Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
As I prepared for the day, an inexplicable nervousness fluttered in my stomach like a swarm of butterflies. It was just a festival with Remi—a friend. A very sexy, brooding friend, but a friend nonetheless. This was definitely not a date. Still, I couldn't shake the urge to put in a little extra effort.
I rummaged through my wardrobe, fingers trailing over my new French purchases until they settled on a French blue dress that skimmed my curves while maintaining an effortless country-chic vibe. I pulled my hair into a high ponytail, curling the ends to add a touch of softness, and applied light makeup. I'd noticed that the French women I'd encountered always looked so fresh-faced, never overly made up with heavy eyeliner or false lashes. A spritz of citrus-scented perfume completed the look. I nodded at my reflection in the antique mirror, hoping I'd achieved that easy, breezy Provence vibe without looking like I’d tried too hard.
Downstairs, I tried not to pace the front room like an impatient cat, my sandals clicking against the worn wooden floors. When I finally heard tires rolling up, I rushed to the window, heart leaping. Remi’s truck was coming up the drive, the morning sun glinting off its dusty windshield. I took a deep breath, reminding myself it was just a festival, not a romantic rendezvous .
Grabbing my handbag, I hurried out the front door, the old hinges creaking in protest. Remi hopped out, and I couldn’t help but suck in a breath at the sight of him. He still had that rugged look, but he’d cleaned up a bit. Freshly shaven, save for that persistent shadow of stubble that seemed to define his jaw even more sharply. His dark hair was artfully tousled, as if styled to look intentionally messy. He wore a black shirt—more elevated than a simple tee—with slim-fit navy chinos and brown leather sneakers. The result was effortlessly delicious, like a French pastry you couldn’t resist. I forced myself to shake off those thoughts and pull it together.
" Bonjour ," he said, his tone low and husky, sending goosebumps prickling my skin.
" Bonjour !" I replied, wincing inwardly at my overeager tone. I cleared my throat, aiming for casual. "Ready?"
"Clearly you are," he said with a teasing smirk. I felt heat rush to my cheeks.
"One of those mornings where I just have a lot of energy," I explained hastily. "Ready to take on the day."
He nodded, looking satisfied, and opened the passenger side door with a flourish. "Well then, no time to waste. Après vous ."
He helped me up, his hand warm against mine, and I settled into the seat, noting that his truck smelled of citrus and pine—natural and inviting, not overly fake like a gas station air freshener.
He hopped behind the wheel and started the engine. The truck rumbled to life beneath us.
"Is it far?" I asked as we pulled out, the estate growing smaller in the side mirror.
"No, just a few minutes up the road," Remi replied, his eyes on the winding lane ahead. "You're hot?"
"Hmm?" I snapped to attention, my mind racing. He blinked, looking confused.
"Are you too hot? Do you need air?"
"Oh, right. Yes. I mean, no. I'm fine. It's fine." I resisted the urge to facepalm. God, Elodie. Be more awkward, why don’t you?
He flashed me a look like he didn’t quite understand, then shook his head with a smile and pulled onto the main road. We cruised down the winding French country roads in comfortable silence, allowing the beauty of Provence to whiz past us like we were in our very own movie. This part of the world was just like a painting, plucked right out of time. It was breathtaking.
"What an incredible place to grow up," I said, more to myself than to Remi. He made a noncommittal noise of agreement.
"I suppose," he said.
I swiveled my head around and flashed him an incredulous look. "You suppose? You don’t agree?"
He laughed, the sound rich and warm. "No, I agree. I think you just get used to things. Or, rather, you don’t know any different. Yes, it is incredible, but it’s all I’ve ever known, really."
"Not a bad privilege to be born into, then," I mused, drinking in the rolling hills and distant mountains.
He smiled thinly, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes.
True to his word, we were only on the road for about ten minutes when we pulled into a little village. At first glance, it seemed incredibly small, with quaint stone buildings huddled together as if for warmth. But cars lined the sides of the narrow roads in droves, a testament to the festival’s popularity.
"Here we are," Remi announced, pulling the truck into a dirt lot designated for parking. I hopped down, my sandals sinking slightly into the soft earth, and we walked down a small trail into the village. The air was alive with the buzz of excitement and the faint strains of music, promising a day of new experiences and, just maybe, a deepening connection with the enigmatic man beside me.
We walked into the village, and my senses were immediately overwhelmed by the essence of a little French village—sun-baked cobblestone streets winding around weathered stone houses, wild lavender bushes, and French chatter.
As we wandered deeper into the village, we found ourselves in a small square dominated by an ancient-looking tree. Its gnarled branches stretched overhead, providing welcome shade to the handful of elderly men playing some kind of game beneath it.
“What are they playing?” I asked.
