Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
“B loody hell,” Jamie grunts, peering out the car window. His unabating leg shake hasn’t stopped since the second we got into our Uber.
To say it’s yet another eventful week would be an understatement. Accompanying the Chessleys for their rather orchestrated “family” outing at the only English pub in the south of France had its fair share of roller coaster ups and downs. Starting with me rubbing thighs with Jamie in the third row of Nick’s Audi because Josie and Milo had to occupy the second row or else the sky would fall. And of course my feelings for Damien burn bright, but I am a mere mortal and not completely immune to Jamie’s enchanting cologne. Orange. Ginger. Cloves. I can still smell it!
Then, even in a wood-paneled bar exuding oak and ale that looked to have been plucked straight from a quaint English village, Nick couldn’t rip the plastered, crooked-tooth grin off his face. Kept asking if we were all très bien every three minutes. The awkward silence brewing among us only interrupted when we sipped our hoppy drinks or shifted an inch in the red vinyl booths.
Next, the barkeep beckoned Nick and Angela to face off in a game of darts against Jamie and me. While I would’ve politely declined, I couldn’t say no to Angela’s demand that we comply, even if she was trying to show me up. Unfortunately for her, I’ve retained an impeccable aim ever since high school basketball. The challenge rallied each of us to up our game while the kids noshed on pretzel and peanut mixes. If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve called it the Chessley’s version of family game night, but why it needed to be so orchestrated was another question. I wasn’t lucky enough to evade Angela’s eye when Jamie and I secluded ourselves for another drink at the bar. She most definitely saw my rosy cheeks as he gave me a horrendously cheesy pep talk before the match point.
And that’s when Jamie got the text from his coworker Mathéo. I only had to read the first sentence.
L’inspecteur Michelin est à la Vigne! Viens vite!
With Emi’s help, despite the spotty service from the pub’s bathroom, we figured out a plan: Antoine and Marie needed Jamie and me to cover at the Cave due to a family “emergency” with Marie. We told Nick or Angela that the red alert is car trouble. They automatically assumed it was something to do with the twenty-year-old Fiat that Marie’s sister drives, supposing she’d broken down on the side of the road in Antibes. Fortunately, there was no real crisis, and our little white lie held up.
Nick was all for it. “Anything for family!” He’d shouted across the bar, blitzed up on ale. But Angela had traces of skepticism in her eyes. Still, we made it out and into the nearest rideshare option.
“Bloody effin’ bollocks,” Jamie grumbles next to me.
The driver, an older gentleman with few teeth and a relaxed posture, occasionally smiles back at us. “?a va?” he repeats over and over.
I tell him we’re fine, even though I could do without the sweat and mildew baked into the carpet flooring. But the man clearly takes pride that his little tuna can on wheels is pushing 300,000 kilometers.
Jamie checks his phone about ten times a minute. His knuckles go white as he grips his thighs.
“It’s all right.” I lean to him, though the seat belt yanks me back into place.
His eyes dart to mine. He abruptly leans forward and asks the driver, “Pardon. Comprenez-vous l’anglais, monsieur?”
The man twists his head. “Pas un mot.”
Jamie sits back.
“Kat, if this doesn’t go well,” he starts, but I have to interrupt him.
“It will.”
“I’ll be an absolute joke. They’ll never respect me for it.”
He twirls the silver ring on his pinky. I notice the engraved word now. Chessley .
“Hey, you’ve got so much going for you. Don’t assume the worst. Try to give yourself more credit.” I rest my hand on top of his fidgeting fingers. My gaze drifts out the window. “It’s not the easiest thing. I know. When all you want is to prove yourself, but somehow, you can’t stop and appreciate how far you’ve already come.”
“I take it you’ve been down this road before,” he says. Of course he means it figuratively, but I decide a little mood-lightening joke might alleviate his anxiety.
“Too many times to count. All you can do is your best in this moment. Leave nothing on the table.”
A smile of gratitude tries to push through his stiff cheeks. He and I both look down at my palm spooning his. I yank it back. Why do I keep doing that?
Jamie raises his head again. A field of sunflowers passes behind him out the window.
“Would it help if I gave you a pep talk?” I say, a lift in my voice.
“Go on then.” He smirks.
“Jamie, get your head out of your ass and get on with the show. Second star to the right and straight on till morning.” I stole that last part from his buzzed pep talk at the dartboard. Airiness returns to my stomach as a full grin emerges on his lips. It distracts from the stunning coast coming back into view.
