I glance at him. “We could walk there now along the river?”
He shakes his head. “Another time. I need to sort out the bedrooms before we can stay overnight.”
He wants to stay there overnight with me? “We can make a start on them tomorrow.”
He raises his chin at Mellie’s car. “Could you drive us there in the morning? I left my car at Dion’s.”
“Sure. Shall I stay with you tonight then?” I ask casually, holding my breath as I wait for his reply.
“If you like,” he replies. “Might be easier.”
“Okay, I’ll just text Mellie so she doesn’t worry.” It’s an effort to keep my voice sounding steady.
We watch a movie. It’s his suggestion, but I’m pleased by it. In some ways it feels more intimate than just going straight up to his bedroom. When he sees me yawning, he pats his lap and beckons to me, indicating that I can lie down. His fingers brush the hairback from my face, making me feel light and jittery, but eventually I relax. And I must relax so deeply that I fall asleep because when I come to, dawn has lit up his giant windows and there’s a blanket covering my body.
I look up at Étienne’s bedroom on the mezzanine level and then quietly use the bathroom before venturing upstairs. He’s sprawled out on his stomach, one of his legs thrown out over the top sheet and his arm tucked under his pillow. His skin is tanned against the white cotton, his back rising and falling with his long, slow breaths. I gaze at his face, so peaceful in sleep, and my heart inflates. He stirs as I slip beneath the sheets. I don’t touch him—I don’t want to wake him up—but it’s a long time before I manage to doze off again.
And once more, when I wake up, I’m alone.
Étienne is making coffee—I can hear the machine.
“Morning,” I say as I pad downstairs.
He glances over at me. “Hi. Coffee?”
“Yes, please.” I rest my back against the work surface and watch him. He seems very focused on what he’s doing.
I’m tempted to nip to Mellie’s for a shower and a change of clothes, but I have the oddest feeling that if I leave, he might not want me to come back.
“We could eat breakfast at the house,” I suggest.
He raises his eyebrows and nods. “There’s a boulangerie near Dion’s. Can we pick up my car on the way?”
“Yeah, of course.”
He leads once we’ve collected his Peugeot, losing me on the road out of town. It’s okay—I know where I’m going—but as I arrive at the house to see his car parked on the drive, I’m overcome with an intense feeling of déjà vu.
With an odd awareness that I can’t really make sense of, Idon’t think the déjà vu relates to the last time I came here, or even when I was seventeen. This feels different.
It’s the car: his navy GTi. When I was seventeen, it was tucked around the back, filthy, with weeds growing up around it.
But I remember coming along this drive and seeing it when it looked clean and shiny and was parked right here in front of the door.
For some reason, Sandrine comes to mind.
And then the car door opens and Étienne climbs out. I try to shake off my uneasiness as I follow him into the house.
We sit on the bank, a paper bag filled with pains au chocolat and croissants torn open between us.
“Would you ever think about renting this place out?” I ask.
“Who’d want to live here?” he replies, hooking his arm around one of his knees.
“I would.”
He smiles at me. He thinks I’m joking. I’m not.
“Seriously, I would.”
