too steadily.
Will can barely stand it, how much he wants this woman. And who would ever know?
Who?
He would. He already feels crappy about that kiss, crappier with each passing second. He’s not a guy who does this, who succumbs to this cliché. Oh, Will Rhodes?
Of course
he had an affair with a beautiful Australian on assignment in France. How could he
not?
“Listen, Elle.”
She stops walking. “You’re
kidding.”
Elle is staring at him, mouth open in shock, affronted. Will wonders if this woman has ever before been rejected.
“I’m married.”
“Marriage has nothing to do with this, Will. Nothing.” The appalled look slides from her face, replaced with bemused resignation. “Though I guess I’m not the married one, am I?”
Will is pretty sure this question is rhetorical, and he doesn’t want to make a fool of himself by answering.
“Have it your way,” she says. She resumes walking, and he lets her take a couple of steps before he joins. “Or, rather,
don’t
have it.”
If this is the end of it, if this is all, everything will be just fine. Beautiful stranger, foreign country, one late-night drunken kiss. Who cares? He’ll get over it. No one will know.
ST-ÉMILION
“I’m sorry,” Elle says. “I was out of line.”
Will looks up from his plate, silky ham and soft bread with salted butter, fresh berries, the spoils of a European breakfast buffet, similar everywhere but for the regional additions, the herring in Scandinavia, the baked beans in England.
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry.” Is he apologizing for rejecting her? For missing out on an experience? Both? “Join me?”
She’s less put-together in the morning, as everyone is. No makeup, hair tied back, baggy tee shirt, jeans. She looks more real, here in the breakfast room in bright daylight, a real person with real feelings, not an impossibly sexy stranger at a glamorous party, where she was more of an idea, an ideal, than a reality. This is no goddess. Just a mortal woman who if she really tries can look fantastic, especially in candlelight.
“Look, I—no, let me finish—I’m sorry, Will.” She takes a seat. “I’m not like that. It was just that I felt such a…connection, last night. Didn’t you?”
He nods.
“And the truth is, I’m in a relationship too. I’m not married, or even engaged, but we might…” She trails off, staring at a spot in the distance, the rough plaster wall. “I just didn’t want last night to end. And that’s what happens next, isn’t it? Kissing?”
Yes, he thinks, that certainly is what happens next.
“But I know better, this morning. And thank God you knew better, last night.”
“I’m not sure
better
is the right word.”
She smiles, maybe blushes. She leans toward him. “It
was
fun, wasn’t it?”
So they spend the morning together, the odd familiarity of two people who met and kissed last night, uneasy glances, a long walk on the paths among old roses, a drive into town for a predictably unsuccessful attempt to find a replacement charger for Elle’s phone.
And then, suddenly, heartbreakingly: “I’ve a plane to catch.”
Will wonders if it makes any sense to drive her to the airport. Is that the type of relationship they now have? He doesn’t want to overstep the boundary, to ruin something good with something not. But he has never been here, isn’t sure where this boundary is.
He kisses her on the cheek. There: that’s the boundary.
But then right away he crosses it, leaving his lips on her skin for one second, and two, and ten, for far too long. But she never pulls away. She continues to make it clear that she isn’t going to be the one who stops.
When he finally leans away, she sighs, looks him the eye, “Bye-bye” in a melodic voice, which is one of the many things he adores about this woman he didn’t know yesterday, and will probably never see again.
ST-JEAN-DE-LUZ
Will pokes around the old town’s whitewashed rusticity, the crescent beach,
Will can barely stand it, how much he wants this woman. And who would ever know?
Who?
He would. He already feels crappy about that kiss, crappier with each passing second. He’s not a guy who does this, who succumbs to this cliché. Oh, Will Rhodes?
Of course
he had an affair with a beautiful Australian on assignment in France. How could he
not?
“Listen, Elle.”
She stops walking. “You’re
kidding.”
Elle is staring at him, mouth open in shock, affronted. Will wonders if this woman has ever before been rejected.
“I’m married.”
“Marriage has nothing to do with this, Will. Nothing.” The appalled look slides from her face, replaced with bemused resignation. “Though I guess I’m not the married one, am I?”
Will is pretty sure this question is rhetorical, and he doesn’t want to make a fool of himself by answering.
“Have it your way,” she says. She resumes walking, and he lets her take a couple of steps before he joins. “Or, rather,
don’t
have it.”
If this is the end of it, if this is all, everything will be just fine. Beautiful stranger, foreign country, one late-night drunken kiss. Who cares? He’ll get over it. No one will know.
ST-ÉMILION
“I’m sorry,” Elle says. “I was out of line.”
Will looks up from his plate, silky ham and soft bread with salted butter, fresh berries, the spoils of a European breakfast buffet, similar everywhere but for the regional additions, the herring in Scandinavia, the baked beans in England.
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry.” Is he apologizing for rejecting her? For missing out on an experience? Both? “Join me?”
She’s less put-together in the morning, as everyone is. No makeup, hair tied back, baggy tee shirt, jeans. She looks more real, here in the breakfast room in bright daylight, a real person with real feelings, not an impossibly sexy stranger at a glamorous party, where she was more of an idea, an ideal, than a reality. This is no goddess. Just a mortal woman who if she really tries can look fantastic, especially in candlelight.
“Look, I—no, let me finish—I’m sorry, Will.” She takes a seat. “I’m not like that. It was just that I felt such a…connection, last night. Didn’t you?”
He nods.
“And the truth is, I’m in a relationship too. I’m not married, or even engaged, but we might…” She trails off, staring at a spot in the distance, the rough plaster wall. “I just didn’t want last night to end. And that’s what happens next, isn’t it? Kissing?”
Yes, he thinks, that certainly is what happens next.
“But I know better, this morning. And thank God you knew better, last night.”
“I’m not sure
better
is the right word.”
She smiles, maybe blushes. She leans toward him. “It
was
fun, wasn’t it?”
So they spend the morning together, the odd familiarity of two people who met and kissed last night, uneasy glances, a long walk on the paths among old roses, a drive into town for a predictably unsuccessful attempt to find a replacement charger for Elle’s phone.
And then, suddenly, heartbreakingly: “I’ve a plane to catch.”
Will wonders if it makes any sense to drive her to the airport. Is that the type of relationship they now have? He doesn’t want to overstep the boundary, to ruin something good with something not. But he has never been here, isn’t sure where this boundary is.
He kisses her on the cheek. There: that’s the boundary.
But then right away he crosses it, leaving his lips on her skin for one second, and two, and ten, for far too long. But she never pulls away. She continues to make it clear that she isn’t going to be the one who stops.
When he finally leans away, she sighs, looks him the eye, “Bye-bye” in a melodic voice, which is one of the many things he adores about this woman he didn’t know yesterday, and will probably never see again.
ST-JEAN-DE-LUZ
Will pokes around the old town’s whitewashed rusticity, the crescent beach,
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