Page 8 of Into the Dark
“Oh, but there’s nothing exciting about the French television industry, I assure you.” He waves a hand dismissively. “So, a doctor. You are quite young for a doctor, no?” It’s more of a statement than a question.
“I turn thirty next year. Not too young,” I reply, wondering how old he is. Mid-thirties probably? He has a youthful face but a mature way about him.
He stands up from the table suddenly, lifting the now empty bottle. “Let me get another. You like this one, yes?” he asks, and I nod, swallowing the last of the glass.
As Laurent disappears through the door that leads down to the cellar, I take the opportunity to check my phone. I’m not sure why. I have no expectation he’ll have tried to contact me in the twenty minutes since I last checked. I’m not even certain I want him to. But it’s been almost five weeks since I laid eyes on him, and the need to hear his voice still hasn’t lessened any. Five weeks since the confrontation in my kitchen. Five weeks since I told him I can’t love him. God, it feels like a lifetime ago.
There’s nothing to display. Not a call or text.
“Now, if I could get this land to produce grapes like these again, maybe I could stop making terrible movies,” Laurent sighs from behind me.
I slide my phone back into the pocket of my dress and turn to smile at him as he sits back down at the table. I watch him open the bottle deftly with the corkscrew, watching his hands as he does. They’re nice—smooth and tanned and strong-looking, dark hair spreading up from his wrist. I try to imagine his hands touching me, sliding over my skin, parting my thighs, trailing across my most sensitive parts.
It isn’t unappealing.
What does that mean?
That maybe being with another man is exactly what I need to get over this. To get over him. Maybe I need to know I can be with someone else and still feel something.
As Laurent bends forward to uncork the bottle, his dark hair falls over his face, and he uses his free hand to brush it back.
“So, what made a television producer buy a rundown vineyard in rural France?” I ask, clearing my throat. “Were you looking for a change of career? Ooh, or is it a set for another terrible movie?” I lean forward and hold out my glass for him to refill. As he does, I give him a smile I hope is kind and okay, perhaps a little flirtatious.
“Unfortunately, making a career out of producing wine is a lot harder to do in France than you might think. We have so many amazing wine producers already, and I don’t have an ounce of the skill or patience required to compete with them. I’ll stick to producing terrible movies.” He grins. “Actually, this place was my father’s. He died a few months ago, and so now it is mine.” He moves to refill his own glass before relaxing back in his chair. The wood strains quietly as he does.
“Goodness, so recently. I’m so sorry, Laurent.”
“Thank you,” he says genuinely.
“So you grew up here?” I ask, glancing around.
He shakes his head. “No, not at all. I grew up just outside Marseilles. This place was something he bought on…”—he searches for the word—“impulse. But he had no interest in it truly. My father liked to own things just for the purpose of owning them.” His tone lowers, his eyes avoiding mine. “I came out here to see if there is any reason to keep it.” When he looks back at me, he lets his stare grow a little intense.
The blush creeps across my neck and up to my cheeks. He’s charming me. Which he really doesn’t need to do because I’m already wishing he would just kiss me already. Then maybe I’d know.
“You’re very beautiful, Alex. I think I wanted you the moment I saw you pushing that bicycle this afternoon. An English rose in the French countryside… Of course, I did not know you were English until I heard you speak. I wanted you more then.”
I don’t truly believe that. French men just have a way with words. I almost laugh because did I not fall for an English man who also had a way with words? Do I have a certain look about me that makes me pray for these kinds of men?
Except they’re not the same kinds of men. Not at all.
Laurent moves forward slowly, very slowly, like he’s giving me a chance to back away if I want to. I don’t. When his lips touch mine I feel my body protest a little. Then relax. His lips are careful and soft and taste entirely different from his. When he tilts his head sideways to deepen the kiss I moan a little. This is nice.
So then, Jake hasn’t ruined me. That’s good to know.
Laurent makes a noise in the back of his throat as he moves his hands up to hold my head, our mouths molding together in soft, wet kisses that taste of rich French wine. “Mmm,” he breathes, separating his mouth from mine. He takes my hand in his and brings it to his mouth to kiss each one of my fingers softly. “I want to ask you to stay the night with me. But I feel like this ‘nothing to tell’ might prevent you from saying yes.”
His words take me aback, and I feel a rush of tears, which I only just manage to pull in. “You know me so well already…” I murmur.
He smiles a little sadly. “Not at all. But it’s clear to me that you are heartbroken, and some men may take advantage of that.”
“But not you?” I take a drink as I watch him over the rim of my glass.
“Oh, I most certainly would. But only if you tell me it is what you want.”
For a moment, it is what I want. One night in the arms of another man. Someone who isn’t him.
We sit in heavy silence for a minute or two, and then I set down my glass, my heart sore and empty again. It’s not what I want. It will never be what I want.