Invitation to Provence(14)
“You’d better get that foot up on the sofa. Here, I’ll put a cushion under it, and I’ll get an ice pack and an Ace bandage.”
While she was gone, he took a look at her home, at the sagging chenille sofas and the green-check throws that looked remarkably like horse blankets, at the tufted red-velvet ottoman and the fifties flea-market coffee table. Only the armoire in the corner was good, a fine French antique if he wasn’t mistaken, and he wondered if Paul Marten had brought it with him to America all those years ago. Pottery jars spilled wilting flowers and scented candles were everywhere. Still, despite the general disarray, he thought it had a well-worn lived-in kind of comfort that wasn’t too far removed from that of his cabin. He definitely liked it and thought it suited her.
She was back in minutes carrying a washbowl filled with ice and water. She stuck his foot in it, grinning as he flinched. “I thought you were the tough-guy bodyguard trainer,” she said mockingly, then she went off to the kitchen, where he heard her filling the kettle and rattling dishes.
When she came back she had her hair up tied in a black ribbon and a tray with two steaming mugs of tea, along with some pills and the Ace bandage.
“Drink the tea,” she ordered. “It’s very soothing, makes you nice and relaxed. And take these pills, they’ll help kill the pain.” She knelt in front of him again, took his swollen foot out of the ice water, patted it dry, and began to bandage his ankle tight enough to make him wince.
“All done,” she said finally, sounding like the efficient vet she was. “Now I’ll get you a proper ice pack and you’ll be fine.”
“Thanks,” he said, meaning it, but also wondering how he would drive back to the hotel. And besides, he had to be in New York tomorrow.
Franny returned with a bag of frozen peas, which she arranged over his foot. Then she closed the shutters, lit the candles, and put a match to the kindling in the grate. As the flames began to flicker round the apple logs, the smoky scent swept her right back to her Oregon childhood. She kicked off her sandals with a satisfied sigh. “There,” she said, beaming at him again with that easy smile. “Now we can relax.”
“I’m sorry,” Jake said, trying not to be distracted by the fact that her skirt was hitched up over her knees—rather pretty knees at that, showing her long, slender legs, “I’m keeping you up late. I know you have to work tomorrow.”
She came to sit next to him and lifted his bandaged ankle onto her lap, holding the frozen peas firmly over it. It was possibly the least romantic situation Jake had ever been in, but somehow that just added to her charm.
Her eyes linked with his. “Hi,” she whispered.
“Hi,” he whispered back and then somehow they were leaning into each other. I shouldn’t be doing this, Jake was thinking as he moved closer. She’s gonna hate me when she finds out.
I shouldn’t be doing this, Franny told herself. I’ve only just met him … I don’t really know who he is.
Jake attempted to put his arm around her but the position was awkward. Franny slid obligingly along the sofa and put her arms around him instead. He could feel her heart beating against his as they kissed, but strangely his head was swimming. Suddenly he felt like a man in a dreamworld.
“It’s the painkillers,” practical Franny said. “They’ve made you woozy. I’ll drive you home if you like.”
No, I don’t like. I want to stay here with you, Jake thought. Besides, he couldn’t let her drive him back to the hotel. She thought he lived in L.A., and this certainly wasn’t the moment to tell her he’d been lying. And anyhow, by now he could hardly move.
Franny stared doubtfully at him. His eyes were closed and it was clear he wasn’t going anywhere. She roused him, put her arm under his shoulder and helped him limp to her bedroom, where she lowered him onto the bed. He sank back against the pillows, groaning as he drifted off again. There was nothing for it but to undress him. She unbuttoned his shirt and somehow managed to maneuver his arms out of his sleeves and tug it off. She hadn’t realized how heavy a half-asleep man could be. Next she unfastened his buckle and slid off his belt. She hesitated before tackling the zip. She’d never gotten a man out of his clothes before, they’d always done it themselves. Still, it was easier than she’d thought, and he looked cuter in his blue boxers than she’d thought too, hard-bodied, smooth-skinned… . She covered him quickly with her old patchwork quilt.
“Paradise,” Jake was murmuring, “I think I’ve found paradise, Franny Marten.” She laughed and dropped a quick kiss on his forehead.
Back in her tiny living room, Franny put on a CD of Diana Krall singing of lost love, then slumped back onto the sofa. Sipping the chamomile tea, she wondered what on earth she thought she was doing. She had a strange man in her bed, a man she’d only met that morning, a man she hardly knew. What was she, crazy?
Plus she’d kissed him. I mean, she’d leaned right over, snuggled right up there, and kissed him, showing about as much finesse as a raunchy high school girl on prom night. She smiled, remembering the way his mouth had felt under hers and the faint tremor that ran through his body. She almost wished she hadn’t given him the painkiller—she would definitely have liked to kiss him some more.
The fire had settled to a dull glow and she was tired. She took off her skirt and top, turned out the lamp, pulled the green-check horse blanket over her, snuggled down and closed her eyes. Maybe there was life after Marcus after all.