Page 168 of The Stranger

“But who’s gonna feed you when I’m away?”

“I can do toast. And noodles. I won’t starve.”

“What about the boss?”

“He can do his own toast and noodles,” I said, hiding behind my water glass. “He’s got arms and legs. I expect he’ll be busy, anyway. With work,” I added, ignoring my heated cheeks.

After she’d gone, I’d mildly chastised him for involving me in his machinations. We were in the garden after a lunch of figs, bread, and cheese we’d rustled up in the kitchen together.

“It’s all above board and legitimate,” he’d said smoothly, standing to pull the bottle of wine from a fancy cooler. He’d topped up both glasses and pressed a tender kiss to my head before turning to admire the mountain range. Maybe the kiss was a placating one.

“And what about the following week?” My heart seemed to skip a beat as the date on my ticket flashed in my head. Twelve days and counting. “What will you cook up then?”

He’d turned his head over his shoulder and grinned. “We’ll probably be tired of figs and cheese by then.”

“Har-har.” But will he be tired of me?

“You’ll have to wait and find out,” he added, turning away at the precise moment the sun went behind a cloud.

I found myself hoping it wasn’t an omen.

“You’re looking for my sad story.”

I hear rather than see his teasing smile as I lie tucked into the crook of his arm, my cheek resting over his heart, one leg threaded over his and the tangled sheets. His fingers continue to drift lazily along my arm, a touch that seems to need neither heat nor reason.

More blissful moments than these I could never have anticipated.

I know what it is to share a bed with a man. I’ve had boyfriends. Men. And I’ve been held before. But this is no perfunctory cuddle after the fact. That sounds worse than it is. I mean, I’m not hugely demonstrative myself. I haven’t wanted to be pulled close. To bask, to savor, or extend the moment until now.

These past days with Luc haven’t only taught me I’m built for pleasure, but they’ve also shown me the quiet joy of intimacy. Skin to skin, a warm kiss pressed to my head, murmured words and silly jokes. It’s been an astonishing revelation to find comfort in being gathered close for no reason than closeness itself. And a power in allowing yourself to do the same.

Who knew cuddles aren’t always a prelude to sex.

“My wound.”

I push up onto my elbow, my train of thought no more. What was I saying again? Ah. “No, that’s not what I think. I suppose I⁠—”

“So you’re not suggesting that tragedy that drove me to get my kicks in a sex club?”

“No!”

“A dead wife, a devoted single father…” He allows his words to trail off, that electric gaze of his full of teasing.

“Well, maybe. Some of that, I suppose. It’s just, that conversation we had at the piano.”

“I did make myself sound a little morose.”

“Made yourself?”

He slides his fingers down a lock of my hair. “Not on purpose. I was feeling thwarted. The sad sack who couldn’t get the girl.” His smile looks a little awkward.

“Yeah, story check out. Idiot,” I add, adjusting the sheet over my nakedness.

“The answer is no. I don’t think so.” He slides his hand behind his head with a bicep-popping notion that may or may not have been on purpose. Yum.

“I understand not wanting to fall in love again. And I get why you don’t date, why you prefer…”

“To just fuck?”