A French Affair by Lucy Felthouse
Sydney Tyler is
renting a barn conversion in Northern France, planning to spend the fortnight
getting some words down on her novel. Unfortunately, construction work in the
other half of the building puts an end to her peace and quiet. Genuinely upset
that the builders are going to disturb her, the property’s handsome English
owner, Harry Bay, offers to make it up to her. He’s a little flirtatious, and
after spotting his wedding ring, Sydney keeps him at arm’s length. Sexy as he
is, she has no intention of getting involved with a married man. But when
Sydney learns the truth about Harry, will their mutual attraction spur them on
to work through their emotional baggage and make this more than just a French
affair?
Available from: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/published-works/a-french-affair/
*****
Excerpt:
Sydney Tyler
jumped so hard that her fingers slammed down onto the laptop’s keyboard and she
typed a bunch of gobbledegook.
Kashfkjsdhlfknsdlfvn sdlkch awoeduioh ahdwklc
Gasping, she
clutched at her chest as her heart thumped rapidly and painfully. “What the
fucking hell was that?” she said to the empty room.
Pushing her
chair back from the desk, she stepped over to the window. Peering out into the
brilliant sunshine, she saw something on the lawn that she had absolutely not
been expecting. Workmen.
She groaned. So
much for her peaceful writer’s retreat. She’d planned to get a good chunk of
her novel down in the fortnight she was away, and now it looked as though her
peace was going to be monumentally shattered by banging, drilling and God knows
what else.
Sighing, she
gave the windowsill a pathetic thump in her frustration. She might have been
pissed off, but she was no vandal. And besides, she didn’t want those noisy
buggers in her part of the building fixing things—having them next door was bad
enough.
Sydney really
could not believe her shitty luck. When she’d booked the cottage in the French
village of Monthiers over the phone a couple of months ago, she’d dealt with a
fellow Brit called Harry Bay, who she’d suspected was the owner. On arrival,
though, a timid French woman had met her and let her into the luxurious barn
conversion before handing over the keys and explaining a little bit about the
local area. Apparently, in the mornings, someone came along the village
streets, selling fresh bread and pastries.
There wasn’t
much else to tell, it seemed, as the village had nothing except a church—almost
opposite her accommodation—and a tavern. It was also lacking—she’d quickly
discovered—a mobile signal. Not even a single bar illuminated her screen. Her
phone was now no more than a watch, alarm clock and calendar. If there was an
emergency, she was screwed. But on a much lighter note, it was one less
distraction. She could just get on with what she was here to do, blissfully
undisturbed.
The arrival of
workmen was incredibly irritating. Her temporary landlord hadn’t mentioned
there’d be anyone working next door. If he had, she wouldn’t have booked the
place—the quiet and idyllic location were the whole reason for choosing this
property, this area. Even though there was no way he could have known she was
there to work, common courtesy would dictate that he told her. Perhaps he was
just interested in taking her money and didn’t give a damn about whether she
had a satisfactory stay or not. There was nothing to be done about it now,
unfortunately. She’d paid for the fortnight, and she was buggered if she was
going to cut and run, pissing that money down the drain. She’d just have to
find a way around the disturbance, and console herself that she could leave a
snarky write up on a review site when she got home.
Finding out the
builders’ working hours would be a good start—she could attempt to write around
them then. Or perhaps she could make use of the headphones she’d stuffed into
her case, without ever thinking they’d get used. Some loud rock music would
drown out the din from next door and hopefully allow her to work. It was worth
a try. She hoped they were only doing a small job that would only take a couple
of days, but deep down she knew they weren’t. They were renovating the whole
place so it was as beautiful as the half she was in.
She was just
about to go in search of the aforementioned headphones when one of the men
pottering around on the lush back garden stepped away from the others. Standing
in a shaft of sunlight, he pulled his arms high above his head and stretched,
dragging up his t-shirt to reveal a lean stomach with a fine line of dark hair
leading enticingly into the waistband of his jeans.
Oh yum, she
thought, perhaps having builders next door wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Especially if they all looked like him. She continued to watch as the man dropped
his arms to his sides and watched the others. His dark hair was overlong and
stuck out at crazy angles, as though he’d been running his fingers through it.
She couldn’t see the colour of his eyes from this distance, but she could make
out enough detail of his features to see that he was handsome. Gorgeous,
actually. Close up he could be much less attractive, but from her upstairs
window, the view was pretty fine.
Just then, he
glanced across at her side of the long barn, which was divided into two holiday
cottages. He caught sight of her standing there, and his face dropped. He
looked back at the builders, then returned his gaze to her again. Pointing at
the group of noisy men, he slapped his forehead with his other hand. Finally,
he pointed at his chest, then up at her. He was indicating he wanted to come
in. She paused, then nodded. Common sense told her she shouldn’t be letting a
strange man into her temporary home, but then, there were several large, bulky
men milling around, so if they were a dodgy sort, she and the locked door would
have no chance against them, especially with no means of calling for
assistance. She could scream, of course, but she doubted anyone would come. The
walls of the building were extremely thick—though sadly, no match for banging
and drilling—the nearest house was a little way down the road, and by day, the
village was all but deserted. There was only one business that she knew of—the
tavern—so the other inhabitants would have to go elsewhere to work. To nearby
Chateau-Thierry, perhaps, or even further afield.
She’d just have
to hope that the handsome man—probably the head honcho of their group—was also
a decent one. Presumably they were a reputable company, as they’d been hired by
the British owners, who were usually more wary of cowboy builders, and given
the horror stories and dedicated TV programmes back home, it was
understandable.
Before she got
even halfway down the stairs, a knock came at the door. Okay, so he was polite
enough to knock, that was good. She moved a little faster, careful not to trip
in her flip flops and go hurtling downwards. Once she was safely on the ground
floor, she twisted the key in the door and opened it.
*****
Lucy Felthouse is a very busy woman! She writes erotica and
erotic romance in a variety of subgenres and pairings, and has over seventy
publications to her name, with many more in the pipeline. These include Best
Bondage Erotica 2012 and 2013, and Best Women's Erotica 2013. Another string to
her bow is editing, and she has edited and co-edited a number of anthologies.
She owns Erotica For All, and is book
editor for Cliterati. Find out more at http://www.lucyfelthouse.co.uk. Join
her on Facebook and Twitter, and subscribe to her
newsletter at: http://eepurl.com/gMQb9
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