9. Camille #2
The thought of Ryan’s place, isolated and still half-ruined, makes my jaw tighten. His windows would be dark now. He keeps no exterior lights, probably because he hasn’t replaced the bulbs yet, and the curtains are always drawn. The lock on his door is a joke.
If I concluded that Alberte might have hidden evidence in the cottage, I cannot be the only person capable of reaching the same conclusion.
And if Henri knows the property has passed to Ryan—merde.
The prospect of this car, this stranger, passing by his door twice in one night fills me with an entirely irrational urge to call him, to ask if he is awake, to suggest that perhaps he check his windows and verify that the doors are locked.
Except I’m now realizing I haven’t gotten his number yet.
And anyway, how would I explain my own vigilance, my habit of surveilling the road after dark as if expecting an army? He would think me mad.
My thumb works a groove into the edge of the desktop while I wait for the car to reappear.
It does, this time moving faster, headlights flicked on for the twenty meters between shadows.
It passes the cottage, then my own drive, and disappears toward the village.
I watch for another five minutes, counting out the seconds, but it does not return.
I exhale.
I move through the house in darkness, pausing at each window to scan for any lingering headlights or silhouettes.
I do not consider myself a nervous person—cautious, perhaps, but not paranoid—but there is a flavor of anxiety tonight that tastes different from my usual caution.
It tastes like anticipation, like a challenge issued.
I return to the kitchen and pour a glass of water, then remember Ryan’s mouth on my tongue, the taste of his arousal, and nearly drop the glass.
It is ridiculous to be so distracted.
I check the door locks twice and reset the alarm before climbing back up the stairs.
Once in my bedroom, I strip off my shirt and examine the scratches on my arm more closely.
I imagine Ryan’s nails digging in, imagine the tension in his jaw, the whimper in his voice.
I had not expected to want him so much, not after so many years spent numbing myself to the idea of wanting anyone at all. That, too, is ridiculous.
I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling for a full hour, listening for the sound of cars on the distant road. I hear nothing except the usual sounds of my home and the rasp of my own breath.
Sleep evades me.
By dawn, my eyes burn, and my brain is no less fevered than it was at midnight.
I dress and go to the window again, scanning the lane for tire tracks or signs of disturbance.
There is nothing. The morning air is so cold it fogs the glass, and I wipe circles on the pane with my knuckles, convinced that this will help me see better.
I am debating whether to make coffee or to simply walk the property perimeter when I hear it—Ryan’s voice, as clear as if he stood beneath my window. He is not visible at first, only audible, his tone pitched up for conversation, the way he sometimes narrates tasks aloud when he needs to focus.
“Motherfucker,” he curses as the noise of stone scraping against stone fills the air.
Well, now is as good a time as any to visit him. I forgo the coffee for the time being and step outside, walking casually through the dew-covered grass as I listen to Ryan curse some more.
“Fuck! Stay. Stay, you absolute piece of shit.”
The broken section of the boundary wall comes into view first as I walk over, followed by Ryan kneeling beside it in pale shorts and a loose shirt, both knees dirty, one hand pressed against a stone.
Ryan releases it slowly and curses as it rolls forward, catching it with both hands. “Oh, come on.”
“Your technique remains fascinating.”
He jumps at the sound of my voice, almost toppling the rock. “Jesus fucking—Camille.”
“Bonjour.”
“I didn’t hear you come up. It’s like you need a bell,” he mutters.
“I am not a cat,” I reply.
He flushes. Petit chaton. He remembers.
His eyes travel down my buttoned blouse, then jerk away. I have experimented with restraint today, choosing fitted trousers and a collar high enough to conceal any reckless intent.
“Morning,” he says, throat rasping.
“How do you feel?” I ask, arms remaining folded.
He snaps, “Fine.” The single word is too quick, too clipped.
“You’re moving carefully.”
His gaze flicks toward the stones at his knees. “You look smug.”
“I am merely standing.”
“Smugly.”
I arch a brow. “I wasn’t aware standing possessed moral qualities.”
“With you it does.”
I nod in faux consideration. Then say, “You’ve improved.”
He turns a pebble in his palm, eyes wary. “Really?”
“No.”
I sip the cool morning air as he mumbles, “You’re such an asshole.”
“So I am told.”
We stand in a comfortable tension—him kneeling among troubled blocks, me looming above with nothing to offer.
I could guide his hands, choose broader foundation stones, angle each new course for balance, and rebuild the shifted rows in minutes.
My impulse to help brushes against my will to abide by my new plan.
So I say nothing.
He hesitates, then fits a stone into place. Adjusts it. Looks at me. I remain silent. He plants a second block. Then glances over his shoulder. “You’re not going to tell me I’m doing it wrong?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Would you like me to?”
He frowns. “Not particularly.”
“Then I won’t.”
He stares, unsettled. “I thought you’d be physically incapable.”
“I possess extraordinary self-control.”
His gaze drops toward my trousers. I lift one brow; he reddens.
“Shut up,” he mumbles, pursing his lips and avoiding my eyes.
“I said nothing.”
“You were about to.”
“I was not.”
“Your face was.”
“My face is innocent.”
“Your face has never been innocent.”
I sense something shifting between us—an electric current of irritation and attraction entwined. I’m tempted to ask for a quick fuck.
Or at least a few minutes to suck on that sweet cunt of his.
“I’m going into town,” he says, impervious to the growing bulge in my pants, standing and shaking grit from his palms. “Need a few things. Also have to talk to the hardware store woman about window measurements—if she hasn’t decided she’s sworn off English again.”
Normally, I’d offer a ride, given that my car rests a mere thirty metres down the drive, but I simply say, “Enjoy yourself.”
I do briefly consider alerting him about the car from last night, but decide that refraining from doing so is still the best option for now.
He blinks. Something like hope or calculation flickers in his eyes. He shifts his weight. “Oh.”
“Yes?” I keep my tone neutral.
“Nothing.”
“Do you require something?”
“Nope.”
“Very well.”
“Right.” He nods, uncertain. After a moment, he says, “I guess I’ll see you later.”
“Perhaps.” The single word hangs between us.
He snaps, “Perhaps?”
My smallest smile. “I’ll be quite busy today. Although I could spare some time if you need me.”
His cheeks pink. “Cool. I’ll keep that in mind,” he manages, pressing his legs together for just a few moments, making me hold back a satisfied grin. “Well, I should go now…” He gestures vaguely behind him, then turns and walks with his head high and a defensive posture toward the cottage.
I let him go. Not out of generosity—he would see right through that—but for the sake of the calculus that has begun to reveal itself.
Every overture doubles back on me. Each allowance, each freedom, each time I let him think he’s gotten away with something becomes a tithe in my favor.
Not yet a debt, not a leash, but an accumulation.
Sometimes I think the only honest way to get someone to reveal their secrets is to trick them into believing they have the upper hand.
I watch until the door swings shut behind him. Only then do I turn to my own errands.