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300 pages, Paperback
First published January 26, 2015

"He was her roots. And she was his wings."

"That smile she sometimes had for him made him so confusedly and vulnerably happy, as if he was a teddy-bear she was about to pick up and squeeze. He had never in his life felt very squeezable before."
"I was just thinking of you," Layla said, burying her hands in her curls to scrunch in the product. (...) "In the shower."
He blinked. A little surge of energy seemed to run through his body, a man getting ready for action.
"Because the water was warm!" Layla tried to explain hastily. "You know, it felt good."
His lips parted. He stared at her.
"Because you fixed the electricity!" she shouted. "I was thinking of you because I was so glad to have warm water again!"
"Layla smiled, rested her chin on her hand, and blew him a kiss.
He clapped his hand fast over his heart, but it was too late. He was pretty sure that kiss had gotten to him. He could feel it, the little brush of air from it sinking into his heart, tickling out through the rest of his body. That was a really tricky blow."

"Making love to you is like... like swimming in gold, or something"
"When her breasts were revealed, it was like discovering buried treasure. Again."

"What do you want now?” Matt growled at her, tightening his arms around himself.
“I only need directions!” Layla snapped back at him. “I can’t believe how unhelpful you people are being!”
Matt blinked. He slid the oddest glance toward the other men, almost—vulnerable? “They couldn’t give you directions?”
Tristan shook his head woefully. “Even Damien,” he said sadly, “proved unequal to the task.”
Matt stared at them for a moment. And then his sunburn seemed to get worse than ever, and he rubbed his chest, as if it felt strange to him. Clearing his throat, a rough growl of sound, he took her map from her. “Where do you need to go?”
“I’ve been lost enough around here, thank you,” Layla said. “I don’t need you to get me lost some more, just to punish me for inheriting a house.”
Matt scowled at the map. “Where do you need to go?” he growled again.
Tristan coughed a little into his hand. “Ahem, Matt. People skills!” he stage-whispered.
Matt glared at him.
“He’s really a nice guy,” Tristan told her out loud, cheerfully, as if Matt wasn’t even listening. “No, I swear.”
Matt transferred his glare back to the map.
Again, Layla fought the urge to just lay her hand against his chest. It was a really hot chest, that probably explained it. She kept imagining all that growly tension relaxing away from him in surprise. And then what would he be like? That cute, enthusiastic, uncontained man he had been drunk?
“Where?” Matt insisted. He cleared his throat again. And then managed to get words out that were still rough, but considerably quieter. “Where do you need to go?” he repeated, carefully.
“I don’t even know where I am.”
“You’re in the Rosier valley,” Matt said blankly and put a callused finger to her map. “Here.”
[...]
His gruff voice elaborated as he wrote: “A three-story house with blue shutters will be on your left. It has lace curtains. If not, if it’s a house with blue shutters and roses climbing up the walls but no curtains, you’ve taken the wrong exit. There’s a little bar two buildings farther down, with a faded red awning. Be careful, there’s a pale orange tabby cat that likes to lie right in the middle of the road there, and he will not move. You have to stop the car and pick him up and carry him to the garden of the little house with the jasmine climbing up the green gate. That’s where he belongs. Then you—”
Layla watched his square hand around the pen, his big body bent over the hood of her car as he wrote. His bare back curved and she stalwartly fought the need to reach out and see if it was as smooth as it looked. As warm. To see if his voice would grow more or less gruff when he was being petted.
He knew a particular cat might be sleeping in the middle of the road on her route. And he stopped and picked it up. He made sure she stopped and picked it up.
From this angle, his face was in shade and the sunburn didn’t look as bad, his skin less ruddy under the matte tones. Her head tilted.
It wasn’t sunburn, was it? Sunburn didn’t subside like that.
This big, growling man had been blushing.
“You’re way better than a smartphone,” she said wonderingly.
Actually he was more like a…guitar. Someone she wanted to run her fingers over to see what sounds she could pull out.
He made a sound of acknowledgement that was pretty darn close to a grunt.
She grinned. Definitely a bass guitar. “And you have a much better voice. Do you think I could record you giving the directions instead?” Except, of course, she didn’t have a phone to record with. If she wanted to hear that rough bass talking to her again while he blushed, she’d just have to figure out a way to keep getting him to do it.
A musician had to, you know, coax her instruments into making the sounds she wanted sometimes.
She bit back a grin.
He stopped writing and turned his head just enough to look at her. The color started to mount back into his cheeks again.
Her smile started to escape her efforts to restrain it. “Do you need help with your sunscreen?”
That stern upper lip relaxed its pressure on the full lower one. He stared at her, frozen.
Her smile deepened. Whether it was the pure fun of flirting in French—a language that had, after all, been refined for centuries to that purpose—or the vulnerable blush on someone that big and rough and growling, this whole moment was developing a delicious zing.
“You’re pretty cute, you know that?” she tested softly.
The streak over those strong cheekbones turned ruddy bronze. He looked back at her journal, and the pencil lead broke. He stared at it, apparently not having a clue what to do with himself.

Life sang from the old stones, and he couldn't remember the last time it had done that for him. The last time those thousand-year-old walls had played a thousand years of hope to him and not a thousand years of expectations.


He turned to the door and ran straight into a guest trying to slip inside the house. Her face smashed into his chest, and he looked down at a wild mass of bronze-tipped curls and then at a heart-shaped face tilting back to look up at him as she bounced backward.
“Well, hello,” he exclaimed, delighted, picking her straight up off the floor before she fell. Then he wasn’t quite sure what to do with her – maybe it had been a bit excessive, picking her up completely to stop her from falling? Still, he could hardly drop her now.