Remi followed my gaze. “Ah. That is pétanque . It is similar to bocce—you know that game?”
“Definitely. I used to play it all the time at this local winery.”
“It’s fun. Pétanque is more of a tossing game, where you throw the boule rather than roll, but it’s a similar concept.”
The metallic clink of their boules punctuated the lazy afternoon air, accompanied by bursts of animated conversation in rapid-fire French.
“You’ll have to teach me,” I said.
Across the way, the local café spilled out onto the sidewalk, its tables occupied by a mix of locals and tourists gesticulating over coffees and pastries.
This little village seemed to exist in a world of its own, untouched by the passage of time.
“This is something out of a storybook,” I said, looking around in awe.
Remi smiled. “This is one of the most popular festivals in the area. People come from all over the south of France, probably even from the north too."
"What’s the occasion?"
He pressed his hand to his heart dramatically. "Does one need an occasion to drink wine in a remote French village?”
I laughed. “Definitely not.”
“It’s the harvest festival, really. It’s the first festival of the season, where people bring newly vinted wines, flowers, produce. We all come together to celebrate.”
My entire being lit up at the idea of it. I loved it—people who lived in nature, coming together to celebrate the seasonal bounty. Wasn’t this how we were all supposed to live? In harmony, in unity? How far our society had fallen from this.
“I’m surprised you’re not selling your wares,” I said.
Remi flashed me a look. “Who says I’m not? My manager has a booth. We’ll stop by and check in with her. Come on. Let’s stroll.”
As we made our way through the throngs of people toward the village square, I was enveloped by a kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, and smells. Garlands of golden wheat and dried lavender adorned the stone buildings, swaying gently in the crisp morning breeze. A fountain had been turned into a makeshift altar piled high with pumpkins, gourds, and baskets overflowing with ripe grapes and figs.
Nearby, a group of men tended to a whole pig slowly turning on a spit, the skin crackling and glistening in the sunlight.
I’d been in Provence for almost a month now, but Remi was right. This was my first time really getting out. Between sorting out paperwork for Pierre’s estate and figuring out how to handle a business I hadn’t been prepared for, I’d barely had time to breathe.
“Where do we even start?” I asked, like a little girl at Disneyland for the first time.
“We should start by tasting some of the local wares.”
As we walked, a gruff voice called out, “Remi. Bonjour .”
We both turned to see an older man standing beside a small, understated booth. Three bottles of wine were lined up with little other fanfare.
“Jean-Luc. Bonjour ,” Remi said, nodding.
Jean-Luc looked like he’d been carved out of one of the stone buildings in the village—rigid, unmoving, with deep-set eyes that barely flicked over to me.
“Salut,” he sort of grunted out by way of greeting.
“Jean-Luc, this is Elodie, Pierre Descoteaux’s grandauther,” Remi said.
Jean-Luc’s eyes settled on me, and I felt like a bug pinned under glass.
“So, this is the American,” he said, the word heavy with disdain. It didn’t sound like a question, more like an accusation.
I swallowed, forcing a polite smile as I extended my hand. “ Bonjour , je suis Elodie. Nice to meet you.”
Jean-Luc glanced at my hand like it was contaminated before finally shaking it—more out of obligation than goodwill. “Bien s?r. The American who’s inherited a piece of France.”
The way he said it, I could almost hear the words he hadn’t spoken: A piece of France that doesn’t belong to you.
I tried to keep the smile on my face, but my cheeks were starting to ache.
“Yes, that’s me,” I said, attempting to keep my voice light. “Still learning the ropes.”
Remi stepped in diplomatically.
“Careful, Jean,” he said with a lazy smile. “You know Americans are very resourceful. Next thing you know, she will have a vineyard Instagram with more followers than all of us combined.”
Jean-Luc’s face twisted in what could’ve been a smile, though I wasn’t convinced.
“Technology. Not my thing. I’ll stick to wine. Real wine.”
I stifled a nervous laugh, feeling like I was walking a tightrope with no net.
“Well, I’m still learning what ‘real’ wine is, but I promise not to ruin the terroir with any emojis.”
Jean just stared at me, blank and unamused.
“Maybe we can try yours?” Remi tried. Jean-Luc looked like he’d rather set his whole supply on fire than offer me a taste, but he relented.
The moment stretched on painfully, and I felt a blush creeping up my neck. My hand clenched around the glass, wishing I could evaporate like the steam rising off the food stalls.
Remi leaned in closer, his voice low but warm with amusement.
“Don’t worry. Jean’s bark is worse than his bite. His wine, though…well, that’s got a real kick. Like being slapped with a grape.”
I bit back a laugh, grateful for his attempt to lighten the mood. “Good to know.”