“All right, fair play,” he says. “Now, my turn. If ever you start to doubt yourself or your work, I want you to think of me.”
Heat flashes through my cheeks.
“Picture me saying, ‘Kat, tell the haters to sod off and c’est la effin’ vie.’”
“C’est la vie!” the driver exclaims, raising one palm toward the roof, surprising us both.
“C’est la vie,” I repeat.
The atmosphere in the back seat, now loosened, lets Jamie and I admire the view outside. To the left are the dramatic, scraggly cliffs hugging the Mediterranean. We wind past secluded beaches, where visitors mount rock landings about twenty feet above the sea.
“Ever thought about taking a dive?” Jamie asks me.
“Well, I don’t, I don’t know. I, um...” I trail off, distracted by the beachgoers doing backflips off their makeshift diving board. “Maybe I will, you know, when I’ve finished up the au pair stuff.”
“You mean when Damien’s back in town,” he teases.
Annoyed, I cross my arms. “You’re actually much more similar than you think.”
“Really?” Jamie crosses his arms too.
I twist my torso to be square with his. “You both have ambition, you both are great older brothers.”
“You think I’m a great older brother.”
“Manon does.”
“Well,” Jamie sighs. “At least I’ve got that going for me.”
“I’m just saying.”
The tension creeps back in, and Jamie’s voice goes stern. “That guy is nothing like me. He hasn’t told you about what really happened, I’m guessing.”
“Not exactly.”
Jamie scoffs. “Exactly.”
I furrow my brow, searching his gaze for an explanation.
After glancing at the driver once more, Jamie leans toward my shoulder.
“He’s a snake. And when he tried poaching every business in èze, trying to convert it to some shopping outlet, I went to every shop owner to let them know who they’d be dealing with if they sold to Damien. But they didn’t need me to help make up their minds. His money isn’t worth shit. And selling out would mean going against everything they stand for, seeing their town turn into that.”
I slowly nod, as I take in the information. Though a lump is swelling in my throat for fear I’ve been lied to this whole time.
“You’re not the first girl to fall under his little spell,” Jamie adds.
I suck in a breath.
“He’s only out to please himself no matter who it’ll affect, and I don’t give a flying fu...” He calms himself with a quick glance at the jovial driver, who can barely see over the steering wheel.
“That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna say?”
He flares his nostrils. “It’s not my place,” he says almost inaudibly.
I actually laugh. “You’re so typical. If you have a problem with someone, why not fix it rather than moping about it?”
The vigor in my voice stirs his gaze toward me.
I lift an eyebrow back at him, but my thoughts course through every memorized letter line, scraping for any argument Damien provided in their feud, but I come up short. The way Jamie paints it certainly makes him look like a rose and Damien the thorn. But Jamie’s human after all. There are multiple sides to every story.
Jamie and I seem to notice the mere centimeters between our faces at the same time. He pulls back. Twirling his fingers, he seems to be trying to suppress the trembling as we near èze. “I hope you find the answers you’re looking for,” he says.
“Not that I'll get them from you,” I mumble, staring out the window and feeling his bright green eyes scorching the left side of my face.
The stirred-up tension now searing between us, I tell myself that what matters in the next hour is getting to the Vigne as quickly as possible. Sure, Jamie’s attitudes—kind and compassionate one minute, cold and callous the next—may drive me up the wall, but I’d promised to help him. After all, Conseils wouldn’t be doing as well as it is now without his help. The driver drops us at the car park in èze. We clamber up the cobblestone streets, stopping at the Cave to meet Emi quickly and scour for Jamie’s extra set of chef clothes. Marie and Antoine keep an additional set there in the event of emergencies or wardrobe malfunctions.
While Jamie changes into his chef whites in the stockroom, his phone dings, and he curses. Reflexively, I look at the curtain separating us, his shirtless back visible through the slit in the fabric. I quickly glance away, and he reemerges, fully dressed.
“What is it?” I lift my back off the cool stone wall.
He sighs, tucking in the high-collar button-down. “Our hostess has the flu.”
Apparently, the inspector will knock them for anything out of place. Incorrect silverware orderings, overly minted ceviche, missing staff.
“I can do it,” I burst out the words before the thought fully forms.
Jamie lifts his brow.
“I used to be a hostess back in high school. Well, I did it for a summer at an Applebee’s, but I know the basics.”
Jamie inhales deeply through his nose, and he squeezes my forearm. “Thank you.”
