Page 67 of Across Time

"We need cinnamon," I tell her.

A delighted smile replaces her astonishment. "Bien, Amelie. I will buy some today. It's useful, our gift, isn’t it?" she asks, a hint of laughter at the base of her voice.

"I suppose," I mutter.

When I appear back in the house a few minutes later, soaked from head to foot and wrapped in the blanket once more, Henri laughs. "Marie told me you'd be time traveling today," he says. "I didn't believe her."

"We needed cinnamon," I reply a trifle defensively, gathering my clothes from the pile on the floor.

"An emergency," he concurs, with a serious nod of his head. I hand him the cinnamon and go get dressed.

When I return to the kitchen, he’s mixing it in with the apples and sugar, but he’s watching me more than he is his bowl. He runs a thumb over his lip, a gesture that makes me feel slightly weak-kneed. I’ve definitely had too much wine. Too much of something, anyway. I carry my bowl to the counter, needing some distance from him.

“Are you really going to sleep with him when you get home?” he asks abruptly.

I glance up. His eyes are on fire now, angry and…something else…as he waits for my response.

The idea of sleeping with Mark merely made me nervous last spring, but now it twists my stomach in knots—and not the good kind. I shouldn’t have spent the entire summer away from him. We haven’t even seen each other since March, and five months apart would have anyone nervous. If I feel like this when I get home, I won’t be able to go through with it, but maybe I’ll feel different by then. Maybe things will go back to normal.

“I’m not sure about anything anymore.”

My body feels overheated and liquid. He holds my eyes, and I picture sliding over the table to kiss him. I picture him lifting me on the counter, pressed between my legs the way he was the day we fought over the chocolate.

My chest rises and falls too quickly and his eyes flicker there, and back to my mouth. He is looking at me like something he intends to devour, and I can’t catch my breath.

I grab the rolling pin and begin to roll out the dough, trying to get my thoughts in order. I don’t know who I am right now—it must be the wine creating these pictures in my head, making me sweat though the room isn’t warm.

"You're doing it wrong," he says.

I wipe flour off my forehead with my shoulder. "How typical of you to sit there from your relaxed perch and criticize."

He rises, slowly, and moves around to my side of the counter. I'm about to slide out of his way when suddenly he is behind me, his hands covering mine on the handles of the rolling pin, his mouth near my ear.

"You need to put your body into it," he says, pushing me forward, coming with me. Our weight presses into the dough and it smooths out neatly across the butcher block. "Then back," he says. His voice is low and rough against my ear. I move backward with him, with our hands, and need sharpens in my stomach.

"And again," he says softly. He exhales and every tiny hair along the shell of my ear rises in response. I look at our hands. His are large, tan, dwarfing my small, paler ones beneath. Our forearms are pressed together, the same contrast: large and hard next to small and soft. His chest leans against my back, pressing firm and hot to the thin fabric of my dress, which sticks to me now. My breathing is shallow, small gasps and quick exhales, my heart beating hard with the desire to just close my eyes and follow him wherever he takes this.

I don't know why I want to arch against him when he presses into my back, why I want to move my head toward the pulse of his breath against my ear. Why, when his hands grip mine hard enough to hurt, I only want him to hold them tighter.

Lightning cracks outside and the room is plunged into darkness.

I can feel his heart hammering against my back, the rasp of his unshaved jaw so close that it catches on my skin. His hands tighten around mine and for a single moment I'm not sure what either of us will do next.

I want him. I want to give him everything I’ve refused to give Mark, haven’t wanted to give Mark. Except a week from now, Henri will be an old man. And I might be getting engaged.

"I don't think we can make the pie now," I whisper. I’m breathless and sound terrified, though I’m not sure that’s what I am. Even as I say the words, I’m relishing the feel of his skin on mine, and wanting more of it.

"It might keep for morning," he says, his voice gravelly, warm against my ear for only a moment before he backs away. "Let me get a candle."

I hear the sound of a match striking, and then there is a hint of light in the room. Our eyes meet in the semi-darkness, his burning in a way that’s quickly becoming familiar to me. I gather up the dough, avoiding his face, and he covers the apples.

What would have happened if the lights hadn’t gone out? My heart thuds with the desire to find out.

"I think I’ve had too much to drink,” I stammer, though I know that’s not the issue. My eyes fall to his full mouth, to the broad shoulders that enveloped mine just a minute earlier. I want to feel all of it, to feel his weight over me, consuming me. I am weak-kneed, swollen with desire for it. But giving in right now could ruin everything I’ve planned for myself. “I should go to bed.”

He nods, his jaw locked tight with restraint. When I get to the door of my room I turn. If he were to come over here now and kiss me, I would let him. And then I’d pull him into the room with me and strip him free of those clothes.

He’s leaning over the counter, gripping it. Almost as if he’s fighting himself not to follow me.