More Than Words

by Mia Sheridan

  For a moment I just lay there, the rain pummeling me as I sputtered and brought one muddy hand up to shield my face. This was the most ridiculous fucking thing that had ever happened to me, and I’d been in a shit ton of weird situations.

  “Callen!” Jessie was suddenly standing over me, reaching her hand out to help me up, and I noted distantly that this was the second time in less than a week that I’d landed flat on my back in front of her. Jesus. I started to get up, but I was partially under my bike and when I turned to push it aside, Jessie lost her balance and slipped, sprawling facefirst into the mud next to me.

  I pushed the bike away. “Oh shit, Jessie! Are you okay?” I rolled toward her, and for a second I thought she was crying and my heart started hammering along with the rain, but when I turned her toward me, she was laughing so hard that it was silent.

  I stared, the rain causing the mud to streak down her face in dirty rivulets, exposing stripes of her pale skin beneath. And I couldn’t help it. Laughter exploded from my chest as I leaned forward, attempting to rein in my sudden hilarity while simultaneously helping her to her feet.

  She took my hand, still laughing, and when she tried to stand, her foot came out from under her again and we both toppled over, me on top of her, her breath exploding out of her mouth in a soft “oof” between bursts of laughter. “Oh shit, Jess. Christ.” I choked out a few more bursts of laughter before pushing myself up, my hand becoming momentarily stuck in the thick mud next to her. “Come up to your knees.” I reached my hand out to her again and she took it, getting to her knees next to me before we both stood slowly and carefully. I gripped her hand in mine as I took a few squidgy-sounding steps through the mud to the bike path. Jessie stepped up next to me, and we stood there for a moment getting our bearings, the rain sluicing off some of the mud. We both reached down and pulled our bikes up, facing them forward on the path.

  “Do we even bother to run for the car at this point?” she asked.

  The car. Oh fuck. Guess who didn’t put the top up on the convertible? It had to be a bathtub by now. As if she’d followed my line of thinking, her mouth opened into a shocked O—which was more comical than anything with those streaks of mud still rolling down her face—and she shouted, “Oh my God! The car!” We started running, as quickly as possible while holding on to the handlebars and wheeling our bikes next to us.

  The rain drummed on the ground as we made a wobbly dash back through the gardens and toward the front of the castle where I’d parked the car. We barely stopped at the bike storage racks, leaning our bikes against them and continuing on. As we rounded the corner and ran quickly to the car, Jessie let out a defeated sound in the back of her throat. Water pooled on the floor and sat in puddles on the leather seats. God fucking dammit. Still, I couldn’t help the helpless chuckle. How the fuck was this happening? I opened the driver’s-side door and jumped out of the way just in time to avoid the stream of water that came pouring out.

  “Should we see if there’s a room we can rent in there?” Jessie asked, pointing at the castle. The rain was letting up, and I would have been thankful, only more rain couldn’t really have made anything worse, so what did it matter at this point if it stopped?

  “It’s only a restaurant, a gift shop, and some tasting rooms,” I said, remembering what Nick had spouted about the online description of this place and what it featured. I leaned in and started the car, bringing the top up. At least the car still ran.

  “The château I booked is only an hour away. We’ll blast the heat, and then you can take a long swim in the huge spa tub I made sure was in the room I booked.”

  Jessie groaned with pleasure. “Will they even let us into their hotel looking like this?”

  “I’ll tip someone a lot of money.” I came around the car and signaled her to step back and then opened her door, too. Water came pouring out, and I wiped the puddle off her seat as best I could and then inclined my mud-caked arm inside. “Your carriage, milady.”

  A burst of laughter erupted from Jessie, and she curtsied and stepped inside regally, the seat making a squelching sound as she sat down.

  I got in and adjusted the dials so the heat was blasting. I glanced over at Jessie, her hair wet and caked with mud, plastered to her skull, and her teeth blindingly white against her mud-streaked face. She looked alarmingly awful. So why the hell did I want to kiss her so badly?

