One Week in Provence: Chapter 1

The Arrival

 I came to Provence to be alone. That was the point.

A week to breathe, to forget, to untangle myself from a life that no longer felt like mine. But when I arrived at the villa, suitcase dragging through the gravel driveway, there was already a car parked outside.

A sleek black convertible. Dusty from the countryside roads.
Not mine.

And then the front door opened.
He stepped out barefoot, a book in one hand, a glass of wine in the other. He was all sharp cheekbones, rolled sleeves, and that effortless French indifference that made my stomach turn traitorous.

“You’re early,” he said in a lazy accent, looking me over with a half-smile.

“No,” I replied, gripping my reservation printout. “I booked this villa for the week.”

He tilted his head. “So did I.”

A mistake. A double booking.
One bedroom. One bed.

The owner was unreachable. The town too far to walk.
It was late. The sun had bled into the lavender fields. And I was tired of running.

So I stayed.

That night, he made pasta. I poured wine. We ate in silence under fairy lights.
And every time he looked at me—I forgot why I came.

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