19. Chapter Nineteen #2
“We’ve doubled the village watch. No one leaves alone. Doors stay secured after dark.”
“Does Bran know the crash was sabotage?”
“Yes.”
“And the pilot?”
“I gave him everything we have.”
The muscles in Luca’s jaw tighten.
“Once we’re extracted, Francis’s team will search the island with local authorities.”
“Assuming the pilot lets us leave.”
Luca steps closer.
“He won’t get near you.”
The certainty in his voice settles over me.
I believe him.
That may be the most dangerous thing of all.
He glances toward the activity surrounding us.
“Brock invited us to the bonfire tonight.”
“Us?”
“The entire village knows we’re here now. Participating shows respect.”
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
Luca’s gaze travels over Claire’s pale dress.
The fabric is simple and slightly too short. Ana?s threaded tiny flowers through my hair earlier, and flour probably covers more of me than I realize.
When his attention returns to my face, his eyes are darker.
“You look good in anything.”
My heart stumbles.
Then he adds, quietly, “You’re perfect.”
Compliments have surrounded me my entire life.
Beautiful.
Talented.
Special.
None of them ever reached the place his words do.
I open my mouth.
Nothing intelligent comes out.
“You stink.”
Luca smiles.
Not the small, reluctant curve I usually have to earn.
A real smile.
Wide.
Bright.
A shallow dimple appears in his right cheek.
It changes his entire face.
My breath catches.
“I do stink,” he agrees. “I need a bath.”
Then he walks away, leaving me staring after him like I’ve never seen a man smile before.
The bonfire begins as the sun disappears beneath the trees.
Rose and apricot fade from the sky while villagers gather in the clearing behind Brock’s cottage.
Children run between the adults carrying sticks and glass jars filled with fireflies.
Older villagers sit in woven chairs near the flames. A teenage boy plays a small drum while an elderly man plucks the strings of an instrument I don’t recognize.
The fire crackles.
The scent of woodsmoke mixes with roasted garlic and the sea.
Luca and I sit side by side on a low log.
Our knees touch.
Neither of us moves away.
The embers remind me of our first night after the crash.
Only two days have passed.
It feels like another lifetime.
Luca speaks with an older man sitting beside him. His French is effortless, and the man laughs loudly at something he says before clapping him on the shoulder and leaving for more food.
I turn toward Luca.
“Your French is really good.”
“Thank you.”
“Very informative answer.”
He looks at the fire.
“My family moved to the States when I was five. My mother refused to let the French part of us disappear.”
His fingers flex lightly over his knees.
“She spoke it at home. Cooked the meals she remembered from Lyon. Told me the stories her parents told her.”
“And your dad?”
Luca’s mouth tightens.
“He didn’t speak French. He thought holding on to it was pointless because we were American now.”
“That sounds cheerful.”
“It made my mother more determined.”
He releases a short breath.
“I’ve never known whether France is something I’m allowed to claim. I left so young. I never went back.”
I study his profile as firelight moves over the sharp lines of his face.
“Culture isn’t only geography.”
He turns toward me.
“Language, food, stories—those things become part of you. You don’t lose them because you crossed an ocean.”
Luca nods slowly.
“You sound like my mother.”
“What can I say?”
I finish my piece of garlic bread and dust the crumbs from my hands.
“Great minds.”
The look he gives me is almost affectionate.
It does dangerous things to my heart.
Brock approaches carrying a bottle of amber liquor.
His grin is warm, and he smells strongly of fish, smoke, and whatever is inside the bottle.
“Sing.”
He points it toward me.
I blink.
“What?”
“Luca says you sing.”
My gaze snaps toward Luca.
“You told him?”
“Them.”
He gestures toward the villagers.
Several are already watching us.
“It isn’t exactly classified information.”
“It should be.”
Brock waves people closer.
“They want to hear.”
He switches to French.
“One song.”
For reasons I don’t understand, I suddenly feel shy.
I’ve performed before crowds of thousands. Cameras have captured every angle of me. Strangers dissect my voice online for entertainment.
But these people don’t know who I am.
There is no production.
No band.
No stage lighting or carefully engineered sound.
Only my voice.
“I don’t know…”
“Come on.”
Luca’s arm settles across my shoulders.
The contact warms every part of me.
He looks at me as though I’m something rare.
“They’ll love you.”
There is no teasing in his voice.
He means it.
I wonder how much of my music he has heard.
“Fine.”
I sit straighter and close my eyes.
Then I sing.
The first note emerges softly.
The next one follows.
Soon, the melody grows beyond me.
Every time I sing, I remember why I fought so hard to make this my life.
The song carries the last few days inside it.
Fear.
Fire.
Falling.
The strange peace of waking in Luca’s arms.
I don’t merely perform the music.
I spill into it.
When the final note fades, silence holds for one suspended second.
Then the villagers applaud.
Children clap above their heads. Someone calls me belle. Another says douce.
My cheeks ache from smiling.
I turn toward Luca.
He’s already watching me.
He isn’t smiling.
He barely appears to breathe.
He looks at me as though he witnessed something sacred and is afraid movement might disturb it.
My heart pounds.
“Would you like my autograph?”
His lips twitch.
“When I’m in the right mood, I provide free signatures to exceptionally lucky fans.”
“Has anyone ever told you how arrogant you are?”
“Frequently. Tell me something new.”
“Then I suppose you owe me a signature.”
I blink.
“So you’re admitting you’re a fan?”
Luca rises.
“Don’t become emotional.”
He walks toward Brock before I can demand clarification.
I watch him join the fisherman near the edge of the water.
Brock demonstrates how to cast a weighted net. Luca copies the movement, trousers rolled to his knees as the muscles in his arms flex.
Julien cheers when the net lands correctly.
Later, as the fire shrinks into glowing cinders, Claire settles beside me.
Julien sleeps against her shoulder.
“You sing very well,” she says in careful English. “Beautiful.”
“Merci.”
My attention returns to Luca.
Claire follows my gaze.
A knowing smile touches her face.
“Il est amoureux de toi.”
My heart stops.
I know enough French to understand that sentence.
He is in love with you.
I look at her.
“You’re wrong.”
Claire shakes her head.
“No.”
Her smile fades into something gentler.
“I see love. In his face.”
I stare toward the water.
Luca laughs at something Brock says. Firelight and moonlight move over his profile.
I want to believe her.
God, I want to.
But Claire has known us for two days.
She saw the way he watched me sing.
She didn’t see the years he spent refusing me.
“I see love. In his face.”
The words settle into my mind.
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe love is there every time Luca looks at me.
But I need more than another woman’s interpretation.
I need more than desire, protection, and the things he says when his control slips.
I love him too much to build hope from assumptions.
This time, I need to hear it from him.