Given (Give &Take) by Kelli Maine Read Free Book Online Page A

evening. The sun had set, but it wasn’t yet dark. I wanted to think of this trip as a grand adventure, a trip of a lifetime across France, yet my mind and the digging paranoia inside me wouldn’t let me forget the truth.
    I rolled our suitcases along behind me, listening to the click-clack of Rachael’s heeled boots on the marble floor. Outside the station, we caught a cab and I asked the driver to take us to the nearest hotel, anxious to get settled in and walk. I could walk for miles. My mind worked best when I was moving.
    Lost inside my head, wondering where Nadia could be, I came back to the present when the cab lurched to a stop and Rachael let out a small chuckle beside me.
    The hotel was a disaster. Small and in disrepair with white paint peeling from the blocks of stone, which looked as if they would fall in against one another at any moment. Faded black awnings drooped over the windows. I regretted not being more specific about our hospitality needs. “It looks like a flea-infested rat trap.”
    Rachael grinned and took my hand. “Something about it reminds me of Turtle Tear. It needs someone to take care of it.” She pointed to a stone barn barely standing in thedistance. “This old farmhouse is a piece of Gothic history. I can picture it how it once was. Too bad there isn’t someone like you to revive it to its original glory.”
    I tucked her compliment away, knowing
she
was the one who’d saved Turtle Tear, and smiled. “Maybe someone will come along. For now, looks like we’ll be roughing it.”
    “We’ve survived worse.” She leaned over and kissed my cheek.
    We had survived worse conditions, and our time together with only candlelight and a hotel in ruins was the best of my life.
    The wooden stairs up to the porch creaked under our feet. I knew enough French to read the small, carved sign hanging beside the door:
Mama and Papa Renault’s Inn.
If I had to guess, the wizened old man rocking in the chair at the end of the porch, smoking a pipe, was Papa. The old man smiled—not a tooth in his head—and waved us inside.
“Bonjour!”
he called, blowing smoke around his bald, wrinkled head.
    “Bonjour,”
Rachael replied, grinning and taking in our surroundings. I could see the wheels turning in her brain. She was itching to get her hands on this place. The Louvre held little interest for my girl, but dirt, grime, and warped boards put a fire in her eyes.
    I smiled to myself, taking pride in knowing her so well, at being the one to recognize what was in her heart and mind. I wondered if anyone knew her as well as I did. I doubted it.
    I hoped not.
    I wanted to be the only one she let see into the dark corners of herself, the ones she only revealed in our most intimate moments when she couldn’t hide her wants and desires, her most cherished memories and longings.
    When it came to Rachael, I was a greedy, selfish man. I wanted all of her, every little bit, all to myself.
    A plump woman in a plaid dress draped in a white apron with her gray hair pinned on top of her head greeted us inside. Fortunately, the cab driver was right behind us, hoisting our luggage up the porch stairs, and could convey our request for a room, the length of our stay undetermined.
    I didn’t think that would be an issue, considering the state of the inn and the lack of other patrons. Despite the run-down appearance outside and the desperate need for updating inside, the inn was well kept and looked to be clean.
    The old woman chattered at us in rapid French, of which I caught maybe two words, and then she turned and shouted over her shoulder. “Paul!”
    After a moment, a tall young man about MJ’s age—early twenties—strode through a doorway to where I believed the kitchen would be, smiled, and grasped our luggage.
    The proprietress pointed up the stairs to where Paul was hauling our suitcases and said, “Two. Room two,” in French-accented English.
    “Perfect.” I nodded my thanks, unable to recall the basics