add. “On both counts.”

“Monsieur Le Diable Himself?”

“Well, I have called you the devil a time or two.” I put my hand to his face. “And you do seem to possess the devil’s tongue.”

“Tell me,” he purrs dangerously. “Or I’ll be forced to tie you to the bed.”

“Oh, no.” I give my best ‘damsel in distress’ gasp.

“I will tie you to the bed,” he warns, dragging my hand from my body and lifting it to the pillows. “And have my wicked way with you again and again.”

“Where’s the threat?”

He grabs my other hand, both wrists easily held in one of his hands. Then he twists to reach the nightstand behind him and oh, what a joy. Muscles twist and flex, nature’s machinery at its best. “How do you feel about amateur photography?”

I stare at the phone in his hand. “How…” What?

“Comment dit-on ça en anglaise,” he says, affecting confusion as he taps his phone ponderously to his chin.

“Very funny. You already said photography.”

“Ah!” He makes a gesture like eureka! “Désolé,” he says with great exaggeration. “Not photography. How do you feel about amateur pornography?”

Oh no.

41

PRIMROSE

For days afterwards, we live in a bubble of bliss. There’s no work to do, no people around, no one to think about or please but ourselves. And we do spend a lot of time pleasing each other.

Honestly? I’m surprised I can still walk.

Zoe came back to Casa Alegría the day after our night in Palma. She was a little sheepish about where she’d spent the night, but as I was guarding my own secrets, we sort of tacitly agreed that the night before was off-limits.

But she wasn’t in the house long because, out of the blue, she was offered a professional opportunity in Seville. One of Luc’s hotels desperately needed someone to oversee a private tasting for some important guests, and as the story goes, she was the man for the job.

Her eyes nearly fell out of her head when Luc mentioned a generous bonus as thanks for helping him out of a jam. As well as a week’s accommodation in his bougie hotel.

“I’m so stoked,” she’d whispered as she’d spun around the kitchen like a Moroccan dervish, grabbing her knives, mandolin, and other chef-y tools. “But, I mean, why me?”

“The question should be, Why not you? Your food is amazing.” Not a lie, but I still felt icky saying it.