The sound of clinking wine bottles being packaged for customers disappears as our gazes lock. “C’mon, let’s get going,” I say, tearing myself from the situation.
Jamie has been my camera guy for the past few weeks—milking the opportunity for me to teach him something about exposure and aperture—keeping him away from the Chessley villa at most daytime hours. Reducing his father’s chance to snatch him for a business chat had been strong motivation, I presume. Nonetheless, his help hasn’t gone unnoticed, and I don’t think twice when it comes to helping him knock the socks off this Michelin inspector. The Damien fiasco will be dealt with later.
We pass the kids’ favorite little crêperie and Solange’s office on the way to the Vigne. Every editorial meeting that goes by, the more the space transforms. This time, a few framed posters decorate freshly painted peony pink walls. Now that it’s well after four and the lights have gone out, she’s probably off enjoying dinner with her family, celebrating the past week’s success with Conseils and the uptick in agency clientele.
Coming to the end of the narrow lane, it’s my first time actually approaching the Chateau Vigne d’Argent. Up close, I can now see its scuffed yet endearing layered stone exterior. A fresh coat of paint could do on the periwinkle shutters, but the vibrant flower boxes distract from the more rustic elements. Guests staying in its rooms make their way to the cottage-style lobby, but Jamie leads me to the right of the building and through a small alley where there is a forest-green door with a digital padlock.
Jamie enters the code and guides us down narrow halls lined with piles of dishware and tablecloths. Clanging metal pots, the hot sizzle of oil, and dissonant shouts bounce over the walls as we enter the raucous kitchen. Five men and three women halt their racket along the stainless steel counters when they see Jamie and me standing in the doorway.
Jamie nods to the group. “Faisons-le,” he says, tying his apron straps around his waist and rolling up his sleeves. He bonjours the head waiter, who’s busy memorizing tonight’s menu before he points his thumb toward me. After their short discussion, the waiter beckons me to follow him out of the kitchen. On my way out, I give a quick thumbs-up to Jamie, who’s about to commence the dessert prep at his station.
When our eyes meet, his heavy breathing slows, and he returns the grin.
The head chef saunters in, snapping their fingers, and the six line cooks stand tall, awaiting direction. I sneak one more you’ve-got-this smile at Jamie before the waiter nearly yanks my arm out of my socket.
I wander behind him down the hall. He examines me from head to toe and parses through a closet full of black trumpet-sleeve dresses. Decoding my size with only a look, he hands me a dress and obsidian wedges that fit to a tee.
“You have done this before, no?” he asks when I emerge from the bathroom after changing.
I’m guessing Jamie didn’t include the Applebee’s detail. I nod fervently as he takes my clothes and tosses them into the closet.
“Bit rusty,” I admit.
The waiter rolls his eyes and keeps walking down the dim hall and up a wooden staircase. He rather quickly details my duties. The place is reservation only, so the tables have been preassigned to the waitstaff. All I have to do is greet the diners with, “Bonjour. Bienvenue au Chateau Vigne d’Argent. Suivez-moi, s’il vous pla?t.” And if they don’t speak French, “Hello. Welcome to the Chateau Vigne d’Argent. Follow me please.” At the top of the stairs, the waiter presses on the door, but he hesitates and cranes his neck to me. “Make sense? Do you need anything else?”
“Glass of wine might help.” Shrugging, I crack a smile.
Wrong moment, Kat.
Clearing my throat, I shake my head.
“Bien,” the waiter says. He reminds me of Stanley Tucci’s can’t-be-bothered yet affectionate character in The Devil Wears Prada.
He swiftly opens the door and glides through. Swarming around us in elegant strides are the rest of the waitstaff, attending to every patron’s need on the stone terrace. A wire fence separates the twenty candlelit tables from the steep cliff. The view is immaculate. The C?te d’Azur is on full display, and with the sun now set, an electric indigo hue provides a stunning backdrop to the moon hovering close to the sea’s horizon.
At the hostess podium, I squint to examine the guest list. The twinkling lights dangling around the terrace’s perimeter add lovely ambience but horrendous reading light. New arrivals interrupt my curious scanning, and I escort them to their table without messing up my lines.
Way to go, Kat!
A few more parties arrive to be seated, and I manage to peep out a little conversation with one elder gentleman and his dinner partner. But when I resume my post at the podium, the Stanley Tucci ma?tre d’—whose actual name is Charles—grumbles.
Stick to the script, Kat.
