Page 46 of Fated

“Come on!” Mila calls, splashing cold water in a rainbow arch.

So I do.

I jump in and join my family in the bright, cold water.

18

It’s night.The sheets are cool on my legs, my bedroom is dark, and the wind whispers against the old windowpanes and the smooth stone of the chateau. I clutch the gold watch in my palm, its warm metal a heavy weight in my hand.

“Am I really doing this again?”

Yes, the watch winks at me.

“Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe tonight I won’t dream.”

I stare at the blue enamel, so much like the frothy waves of the sea coursing over the white-sand shore. The watch doesn’t answer.

I take in a deep breath, one filled with lavender and wood and hundreds-year-old stone walls.

“There’s only one way to find out.”

I wind the watch, twisting it back to life. The hands spring into motion, ticking down the seconds. I lie back, close my eyes, and?—

Robert’s kissing me.

My back digs into the cool wooden slats of the cottage. The hot tropical air assaults me. The heady, spiced scent of fuchsia flowers, salty sea, and loamy forest grips me.

I’m pinned between the hard thrust of Robert and the cottage. The slats are scratchy from peeling paint and warped from the humid sea air. I spin dizzily, trying to land back in this moment. The leap from Geneva to here has me spinning.

Robert’s kiss is punishing. Hard and fervent. He grips my waist, drags my hips to his, his fingers biting into my flesh. Then, with a harsh exclamation, he lifts my dress, and that’s when I finally land in the moment.

“I need you now.” Robert swears against my mouth. “Seeing him touch you?—”

I rip my mouth from his and shove. Hard.

He doesn’t move.

Instead he grabs my chin. “What?”

“I’m married,” I say, jerking my chin from his fingers.

“Yes,” Robert says, his eyes flicking with impatience. “I’m aware.”

I stare at him, my chest heaving, my head still spinning.

I landed right back in the moment I left. It feels just as real as it did before. The prickle of sweat running down my back, the taste of coffee on my lips, the press of Robert’s thighs against mine. From around the corner the rooster lets out a scratchy, triumphant crow and a man and woman laugh.

Robert looks toward the noise, waits, and, when there’s no more sound, turns back to me.

“Becca,” he says, his thumb running a circle over my hip, “by Christmas we’ll have enough money to leave. But until then you know I hate it. I can’t stand it when ...” He pauses, taking in my expression. “It’s so hard to love you. It hurts when I want to touch you, knowing that I can’t.”

My word.

He loves me.

This dream man, who I don’t—absolutely don’t—love.

In fact, I find him horrible. Like the awful taste of orange juice after black coffee.

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