  I shook my head, chuckling as I pulled out of the lot and headed for the main road, thankful I’d prepaid for the food, tour, and tasting. Yet I couldn’t help feeling disappointed we didn’t get to finish the delicious meal. I was hungry. My clothes were soaked yet stiff, and I’d never felt dirtier in my entire life. I was sure I’d be scrubbing grit out of my hair for the next two years.

  We’d driven only about five miles up the road when we came to a barricade, a couple of gendarme vehicles positioned in front of it with their lights on, blue swirling slowly in the dimness of the late afternoon, made darker by the storm clouds gathered overhead. I pulled to a stop and rolled the window down, leaning my head out. The gendarme standing next to his car looked briefly startled when he saw me, and I remembered I probably looked just about the same way Jessie did: scary. The officer came over to the car and looked inside, his eyes widening further when he saw Jessie.

  He said something in French and Jessie laughed, putting her hand on my arm and saying something in rapid French to which the officer laughed back. He pointed to the barricade and said something further, and Jessie answered, nodding. They spoke again for another minute, and then the officer walked away with a quick backward wave and gestured to indicate where I should turn around. “There’s a mudslide up ahead because of the rain,” Jessie explained. “He said they should have it cleared by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon?” I leaned forward and rapped my head twice on the steering wheel. “This trip has sort of gone to shit, huh?”

  Jessie smiled sweetly, tenderly, something sparkling in her mud-rimmed eyes. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that just yet. The officer said there’s a town about half an hour back down the road with an inn that should have a room available.”

  I sighed. “An inn? Sounds…quaint.”

  Jessie smiled. “I guess we’ll see, right?”

  Yeah, I guess we’ll see. Despite Jessie’s hopeful tone, defeat settled in my chest, the feeling that this storm was a sign that I could make all the plans I wanted—try as hard as I could to make Jessie happy and meet her in her world—and something would still come along to remind me that it wasn’t enough. That I wasn’t enough.

  And I never would be.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Jessica

  We followed the signs to the tiny town—more a village from the looks of it—and drove slowly through the center of what seemed to be the downtown area, if it could even be called that. It was really six ancient-looking buildings centered around a town square.

  “Where do you think this inn is?” Callen mumbled, leaning forward and peering through the fogged-up windshield. The combination of the damp interior and the heat was making it almost impossible to keep the windows clear. It felt like we were in the dirtiest steam bath on the planet. My skin had begun itching from the mud almost immediately, but I was doing my best not to scratch. I didn’t want to make Callen feel any worse about the direction his perfectly planned day had taken. “I doubt there’ll be a flashing vacancy sign to look out for. And I…don’t read French.”

  A part of me wanted to giggle again at this situation, at the absolute mess the two of us looked like, but Callen’s expression was a mixture of shattered and cranky, his tone defeated, and I thought it best not to dissolve into another fit of laughter right now. “No, there probably won’t be a flashing sign. It looks like a small enough village though. If we take a loop through, we’ll probably spot it. We’re looking for the word ‘auberge,’ or ‘hôtel,’ ‘résidence’ maybe…” I murmured, squinting out the rain-streaked glass.

  We were literal
ly the only car driving through the cobblestone streets, and though lights shone from some of the windows, it looked as if the entire populace of the town had gone indoors with the rain. “There,” I said, spotting a stone building with a hand-painted sign that read, NUIT DES RÊVES. Night of Dreams.

  Callen parked the car across the street, where two other tiny European cars were parked, and we both got out, dried mud cracking and falling from my clothes as I stood up. Ugh.

  I stared across the street at the pretty three-story building, window boxes at the top-floor windows featuring cheerful red geraniums. They made me smile. How perfectly French. The awning above the door was black and white striped, and the door itself was painted the same red as the flowers. I was instantly charmed. Callen joined me where I stood, our bags in hand, and we crossed the street, climbing the stairs and entering the inn.

  It was dim inside and smelled of dusty ancient wood and some type of citrusy furniture polish. The entry was small but elegant, with a plush carpet of reds, purples, and golds. Damask patterned wallpaper on the walls clearly showed the seams but was otherwise in good shape. The counter had a large gilt-edged mirror above it reflecting a set of stairs that must lead to the rental rooms. We rang the bell and waited.