Now that my eyes have adjusted to the light, and my stomach has calmed its hungry howling, I wonder who on the guest list could be the infamous inspector. If the waitstaff is on edge, they certainly don’t show it in their nimble feet as they dance between tables.
Whoever the inspector is, I doubt they’d be dining solo—too obvious—and they’re most certainly using an alias. I examine the list of names, both those that have already arrived and the ones yet to come.
Louis Martin. Sounds too normal to be suspicious.
Eliza Bernard. Hmm, maybe.
The next name makes my gut drop.
No.
But I can’t do anything about it. The second I read it, I hear his voice. He approaches the terrace, his salt-and-pepper goatee trimmed and combed to perfection.
“Miss Kat,” Howie says, his arms lifted. “What are you doing here?” He leans his elbow on the host stand. “They’re not underpaying you over at Casa de Chessley, are they? Otherwise, I’ll be having a chat with old Nicky.”
I hastily assure him quite the opposite, but I have to think of something to explain why I’m here without blowing Jamie’s cover.
“I, um... I’m doing research. Got to meet the traveler where their mind is.”
Howie taps his forehead. “Look at that. If it were up to me, you’d certainly belong with us at Continental.”
I try not to let him pick up on my jittery hands. Instead, I bow my head and gather a few menus for him and his business partners. After showing them to their table right along the center of the balcony, I consult a nearby waiter who I had heard speaking English earlier.
“Do the chefs ever come out here?” I whisper to her.
“Not usually.”
Hopefully it stays that way.
The rest of the night goes off without a hitch. All of the guests on the list have now been seated, but I can’t tell who is the Michelin inspector and who is just a yacht owner with a craving for thirty-euro hummus. But the one guest I do know, Mr. Howie Gupta, has thoroughly enjoyed his seven courses and presently polishes off his table’s third bottle of wine. His comment has been ringing in my ear for the past hour. It’s not long before my mind wanders to Jamie again. I’ve seen various dessert plates come through the kitchen door, catching glimpses of molded mousses, elegant petit cakes, and immaculate pastry. Part of me wants to slip downstairs and give him a wave, but the other part of me says “Kat, stick to your post.”
Ma?tre d’ Charles scurries over to the podium, alerting that some kitchen staff is coming upstairs to greet a woman dressed in gold. Louisa Roy. I sat her near a potted plant over an hour ago. They think she’s the inspector. I bite my lip, hoping that Jamie gets selected but also hoping he’s forced to stay down there.
A minute later, three individuals donned in their chef whites step through the staircase doorway. The first is the head chef, followed by the sous chef, and then Jamie. Without hesitation, I grab Jamie’s arm. Relief swells in his eyes when he sees me, but he insists on following the group ahead.
“No, Jamie,” I whisper, making sure his face stays out of view of any diner. “Your godfather’s here.” I lean my head to the side, so he can see for himself.
His face goes white. “What?”
Howie rolls his neck back, consumed in laughter. He hasn’t detected Jamie. Yet. But the terrace is small enough to pick up on the slightest shift in energy.
“You deserve to be up here with them.” I nod toward his coworkers coalescing around the woman in gold. “But...”
“But I can’t,” he finishes, bowing his head. “Bollocks.” Strain smears across his brow, but he dissolves it, coursing his hands through his tied-back hair. Before he ducks behind the door he came in from, he gives my hand a squeeze. My heart leaps in every direction. The twinkling light shines over his toned, tanned jaw and the gleam returns to his eyes.
“Merci, Kat.”
I whisper, “Je t’en prie.”
Before we know it, the night is coming to a close, and the last table has just taken their final bite of profiteroles. Howie and his party stumbled away earlier. Their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, they’ll have the scent of Syrah on their breath for the rest of the week.
I help clear tables alongside the waiters, who’ve now dropped the stiff upper lip and assumed a more casual repertoire of playing makeshift hacky sack with lemon rinds. They abandon playtime, however, when ma?tre d’ Charles storms back through the door to check on them.
“Thank you for your help, Mademoiselle Kat. Where shall we send your pay for the evening?” Charles asks me.
“Oh, no. Please, don’t worry about it. I was just helping a friend.”
For the first time this evening, a grin grows at the corner of Charles’s mouth.
“Je comprends,” he says and gently pats my shoulder, leaving me to admire the cascading view, equally captivating at night as it is in the day. Navy-blue sky and darkened cobalt ocean meld together, lit by boat lanterns and house lights strung along the peninsula. I still can’t get over how the salty air makes its way miles above the cliffs. Nonetheless, I drink it in.
