Page 24 of Love on the Vine
Chapter 8
Jake
The sun had just risen over Moustiers when I returned from my early morning run. I slipped through the back gate, realizing too late that this wasn’t the best idea if I didn’t want to be confronted once again with the sight of Olivia’s lacy panties hanging on the clothesline outside the cottage.
Too late. Averting my eyes from the tiny triangles of pink fabric, I headed into the house straight for the shower. I let the hot water slip over me, scalding my already burning skin. The hotter the better; at least then I’d feel something.
I’d been numb for so long, living on autopilot for the past six months. The disaster with the Shangri-La Group, the leading boutique hotel chain in Asia and one of our best clients, was the perfect ending to a shitty week. Another week spent pretending that I gave a damn.
I should have gone back to Shanghai myself. Maybe this crisis was what I needed to shake me out of this rut. Instead, I’d let Jin go this morning. And now I was stuck here ruminating about my failing business, my nonexistent taste buds, and my inconvenient attraction to my temporary houseguest.
The image flashed before my eyes of her tangled in her bathrobe, long, smooth legs sprawled across the bed just enough that I could make out the lacy edge of her panties. The samepanties that were drying on the clothesline. With a groan, I turned the water to cold, even as I took myself in my hand. I refused to jerk off to her in the shower, so I tried to think of anything else. The British Royal Family, old men doing tai chi in the park, filing my taxes.
I stepped out of the shower not feeling much cleaner than I had before. I had to get control of myself—needed something to occupy my mind and my hands. There was nothing left to do with the car, so I grabbed a book—the latest Nebula winner that I’d been meaning to read—and headed out, this time leaving by the front entrance to avoid the display of lacy underwear. But as luck would have it, the linden trees by the front entrance were in full bloom, their fragrant blossoms filling the air with the scent I would probably now always associate with Olivia.
“Goddammit,” I mumbled as I closed the gate and made my way down the hill toward the village. A car rolled up next to me and the driver lowered his window. I recognized the wild gray hair and perpetually tanned face of my neighbor, Jean-Luc.
“Félicitations, mon gros!” he shouted and winked. I barely had enough time to give him a confused scowl before he sped off.
At the café, Marie-Claude greeted me as I sat down at my favorite table, hidden off to the side with a view of the fountain. “I haven’t seen you in weeks, Monsieur Jake!”
“I know. I haven’t had much free time lately,” I explained.
“Oh, well, what else is new?” She laughed. I ordered an espresso, aware of the curious stares from the other regulars. In a small town, people were always speculating about each other. I could only imagine that I was known as the town recluse, the Howard Hughes of Moustiers. I ignored them and opened my book. I was already ten pages in when I realized my jumbled mind hadn’t understood a damn thing.
Defeated, I closed the book. I needed to put things into perspective. The contract was lost unless Jin was able to pulloff some miracle. And yet, I really wasn’t all that upset about it. What was bothering me then?
Losing control.
I used to be so definite in my plans. I knew what I wanted and went after it. But in the past year, I’d found myself hesitating, searching . . . for what? I didn’t know. It’s like my life, which I’d worked so hard to build, was a glass of wine that I’d taken too many sips of and couldn’t taste anymore. Palate fatigue, we called it. Could you have life fatigue?
Maybe Jin was right. I needed to try something new.
An older couple at the next table nodded at me as they left, the wife grinning broadly. “Félicitations!”
I frowned at them in return. Why were people congratulating me?
Marie-Claude came out with another coffee and filled me in on the usual gossip about the butcher and his estranged wife, and the mayor’s troubled son, before asking, “Where is Mademoiselle Olivia today? Will she join you?”
I blinked at her, taken aback by her question, but then realized Olivia must be a regular at the café since it faced the pétanque square where she spent most afternoons with Michel and his friends. My mouth curved up in spite of myself. I couldn’t imagine many young women her age getting competitive over senior pétanque.
“No, I haven’t seen her this morning.”
Except in your mind, a voice inside my head reminded me.
“Oh?” Marie-Claude swatted me gently with her menu. “What did you do? Did she make you sleep on the couch?”
“The couch?” Jesus, did she think . . . ?
“Be careful not to spoil things too fast,” she warned as she swept empty coffee cups from the neighboring table. “She’s a very special girl. She’s good for you.”
“No, we’re not together, Marie-Claude.” I shook my head. “She’s the daughter of an old friend.”
She winked at me indulgently. “Okay.”
Feeling suddenly exposed, like she’d read all my dirty thoughts, I paid my bill and left a generous tip. I crossed the square to the boulangerie where the cashier beamed at me as she handed me the paper sack of croissants and a baguette. “And atartelette au citronfor mademoiselle?”
I nodded and handed over the extra money for the lemon tart that she slid into a square carton. Apparently in the time I’d been ignoring her, Olivia had been making friends with the entire village. I wasn’t surprised. She was the kind of person who made you feel at ease. I should have been glad that she hadn’t been languishing in a corner while I’d been ignoring her, but I found myself feeling irritated that the cashier at the boulangerie knew her better than I did.