  After a moment I heard a door open and close somewhere near the back, and a few seconds later an older woman wearing a white apron came bustling into the foyer. “Bonjour, bonjour,” she called, her words dying as she caught sight of us. I stood still, not wanting any mud to fall off me while she stared. I didn’t have to imagine the sight we made—the mirror behind the counter had already told me I looked as bad as, if not worse than, Callen. How embarrassing.

  “Bonjour.” I gave the woman a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Please excuse our appearance. We, uh, got caught in a rain shower…There was mud and…We’d like to rent a room,” I said in French, figuring the woman would be more accommodating of our grime if I spoke in her native tongue.

  She laughed, placing a hand on her round belly. “I’d say there was. My goodness! You poor things.” She glanced at Callen, who was looking around at the portraits on the wall. “Your husband does not speak French, oui?”

  I hoped she couldn’t see the blush under all the grime streaking my face. “No. And he’s not my husband. We, ah, well…” I glanced at Callen, my eyes lingering on him for a moment as he looked around, unaware we were speaking of him. He was dirty and muddy, his hair stiff and sticking in every direction, and still he was the most handsome man in the world. “We are…”

  She hummed as a smile appeared on her face. “Ah, but yes you are.” She sighed as if with affection and clasped her hands in front of her. “Oui, oui, I see perfectly.” She moved around the counter and began flipping through her book. After a moment she frowned. “I only have one room available. It’s our smallest one, but I hope that will be okay?”

  Only one room available? The place seemed utterly deserted. “Oh, that’s…fine. As long as there’s a shower?”

  “Ah, oui. But of course.”

  I turned to Callen. “She has a room available, but it’s the smallest one.”

  A look of confusion came over his face and he glanced around quickly, as if he were thinking about the deserted feel of the place just as I had moments before. “If that’s all she has.” He took his wallet out. “How much?”

  “You don’t have to pay for everything—”

  He gave me a disapproving look. “This weekend is on me, Jessie.”

  I sighed and quoted the price to Callen, and he handed the money to the woman. She put it away in a drawer, from which she also removed a key. “Here you are. Room 301 at the top of the stairs. I’m Madame Leclaire. Just ring if you need me.”

  “Merci, Madame Leclaire.” We turned and climbed the narrow set of stairs, passing the first floor and rising to the second and then the third. There was only one room on the top floor, and it appeared to be an attic room. Callen used the key and pushed the door open slowly, as we both peered inside. The room was tiny, but it looked clean and rather lovely. Callen closed the door behind us as I looked around. My eyes caught on the bed, and though it looked comfortable and inviting, the linens white and fresh, Callen and I would practically have to sleep on top of each other if we both slept there.

  I swallowed. “Uh…”

  “I can, ah, take the…” He looked around, but the room was so small there was barely even a place on the floor where he could comfortably lie down.

  “No. That’s silly. We can make this work. Anyway, I’m more concerned with a shower.”

  There was a closed door on the other side of the room, and I peeked my head in. The bathroom was cramped, too, but again, it looked clean, the white tile gleaming, thick towels hanging from the towel bars. There wasn’t a tub, but we couldn’t really take a bath in the state we were in anyway.

  I turned back around and smiled. Callen was standing in the middle of the room looking sullen and awkward, and I had a brief flash of him as a boy. He’d worn that same look then—regularly—and it made my nerve endings tingle in recognition. We stared at each other, the silence between us growing heavier, the room around us seeming even smaller. Callen blinked, starting to run a hand through his hair in that familiar gesture. He cringed when his palm hit the stiff strands. “How about I take a really quick shower first and then try to find food while you get cleaned up?”

  I nodded, a jerky self-conscious movement. Why did I feel so unbalanced all of a sudden? “That sounds good.” Now that I thought about it, I was hungry. I’d taken only a bite or two of what would have been an early dinner before the rain had come.