“You’re still here,” Jamie says. A hint of surprise lingers in his voice.
I spin around and give a grin. It hits me that I haven’t taken him up on the coffee and dessert invitation he made when we first met. “Just cashing in what I was promised,” I say, making obvious glances to the espresso cups and pastry crumbs left at someone’s table.
Jamie crosses his arms and bows his head, concealing the grin spreading under his nose. “I’ll do you one better,” he says and curls his pointer finger for me to follow him.
Back in the kitchen, now cleaned and scrubbed to perfection after the night of soup making and duck braising, Jamie uncorks a local Cabernet Sauvignon from Provence and pours me a glass while he prepares two dinner plates. From one convection oven, he pulls out a sheet pan of leftover chicken breast, roasted potatoes, and steamed green beans.
“Chef lets us take the leftovers for our dinner. I figured you’d be hungry.”
My cheeks go rosy.
“And I saved us some chocolate mousse,” he adds, plating our meal.
We take the long-awaited dinner up to the terrace and sit in satisfying quiet for a few moments, enjoying the lemon, rosemary, and tarragon infused in every morsel.
Jamie clears his throat and lifts his glass. “Cheers, by the way, to pulling all this off,” he says, glancing around the now-empty terrace.
We clink glasses, but I notice his bliss is fleeting.
“Jamie.”
“They didn’t come. Whoever they are,” he sighs. “We had a faulty tip.”
“The woman in the gold dress, it wasn’t...” My brimming question trails off when he shakes his head.
“You know, I’m glad, really. I’d rather not be in the know when they do come,” he says.
I sweep my gaze to the view at our side. “Takes the pressure off.”
“I’m quite jealous of you,” Jamie says, taking a long sip of wine.
Jolting my head back to him, confusion paints my expression.
“You handle it all so well. My sisters and brother, for one. And my mum. And the magazine. It’s impressive. Now that’s pressure.”
“Well,” I start, “I’m not alone in it. I have Emi and... you.” A tingle ripples in my throat, and I don’t know how to stop it. More water and wine don’t help as it travels down my neck and back.
Jamie finishes chewing and nods. “But you didn’t think twice about it, you just went for it.”
I shrug. “Hmm, some call it impulsive...”
“You don’t think it was your gut taking the reins?”
“I think wine helped push some of those decisions along,” I say, tipping back my crystal glass. “Hard to tell if my gut knows left from right anymore. I never do stuff like this.”
Jamie leans back in his chair. “Maybe you’ve always wanted to.”
I look over my shoulder at the French landscape before us.
“Never gets old,” he says. When I meet his eyes, he nods to the moonlit sea.
“It’s a great setting,” I say, resting my chin in my palm.
“Hmm... for a great McLauren film.”
“Yeah.” I exhale through my nose, recalling the goals on my vision board that perpetually seem out of reach. “Right.”
“What? It’ll happen. You’ve already proved your dream is possible. Some would say you’re living it already.” He fiddles with his thumbs. “If anything, Conseils is at least a preview.”
I think of all the footage we’ve taken for the magazine’s YouTube channel.
Peering at the view once more, I rest my napkin on the table. “Maybe someday. When I’ve got some credits to my name. You know?”
“Kat,” Jamie says, leaning back in his chair. “If you keep pushing it off, aren’t you worried you’ll never get to it?”
I squint at Jamie. “Look, no offense but you don’t know what it’s like. Your food is Michelin-rated. Everyone here loves it. I don’t have that luxury yet. And it’d be a disservice to rush it.”
“It didn’t happen overnight,” he says, swirling the last drops of wine in his glass. I trace my upper teeth with my tongue while he continues on. “Kat. Your work might not mean something to everybody. It’s not supposed to. But I’m sure it’ll mean the world to someone. And it sure as hell should mean something to you.”
“Well, true as that may be, I’ve got Young Soarers to focus on for now.”
Jamie shakes his head. “I don’t get that whole thing. Why settle for some stuffy corporate gig just to have your soul sucked out of you?”
I straighten my spine. “Who says it would?”
“Won’t it? If you sacrifice your calling just to be there?” Jamie sighs. “All I’m saying is, you can’t fake peace of mind.”
