“Just something soft.”
“Orangina?”
He smiles and nods. It’s French: I thought he’d like it. I go through to the kitchen, instructing him to take a seat.
I can feel Mellie’s eyes on me as I pour the fizzy orange soft drink into a glass.
“What?” I whisper.
She shakes her head, a knowing smile on her lips. “Nothing.”
A few minutes later, I’m inwardly lamenting the size of the sofa. Mellie has taken the armchair and although I’m sitting next to Étienne, he is too far away.
An idea comes to me and I grab a cushion, throwing it onto the coffee table in front of his legs and edging closer, putting my feet up. We’re both barefoot—he kicked his trainers off by the door. I tap his knee and indicate the cushion.
He hesitates, and then lifts up his feet, mirroring mine by crossing them at the ankles.
Now I have an excuse to nestle right in beside him. My heart jumps as our arms brush, and while it makes me nervy, relief is the overriding emotion.
It’s a testament to how good the documentary is that I manage to concentrate. I can’t believe I never knew who MichèleMouton was—she’s practically Wonder Woman—and her co-driver, Fabrizia Pons, is also a boss.
There’s this one moment when they’re describing the madness of the rally in Portugal where all the spectators line the roads and some try to touch the cars as they pass. I’m so aghast at the sight of mechanics fishing severed fingers out of the air vents that both Mellie and Étienne burst out laughing.
Toward the end of the documentary, I bring my legs up onto the sofa, resting my knees against Étienne’s thighs. His fingertips ghost over my skin, causing everything inside me to tighten.
I’m coiled to snapping point by the time the credits roll. When Mellie heads into the kitchen, we turn our faces toward each other and have a silent conversation.
He gets up to go and say goodbye to Mellie, thanking her for having him. They share a warm exchange, with Mellie promising to bring her car in early next week for a new set of tires. It’s a Clio, albeit a modern one, but it’s French so obviously he approves.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” I say.
The second we’re outside, my back is against the cottage wall and our mouths are locked together, his hips pinning me to the stone.
Our kiss is frantic, desperate, my fingers digging into his back, his shoulders, his neck, his hair; his hands cupping my hips, my waist, my breasts, my face.
Ten minutes later, I’m popping my head around the kitchen door. “I’m just going to go for a drive with Étienne,” I tell Mellie breathlessly.
She takes one look at my bee-stung lips and smirks. “I won’t wait up.”
Another ten minutes and I’m in his bed.
He’s thoughtful afterward.I’m lying naked in his arms, feeling boneless from pleasure overload, when I realize he’s staring up at the ceiling. He notices me looking and casts me a barely there smile. He seems…sad? And a little drained perhaps? Maybe I’ve worn him out.
“Do you want me to stay?” I ask, hoping he’ll say yes this time.
He looks back at me hesitantly before saying, “I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”
The disappointment I feel is quick and all-consuming.
“I’ve got to go and see a couple of cars,” he explains.
“Your next project?” I ask, forcing what I hope looks like a breezy smile.
“Yeah.” He nods and sits up.
I take the hint, my heart wilting as he reaches for his T-shirt and pulls it over his head.
“I’ll give you a lift home,” he says.
