Page 75 of The Stranger

“Haaaa-lle-lu-iah!” From twerking to a (not quite) celestial choir, my enjoyment can’t be contained. “Haaaa-lle-lu-iah! Halleluiah! Halleluiah! Ha—Argh!”

My shock echoes in the cavernous kitchen as light goes on in the breakfast nook to my right, and three things happen almost at once:

I spin around.

My heart hits the floor.

And a tiny part of me dies.

That tiny bit would be my self-respect as I stare at M. LDH, my current, too-hot-to-handle boss.

“I… er…”—sound like I’ve been sucking from a helium tank—“I didn’t see you there. When I. When I came in.” Came in, danced about, talked to myself, shook what my mother gave me, then impersonated the world’s most average choir girl.

Bonus, I did all this in pajamas. Not even cute pjs, I silently lament. Miss-matched—a pink top and orange bottoms—and the T-shirt’s neck is all stretched-out. The bottoms are no better because they’re more like big knickers thanks to an unfortunate incident with a dryer. They’re the kind of sleepwear you pack to hang out with your bestie when planning for evenings with takeaway and wine with a little Regina George thrown in. They’re certainly not the kind of jimjams you want any man to see you in, let alone His Hotness over there.

From his seat at the side of the room, he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even laugh.

Looks like the arrogant monsieur is back.

Slunk low in his chair, his hair shines in the glow of the lamp, his elbow and forearm resting on the table, his fingers laced negligently around the base of a fat crystal tumbler.

He’s changed since dinner, his shirt and slacks replaced by linen shorts and a soft-looking T-shirt. It’s as casual as I’ve seen him. Revealing too, as I note his tan, those corded forearms, and the way his sleeves hug his biceps.

My eyes slip lower, and my body experiences a frisson of delight at the sight of his bare legs. Thick thighs. A dappling of dark hair. I’m not even repulsed by his feet, and I’m really not keen on feet.

Like the art hanging in the Paris house, it’s very hard not to stare. But I try, until I realize I’m twirling the fork between my fingers. Again.

The corner of his mouth lifts as though hooked, and I can literally feel color flooding my cheeks because I know what he’s thinking.

“Has anyone ever been murdered by a cake fork?” My question is too bright, my voice too loud. I fold my arms across my chest and poke myself in the left boob with the tines. Forking hell! I try not to wince as I set it down and put my elbow to the countertop a little too hard in an attempt to appear casual.

“I hope to never find out, Primevère.”

He sounds very French, and the way he says my name, the French version of my name, with the accent and everything, makes everything south of my waist tingle.

“What happened to the English gent?” In my head, this sounds light-hearted. In the air, it sounds smokier somehow.

“Perhaps I don’t feel very gentlemanly tonight.”

Even the cicadas seemed to fall quiet. And there’s no denying the look in his eye. It feels like that night in Paris all over again, but for the distance between us.

And the door he’ll push me out of in due course.

His fingers twitch against his glass. “Perhaps you should consider that a warning.”

I don’t take his advice, though I know I probably should as I twist back to my slice of torte. It’s strange how I’m no longer hungry, that it’s more like something to do. When the thing I should do is leave. Run. Only, I don’t want to.

“I’ve heard that cake is fun any day of the week,” I say softly.

“So they say.”

I hear his smile rather than see it when the echo of his daughter’s words fails to drag either of us back to our senses.

“Would you a little?” Lord, why did I say that—say it like that? I’m glad of the low light to hide my embarrassment.

“No. But, please, don’t let me stop you.”

Despite my sudden lack of appetite, I dig the spongey goodness with my fork. “Are you sure you don’t want…” I glance back, and my breath disappears, my words along with it as I catch him appreciating my legs. Or maybe my bum. My tiny pjs?