when he’d talked about sweet things.
“They do.”
“Okay, another blog post for me.” She started making notes again.
“You’ll have time for writing later.” He touched her knee to get her attention and quickly drew his hand back. “I want you to look around now so you can truly see what you’re writing about.”
She wanted his hand back on her knee, but it was firmly gripping the steering wheel. Instead, she looked out the window at the scenery. They’d just climbed a hill and the world was spread out before them.
Provence was beautiful—as if using that word was even a smidgen bit adequate to describe the land and the air, a crisp quality fragrant with floral perfume. Even better than perfume, because the flowers were alive and growing, putting out their scent with every touch of the breeze.
“It looks just like the paintings,” she told him. “I thought those flat orange-and-purple landscapes were stylistically flat. But that’s the way it actually looks.”
He smiled. “The orange fields are épautre, or spelt in English. An old, old grain from the wheat family. It’s been grown together with lavender for hundreds of years.”
“No wonder you wanted to get out of Paris. This is heaven compared to the city.”
“I agree. I’m glad you like it. This area is kind of a purple triangle of lavender growing. It’s bordered by the towns of Sault, Banon and Sederon. Different varieties are used for different products, but the best and most exclusive varieties have a special designation, like wine. We take our lavender very seriously here—it’s even called l’or bleu —blue gold.”
“I can see why.”
There was a small gravel pull-off area and Jack stopped the car there without asking. She hopped out to take pictures of the panoramic valley below.
He stood next to the front tire and stared out at the fields. Mindful of his privacy, she took a picture of him from the back, only the back of his head visible.
But even that was interesting. She lowered the camera. “Do you have a birthmark there, Jack?”
He rubbed the nape of his neck. “I suppose you can see that now that my hair is shorter. Yes, it’s what they call a stork bite. Babies often have them, but they often fade quickly—mine never did.”
“And what shape is that?” She came closer to see, her breath ruffling the tender skin.
A shiver seemed to run through him, and she fought the crazy urge to kiss the small red spot.
When he spoke, his voice was scratchy and he had to clear his throat. “I’ve only seen it in a mirror, but it looks like a heart.”
“How cute.” She rubbed her thumb over it and he turned, grabbing her hand.
“Sensitive spot.” He held her hand for a second and then let go.
Sensitive or arousing? Lily was getting aroused herself, imagining her mouth, her hands on his smooth skin, his strong fingers touching her in all sorts of sensitive spots.
“Enough photos?” He stood next to the driver’s door, obviously ready to get moving.
“For now, but I have plenty of camera memory and the will to use it.” She hopped in and he pulled out onto the road again.
“Provence is a photographer’s dream. In the summer, you can’t drive down a village street without seeing someone with a camera. Out in the country, not as much, but you still trip over backpackers and campers.”
“Did you grow up near here?”
“Not too far. My father unfortunately passed away when I was young and my mother now lives in Paris.”
She wrinkled her face in puzzlement. “Why didn’t you stay with her when you were in Paris? Is her apartment too small for the both of you?”
“No, she has a large enough place for me to stay, but she had many guests and I wanted to get away from the noise.”
“I can see that about you, Jack. You have a touch of the hermit about you.”
He gave a startled laugh. “Hermit? But I am hardly ever alone in my line of work.”
Lily smiled. “And that wears you down, doesn’t
“They do.”
“Okay, another blog post for me.” She started making notes again.
“You’ll have time for writing later.” He touched her knee to get her attention and quickly drew his hand back. “I want you to look around now so you can truly see what you’re writing about.”
She wanted his hand back on her knee, but it was firmly gripping the steering wheel. Instead, she looked out the window at the scenery. They’d just climbed a hill and the world was spread out before them.
Provence was beautiful—as if using that word was even a smidgen bit adequate to describe the land and the air, a crisp quality fragrant with floral perfume. Even better than perfume, because the flowers were alive and growing, putting out their scent with every touch of the breeze.
“It looks just like the paintings,” she told him. “I thought those flat orange-and-purple landscapes were stylistically flat. But that’s the way it actually looks.”
He smiled. “The orange fields are épautre, or spelt in English. An old, old grain from the wheat family. It’s been grown together with lavender for hundreds of years.”
“No wonder you wanted to get out of Paris. This is heaven compared to the city.”
“I agree. I’m glad you like it. This area is kind of a purple triangle of lavender growing. It’s bordered by the towns of Sault, Banon and Sederon. Different varieties are used for different products, but the best and most exclusive varieties have a special designation, like wine. We take our lavender very seriously here—it’s even called l’or bleu —blue gold.”
“I can see why.”
There was a small gravel pull-off area and Jack stopped the car there without asking. She hopped out to take pictures of the panoramic valley below.
He stood next to the front tire and stared out at the fields. Mindful of his privacy, she took a picture of him from the back, only the back of his head visible.
But even that was interesting. She lowered the camera. “Do you have a birthmark there, Jack?”
He rubbed the nape of his neck. “I suppose you can see that now that my hair is shorter. Yes, it’s what they call a stork bite. Babies often have them, but they often fade quickly—mine never did.”
“And what shape is that?” She came closer to see, her breath ruffling the tender skin.
A shiver seemed to run through him, and she fought the crazy urge to kiss the small red spot.
When he spoke, his voice was scratchy and he had to clear his throat. “I’ve only seen it in a mirror, but it looks like a heart.”
“How cute.” She rubbed her thumb over it and he turned, grabbing her hand.
“Sensitive spot.” He held her hand for a second and then let go.
Sensitive or arousing? Lily was getting aroused herself, imagining her mouth, her hands on his smooth skin, his strong fingers touching her in all sorts of sensitive spots.
“Enough photos?” He stood next to the driver’s door, obviously ready to get moving.
“For now, but I have plenty of camera memory and the will to use it.” She hopped in and he pulled out onto the road again.
“Provence is a photographer’s dream. In the summer, you can’t drive down a village street without seeing someone with a camera. Out in the country, not as much, but you still trip over backpackers and campers.”
“Did you grow up near here?”
“Not too far. My father unfortunately passed away when I was young and my mother now lives in Paris.”
She wrinkled her face in puzzlement. “Why didn’t you stay with her when you were in Paris? Is her apartment too small for the both of you?”
“No, she has a large enough place for me to stay, but she had many guests and I wanted to get away from the noise.”
“I can see that about you, Jack. You have a touch of the hermit about you.”
He gave a startled laugh. “Hermit? But I am hardly ever alone in my line of work.”
Lily smiled. “And that wears you down, doesn’t
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