Jean-Luc, meanwhile, was busy pouring a sample for Remi. His movements were precise, practiced, and when he handed the glass over, it was with a look that said Here, drink something made by someone who actually belongs here .
Remi raised the glass in a mock salute before taking a sip, smacking his lips in an exaggerated show of appreciation.
“Ah, Jean’s signature blend,” he said. “As bold as ever.”
Jean-Luc grunted again, but I caught the slightest flicker of pride in his expression.
Then his eyes turned back to me.
“You think you’ll appreciate this? It doesn’t come in a box.” He filled my glass.
I took the offered wine, trying to ignore the way his gaze lingered on me, as if daring me to dislike it. I swirled the glass and sipped. The wine was sharp, dry, with a smoky edge that I wasn’t sure I loved but wasn’t sure I hated either.
I swallowed and nodded, trying to muster up a smile. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say, but I like it.”
Jean-Luc’s eyebrows lifted slightly in a grudging acknowledgment.
“At least you’re honest,” he muttered.
I couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or an insult. Maybe both.
Remi clapped Jean-Luc on the shoulder. “See? You’re winning her over.”
Jean-Luc snorted, though there was a little less frost in his demeanor now. “We’ll see.”
I exhaled quietly, relieved the worst seemed to be over. I’d survived my first face-off with one of the locals who didn’t want me here, and while it hadn’t been exactly smooth, at least no one had thrown wine in my face. Yet.
As we turned to leave the booth, Remi gave me a sidelong glance, his mouth twitching into a smirk. “That went well.”
I groaned softly. “Well? He barely tolerated me.”
Remi chuckled. “That’s basically a compliment coming from Jean-Luc. He didn’t spit in your wine.”
“Wow, high praise,” I said dryly. “I feel so welcome.”
“You’ll grow on the people here,” Remi said, his voice softening just a touch. “They’re slow to trust, but once they do, they’re loyal.”
I glanced at him, catching the way his eyes flicked to me for just a second before he turned his attention back to the crowd. “And you? Are you slow to trust?”
He shrugged, his smile returning but not quite reaching his eyes. “Maybe.”
I waited for him to say more, but he just reached over and snagged a bite-sized piece of bread from a passing stall.
“Come on. Forget about Jean. Let’s go taste some real wine.”
Remi’s booth stood out among the festival stalls like a polished gem—a sleek wooden table with dark wine barrels artfully arranged and elegant bottles glinting in the afternoon sun. Compared to the rustic charm of the other booths, his had an air of quiet sophistication. It was unmistakably him—polished, effortless, yet grounded.
I felt a nervous energy buzzing in my chest as we approached, not that I’d let it show. After our awkward encounter with Jean-Luc, I was just hoping for something less... tense. But that hope fizzled when I saw her.
Standing behind the table was a woman, probably around my age, with long, dark hair that shimmered in the sunlight. She moved with the ease of someone who belonged there—graceful and confident, like a walking ad for French poise. She smiled when she saw Remi, and I immediately noticed the way her hand brushed his arm. Casual. Too casual.
“Vanessa, this is Elodie,” Remi said, gesturing between us. “She’s the new owner of Chateau Descoteaux .”
I smiled, trying to keep it together as Vanessa looked me over with a friendly yet somehow appraising gaze. “Welcome to Provence,” she said, her voice smooth. “Remi’s mentioned you.”
That little flutter in my chest turned into something more like irritation. “Has he?” I asked, keeping my tone light, though I glanced at Remi out of the corner of my eye. He just smiled, completely oblivious to the tightening knot in my stomach.
Vanessa poured a glass and handed it to me. “Why don’t you start with our Rolle? Crisp and floral. It’s perfect for a day like this.”
Her nails were perfectly manicured in a pale pink, and her whole vibe screamed effortless sophistication. I took the glass from her, wondering how on earth someone could look that flawless at a festival. Meanwhile, I was acutely aware of the humidity frizzing my hair, the sweat dampening the back of my neck, and the way my sundress felt slightly too tight.
“Thank you. Come to think of it, I haven’t had much white wine here,” I said.
“The white wines of Provence are not very well known because they are not widely produced. It’s about four percent of the production of the three Proven?al growing regions,” Remi said, morphing into professor mode.
Sexy professor mode, I might add.
“Let me walk you through it,” he said, taking the glass from my hand and holding it up to the light. His fingers brushed mine as he did, sending a little spark zipping through me. I ignored it, blaming it on the heat—or maybe the wine.
“Take a sip,” he said, turning to me, his voice dropping even more. “Close your eyes and tell me what you taste.”
I hesitated, but he was looking at me like this was a test I needed to pass. So, I closed my eyes and took a sip, the cool liquid sliding over my tongue. “It’s lightly fruity, citrus and lemon. Something a little sweet. Peach... apricot?” I guessed, my voice sounding a little breathy.
