Page 59 of Closer

I stare at Dog, whose big goofy face stares back at me. “Wait, Margaux, a costume? I’m not wearing a fucking costume into the village.”

***

“I’m not wearing this.” I stare at my reflection again for the eighth time in a nearby shop window as I smoke my pipe.

“You look very handsome, monsieur.”

I study the dark seventies shades and paperboy hat pulled down over my unruly hair. “I look like a paedophile.”

“A handsome paedophile.”

“Christ, Margaux.” I shake my head. “That’s not something to strive for.”

“They belonged to Monsieur Durand,” she says, matter of fact. “And he always looked very handsome in them.”

“When, the eighteen hundreds?”

“Pfft.” She shakes her head and hurries off. “You men these days. You throw on yesterday’s clothes, rumpled and stained from the floor, and you expect women to fall all over you.”

“Hey, I take pride in my appearance.”

She stops, looks me up and down, and pretty much gives me the kind of look that says,Really? “No wonder you’re here instead of home in your bed having sex with Brielle right now, a woman like that needs passion, and ... effort. She needs to know she’s appreciated.”

“Appreciated, huh?” I laugh. “I showed her my appreciation last night, and I would have again this morning, but someone is a cock-blocker.”

“Appreciated with your mind, monsieur, appreciated with your heart. Not your penis.”

She walks away, and I’m left staring at the shop window of a tiny jewellery store and a long string of pearls as black as my heart. I tried showing a woman how much I appreciated her with my heart, and she stomped on it before handing it back to me, and then she married my bandmate.

No.

I’m not falling for that shit again. Brie might be just the kind of distraction I need—beautiful, perfect in nearly every way, even despite her angry French side. She may even push me mentally, more than any woman ever has, but I have no intention of falling in love with her. I shake my head and follow after Margaux.

We come across a little stall in the marketplace, and Margaux wastes no time in marching up to the man sat on a wooden bench at the back of the tent. He looks up from his book and grins.

“Bonjour, madame,” he says in a deep growl that makes me roll my eyes, but for the first time since I met Margaux, she blushes. She’s completely fucking lost for words. Because of this arsehole?

They chat—in French, obviously—and I don’t understand a goddam word because I still don’t speak French, but I’m pretty sure it amounts to, “You would like to buy my chair? Wonderful, because I would like to fuck you.”

I puff on my pipe and watch their exchange with my arms folded. She can’t really be falling for this shit ... can she? Apparently so, because she giggles like a fucking schoolgirl and hands over her hard-earned money for the chair.

The chair in question is a piece of crap, but it’s her new piece of crap, and I guess I understand something about that. They both glance at me, and Margaux says something that no doubt amounts to, “I bought this strapping young Australian rock star to help me carry your piece-of-crap chair.”

The man appraises me. I glare from behind my sunnies, which I guess is why he can’t read the daggers I’m shooting at him. I hear the wordboy? One of the few French words I do know, and they both chuckle at my expense.

I frown and step closer.

“Hey, I’m stronger than I look.” I bend at the knees and lift the damn chair. It’s also heavier than it looks. And now I understand why the arsehole had his doubts. “I’m a fucking rock god.”

Shit. And the winner of the dickhead award goes to ...

Thankfully, it doesn’t appear that the man is paying any attention to me. He’s too focused on my housekeeper. I head back to the truck, but it’s slow going and Margaux catches up with ease—after she’s finished flirting with the lumberjack. “So, he was a douche.”

“Monsieur, he was not a ... douche, as you say.” She raises her chin defiantly. “He was a true gentleman.”

“If he was a gentleman he’d be carrying this crappy chair to your car himself.”

“And risk your masculinity? No, monsieur, he would never dream of it.”

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