  “Great, ah, I’ll just…” Callen moved toward me, indicating that he needed to get into the bathroom, and I realized I was blocking the door like an idiot. I scooted out of the way, the heat of his body moving past me before he closed the door. I heard the shower start and took the time to look at the room’s furnishings. As dirty as I was, I didn’t dare sit on anything. Other than the bed, there was only a wooden bureau of drawers, a night table, and an upholstered chair by the window. I leaned over the chair, pushing the curtain aside as I glanced out at the rainy street. From my vantage point, I could see that a few shops were open, but the town still looked quiet and mostly deserted. I was high enough to see that beyond the buildings, miles of French farmland stretched out around the town. I could see neat rows of orchard trees—apples maybe? Cows grazed, their forms dotting the rolling hills in the distance. What a beautiful, peaceful life.

  I turned quickly when I heard the shower shut off, my heartbeat accelerating as Callen came out, a towel wrapped around his narrow hips and water still glistening on his skin. Oh. I’d kissed him, slept in the same bed with him, felt the intimacy of his arousal through our clothes, but I hadn’t yet seen him naked—or nearly—and his male beauty made me feel weak in the knees.

  He smiled, grabbing his overnight bag and placing it on the bureau. “It’s all yours. The shower’s small, but the water pressure’s great. I think I feel human again.”

  I laughed softly. “Good. I’ll just”—I pointed to the bathroom, grabbing my own overnight bag—“see you when you get back, then.”

  “Yeah, maybe they have food downstairs. Madame Leclaire was wearing an apron, wasn’t she?”

  “I think so. But there’s also a restaurant across the street.” I pointed to the window. “I can see it from here, and it looks open.”

  “Okay, great. Enjoy your shower.”

  I nodded and closed the bathroom door behind me, exhaling. What was this sudden awkwardness between us, this hesitation? This strange sense of intimacy that made me feel breathless and nervous? Was it only the close quarters creating this feeling?

  I peeled off my damp, muddy clothing and left it in a heap on the floor next to Callen’s. Maybe we could wash it in the shower later and hang it to dry. Or maybe Madame Leclaire had a washing machine she’d let us use.

  The shower’s warm spray was incredible, and I gro
aned in pleasure as I soaped my hair and watched the muddy water run clear. The inn’s shampoo and shower gel was scented like roses, and I smiled. When I remembered this weekend, it would forever be scented with the fragrance of roses. And it would always bring to mind a mud-caked Callen.

  After lathering my body and my hair several times, I finally felt squeaky clean and emerged from the shower, wrapping my body in one of the soft, thick towels. There was a blow-dryer under the sink, and I used it to dry my hair.

  I riffled through my bag, looking at the jeans and the one dinner dress I’d packed. My eyes finally landed on the long, white cotton nightgown. I bit at my lip. It might be a little early for pj’s, but the thought of putting on another pair of jeans made me cringe, and clearly I couldn’t put on a formal dress to eat a takeout dinner in our hotel room. Callen had already seen me in nothing other than his long T-shirt. Would he really care if I wore my nightgown? It wasn’t like it was sexy, so he would know I wasn’t trying to send some “take me now” message. In fact, if anything, this was the opposite of sexy. Frankie made fun of my nightgowns, but I liked the feel of the soft cotton from head to toe. Callen would understand my need to be comfortable. Settled, I pulled the nightgown over my head, sighing as the material caressed my skin like a hug.

  I opened the bathroom door cautiously, unsure if Callen was back yet, but the room was empty. Sinking into the upholstered chair, I noticed a magazine rack next to the window that held a few French magazines and a couple of paperbacks. I picked up one of the paperbacks—from the cover it appeared to be a cozy mystery—and began reading the first few paragraphs. I attempted to focus on the story, but my mind strayed and my eyes were pulled to the rain-streaked pane of glass.

  My thoughts wandered to the girl whose name I still didn’t know and Captain Durand, the “horse’s arse.” I smiled, thinking of their kiss, wondering if love found a way, even in the midst of a military camp in a war-torn country, as a girl hid her identity and a man faced battle. My fervent hope was that it did, that if anything could thrive under those conditions, it was love. I wanted to believe that love was the rarest of all flowers: it delighted in the sunshine but did not require it to grow and flourish.