I opened my eyes and found him standing closer than before. His gaze flicked down to my lips for just a beat before meeting my eyes again. “Honeysuckle too,” he added, his voice low. “It lingers.”
I swallowed, and I wasn’t sure if it was the wine, the heat, or the way he was looking at me, but I felt flushed all over. I cleared my throat, trying to regain my composure. “It’s... nice,” I said, sounding way less sophisticated than Vanessa had.
Remi smiled, slow and knowing. “Nice? That’s all?”
I raised an eyebrow, attempting a smirk. “You’re going to have to try harder to impress me.”
His grin widened, and I swore I saw a glint of challenge in his eyes. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got just the thing.” He grabbed another bottle from the table, this time a deep red, and poured a glass. “Mourvèdre,” he said, holding it out to me. “Bold. Strong. You’ll want to let this one linger on your tongue.”
I blinked, sure I hadn’t imagined the double meaning in his words. I took the glass, trying not to think too hard about how much of our conversation was veering into innuendo territory. I took a sip, the rich, dark flavor coating my mouth, and I let out a small sound of approval before I could stop myself.
Remi’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Told you it was bold.”
I set the glass down, trying to focus on the wine, but it was impossible to ignore the growing tension between us. My heart beat a little too fast, my mind swirling with thoughts I wasn’t ready to admit. We were just friends, right? Friends who flirted during wine tastings? Friends whose fingers occasionally brushed when they passed glasses? Friends who made each other feel like this?
Before I could get lost in that train of thought, a loud bark broke the moment. I turned just in time to see a small dog—no bigger than a loaf of bread—leap up onto the table, its tail wagging furiously.
“What the—” Remi started, but before he could finish, the dog bounded across the table, knocking over a couple of wine glasses in the process. Vanessa let out a startled yelp as the dog tangled itself in the tablecloth, sending an open bottle of red wine teetering dangerously toward the edge.
Remi lunged forward, trying to grab the bottle, but in his rush, he bumped into the table, knocking over the very barrel display he’d set up. The barrel tipped, rolling off the table with a loud thunk as the dog yapped happily at the chaos it had caused.
I couldn’t help it—I burst out laughing.
“Oh my God,” I gasped, wiping tears from my eyes as Remi finally managed to corral the dog into his arms. “Your tasting’s gone to the dogs—literally.”
Remi shot me a look of mock annoyance, though I could see the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You think this is funny, huh?”
“Absolutely,” I said, grinning as I reached for a napkin to dab up the spilled wine. “Is this how you charm all your guests?”
He let out a soft laugh, setting the dog down on the ground. “Not exactly what I had in mind.”
Vanessa, to her credit, recovered quickly, bending down to clean up the mess with a tight-lipped smile. “Well,” she said, brushing her hair back into place, “that was... eventful.”
I caught Remi’s eye as we both bent down to help clean up the spill, and for a moment, everything else faded away. Despite the chaos, despite the unexpected interruption, the tension from before lingered in the air. His hand brushed mine again, this time on purpose, and I felt the same spark from earlier. This time, I didn’t ignore it.
“Where were we?” he asked, his voice lower now that Vanessa was distracted with the dog.
I raised an eyebrow, trying to keep my voice steady even though my heart was doing somersaults. “I think you were trying to convince me to let something... linger?”
Remi’s smile deepened, and there was something in his eyes I hadn’t noticed before—something more than just playful flirtation. “How’s that going for you?”
I took another sip of the wine, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. “I think I could get used to it.”
Before he could respond, the dog let out another excited bark, running in circles around our feet. I laughed again, stepping back as the little dog tangled itself in Remi’s legs. He let out a groan but bent down to pick the dog up once more, holding it at arm’s length like it might explode at any moment.
“Well,” he said, shaking his head as the dog wiggled happily in his arms. “If nothing else, I’ve certainly made an impression.”
I bit my lip, trying to suppress my smile. “Oh, you have. Trust me.”
“You hungry?” he asked, changing the subject.
I let the moment pass, though a small part of me wanted to push further. But not today. Not yet.
“Starving,” I said.
“Come on. Let me introduce you to my favorite food truck.”
I stopped short and looked up at him.
“You have food trucks here?”
He shrugged. “Of course. I think we invented them.”
I crossed my arms and mocked glared. “You most definitely did not.”
“Well, then we at least perfected them.”
I smirked.
He took my hand, and my entire body lit up.
“La Cantine du Sud. Marie does incredible squids.”
“Squid?”
“ Oui . She cooks it in a court boui llon, sears it at the last minute on her plancha grill, and serves it with soft-inside, crispy potatoes and homemade garlic aioli.” He kissed the tips of his fingers cartoonishly.
“Lead the way.”