We hold each other’s gaze for a few prolonged moments. When he speaks to me like this, it’s like he’s talking to the person I hardly show to the world, the one who looks back at me from the mirror. The one who wants to be utterly free from the suffocating grip of years of expectations. Expectations that have lost their origin but have glued themselves to my identity—that if I act out of accordance with them, part of me will rupture. How can I break the mold I’ve outfitted for myself?
The twinkling fairy lights land gently on his wavy, low bun. My eyes go to his lips, but I blink ferociously and sit up straight, crossing my silverware over the empty plate.
While I digest his last comment, he clears his throat and takes my plate, promising to return with some dessert and coffee.
When it’s just me on the terrace, thoughts badger my skull one after another as I fidget with my rings.
Don’t think about it . You have Damien ... sort of... almost.
You’ve got a good thing going with him. Something that’ll really stick.
Don’t throw it away.
Still, I hadn’t visualized what it’d be like to kiss Jamie until tonight. Sure, I’ve had flutterings, I’m not too vain to deny it. But tonight, something has shifted. Before, the idea would have only floated around my brain for a few seconds until I quickly dissolved it with a laugh. Tonight, I can see it with such clarity, grabbing his face and pressing his lips against mine.
But I won’t do that. It’d violate rule number one I’ve set for myself when it comes to romance: Do not make the first move. That way, I avoid making a complete fool of myself. If they act first, then I know for sure I hadn’t been imagining things and that the vibe is actually reciprocated. Whenever I’d been the first move-maker in the past, it had failed. Catastrophically. Like trying to force a fantasized relationship onto my childhood crush only for him to say he’s got someone special already. Or the time I thought my chance elbow brushes with the football player in my accounting group meant he had the hots for me. Or, my favorite of all, when I saw my university’s star basketball player in the dining hall and I forced my roommates to drop him my phone number while I suggestively licked an ice cream cone at our table.
But all I’ve learned from my romantic strikeouts is that just because I’m looking does not mean they are. Anyway. Jamie’s off limits.
“Let it go,” I mumble coarsely.
“Let what go?” Jamie stands at the door with two bowls of chocolate mousse.
I stand abruptly, almost knocking over the wine glasses. “Nothing, nothing.” I make my way toward Jamie with a quick stride and jitters in my voice. “I’m feeling tired,” I lie. “It’s been a long day, and I really should be getting back.”
Jamie nods and offers to accompany me on the walk back to the house after he swaps his chef clothes for jeans. I don’t bother changing, except trading the heels for my tennis shoes wedged in the waitstaff closet. Jamie lends me his jacket to brace against the evening wind. After I thank him, silence mulls, and I keep a three-foot distance between us the whole way back. He doesn’t seem to mind though, his head bowed to the ground and hands stuffed in his pockets.
When we make it to the villa’s front door and tiptoe up the stairs, we pause at the banister. My room to the left, his to the right. Only a few hallway nightlights provide any illumination, but as I turn away, Jamie places two fingers on my elbow.
“Kat,” he says. His whisper is rich and tender. “Thank you.”
He takes my hand, sending electrifying chills up my arm. He places a single kiss on the back of it, never dropping his gaze from mine. A warmth burgeoning in my heart spreads across my entire chest, cascading to butterflies in my stomach. In a second, my entire body is tingling. Jamie curls his lip to a half grin.
The hot and cold frenzy he’s been boomeranging between all summer evaporates with that kiss. Has he felt this all along? Has his icy exterior and keeping me at arm’s length been his way of avoiding any suspicions from his parents? Maybe he’s like me; once the feelings start to roll, it snowballs quickly, and there’s no stopping the avalanche. Yet neither of us can go through with it, not when there’s too much at stake. My job here for one, and therefore, my spot at the Young Soarers. And if he does feel the same as me, then if we fall, we’ll fall hard. At least, I will.
“I want you to know how sorry I am, truly. For sometimes being a right arsehole to you. Guess it’s my defense mechanism. You don’t deserve that,” he says with a melancholy air. “I thought that if I came off rude, it’d stop me from...”
Muffled voices echo from down the hall. I pull my hand back and look over my shoulder, knowing Angela is just twenty feet away in her bedroom.
“Kat, I?—”
“Bonsoir,” I whisper to him.
His shoulders drop. He knows as well as I do that this is a road we can’t go down.
And just like that, we go our separate ways. He to his room, and me to mine. Pressure builds behind my eyes, a knot tightens in my throat, and my hand still tingles from the press of his lips. And just like that, an uncontrollable heat scorches my neck until I step into the shower, rinsing off the mayhem of such a tumultuous day.