“What on earth is this?” Uma points at the recumbent trikes I’m about to rent.

“Tricycles,” I say.

She narrows her eyes. “For grown-ups?”

“As you can see.”

“They’re… weird.”

“It’s because you ride them in a reclining position.”

She studies the contraptions for a few seconds and turns back to me, a question in her eyes.

“Yes,” I say. “We’re going to ride them from here to the Sénanque Abbey and back. It’s an easy trip.”

We’re in Gordes right now—the first stop on our lavender tour.

Uma and I got here at around nine thirty, parked the car, and spent an hour wandering the spiraling streets of the village. Gordes is as winsome as I remembered with its gray-white houses and a medieval castle that looks like something out of Tristan and Isolde.

The scent of lavender is everywhere.

It comes from flower beds and window pots, blending with the minty smells of the scrubland we call garrigue in the South. Throw in the heat coming off white stone walls and the fragrances of strong coffee and fresh croissants wafting out from cafés and bakeries, and you get that unique bouquet of a summer morning in Provence.

The smell of my childhood.

One of the reasons I want to take Uma to the abbey is because, so far, we haven’t seen any lavender fields. Plenty of beautiful vineyards and olive tree plantations, but that’s not what Uma has been dreaming about. If memory serves me right, Sénanque is surrounded by purplish-blue fields, which spread out right from its doors.

She’ll love it.

Uma swallows nervously. “You know I never learned to ride a bike, right?”

“Which is exactly why I’m renting trikes.” I grin. “Believe me, they’re very comfortable and so easy to ride you don’t need any previous experience. There’s no need to balance.”

“Have you done this before?”

“Yes, and it was great fun.”

She chews on her lip, still hesitant.

“OK,” I say. “Why don’t you get on one and ride around here a few minutes? If you hate it, we’ll drive or walk to the abbey. It won’t take more than an hour on foot.”

She sighs in relief. “Deal.”

I help Uma onto the trike.

It’s a low-sitting model, and a newbie might have a hard time descending especially if her leg muscles aren’t strong enough. Besides, the trike might do something silly like roll away from under her. And—

Who are you kidding, man?

She can manage this on her own just fine. All I need to do is to suggest that she squeeze the hand brakes the moment she sits down.

But instead, I seize the chance to hold her hands.

My so-called “helping” Uma is not gentlemanlike. Quite the contrary. It’s one of those cheap, awkward, and opportunistic moves I haven’t tried since college.

“So, is Sénanque a functioning abbey?” she asks, lowering herself into the seat.

Now that we’ve been to the pool together and I’ve feasted my eyes on her shape, the temptation to acquaint my hands with her is so strong I’ve been dreaming about it at night. In addition to the daydreams.

I crouch and slip my hands under her arms.

Presumably, to make sure she doesn’t plop down and hurt herself.

“Very much so,” I say. “It’s home to a Catholic order. The monks make amazing lavender honey in addition to their religious activities. They also host spiritual retreats should you ever need one.”

“I’m a Hindu.” She looks up at me and smiles.

I roll my eyes skyward. “I’m an idiot.”

“Absolutely not.” Uma shifts in the seat and sets her feet on the pedals. “Catholic or not, I find the idea of retreating into the peace and quiet of a lavender-growing abbey very appealing.”

“Find the hand brakes on the front wheels,” I say, “and squeeze them.”

“Like this?”

“Yes. That’s what you’ll do to brake, OK? Don’t try to stop the bike by lifting the rear wheel just because it seems like a cool thing to do.”

Her lips twitch. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“It’s just so you don’t get ejected from your seat,” I explain.

“Personal experience?”

“Yeah… So, learn from my mistakes.”

She nods. “Now what?”

Now you ride.

Except I’m still holding her.

With a sigh of regret escaping me, I take my hands off her. “Mash the pedals.”

She does—and takes off.

Five minutes later, we’re on our way to Sénanque, our unusual conveyances attracting amused glances from hikers.

“Yahoo!” Uma beams at me. “I’m loving this!”

I’m loving that you’re loving it.

I point to her happy face. “You know what they call that expression?”

“What?”

“Recumbent grin. That’s what riding a recumbent bike does to people.”

“Is it permanent?” She screws up her features in fake concern.

“Wait and see.”

The abbey comes into view and we both gasp. The sober, light gray building sits between green hills on its left and right and a field of blue gold in front of it. The combination of colors, shapes, and smells is glorious beyond words.

Uma pulls over, gets off her trike, and sits cross-legged on the grass. I follow suit. When she turns to me five minutes later, her eyes are glistening.

She blinks and smiles. “This is more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen.”

I nod and turn away to gaze at the building. Not because I can’t get enough of it, but because if I continue looking at Uma, I’ll take her sweet face between my hands and kiss her.

I mustn’t.

For her sake, for Sam’s sake, for the sake of my friendship with Noah. It’s bad enough to grope her under false pretenses, but if I go ahead and kiss her, my inappropriate lust will be out in the open. And that would ruin everything.

When Uma and I finally get down to the abbey, we discover it’s closed to visitors on Sunday mornings.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Uma. “I should’ve checked.”

She pats my arm. “Don’t be silly! We’re here to admire the fields, not the cloister. What’s our next stop?”

The next stop is Sault.

We return our trikes and drive to the fortified village that offers one the best views in Provence—magnificent carpets of blue lavender alternating with stretches of golden wheat as far as the eye can see.

At the marketplace, Uma buys a homemade soap and a fragrant sachet of dried lavender. To my surprise, she picks the most expensive one on display without even trying to haggle.

“It’s because of this,” she explains, pointing to the embroidered bouquet on one side of the sachet. “See the tiny buds? The technique is called ‘French knot.’ You cluster them on either side of a stitched stem, and you get a spring of lavender. Simple and impactful. I want to practice it before the school starts.”

We grab a late lunch on a sidewalk terrace. I pick a table in the shade of an oak tree with the light being too sharp now and the heat too intense to sit in the sun.

For dessert, I order lavender sorbet.

“If you’re trying to make me sick of lavender,” Uma says, licking her spoon, “It’s not working.”

“Please,” I protest. “All I want is for you to get the full experience.”

Her expression grows serious. “Zach, I hope you know how grateful I am for today’s ‘experience.’ How on earth am I going to repay your kindness?”

Five or six creative ways flash in my mind.

I give her a tight smile and turn away, disgusted with myself.

Three hours later, Uma, Sam, and I board the TGV back to Paris along with most of my teammates.

Noah’s already in Paris, having left right after the game. He had to fill in for someone at work today. He might’ve stayed if I’d invited him on the lavender trip. But I hadn’t. In fact, I hadn’t even mentioned it.

As I lean back into my seat across from Uma and Sam, a wave of shame washes over me while I think of that “oversight.” My teammates joke and laugh a few rows behind us, but I don’t have the heart to join in the fun. Pulling out my laptop, I open my Excel spreadsheet and try to get some work done while Sam plays a game on his tablet.

Uma looks out the window at the cloudless sky and sublime landscapes, her expression dreamy. I force myself to stop staring at her, and—for the first time in weeks—admit the truth.

I’m lusting after the most off-limits woman I could possibly find. It must stop. Like, soon before I lose control and do something I’ll regret bitterly.

The irony of the situation is that I have a remedy at the tip of my fingers. It’s time I used it. Tonight, as soon as I’m alone, I’ll call Sophie—quite possibly the hottest woman both sides of the Atlantic—and ask her out.