Chapter 11
JAKE
“ O livia is lovely.” Lucie slid her arm through mine as we walked along the beach. She studied me through narrowed eyes. “Very pretty.”
“And very young,” I reminded her.
“Pfff.” She flicked her wrist in the air as if swatting an invisible insect. “Every young woman needs to be with an experienced man at least once in her life. I’m grateful I had Raoul.”
“And Laurent. And Fabrizio. I wonder what you ever saw in me since we were the same age.”
“I must have seen your potential. But you’ve gotten better with age. If it wasn’t for Arnaud . . .” She wiggled her eyebrows at me and laughed.
Lucie and I had managed to stay friends despite the number of times in our twenties we’d given in to the temptation to try to make it work between us.
It never had. One of us—usually Lucie—would end up getting bored or—me—feel suffocated.
She never reproached me though, like other women did, for being too emotionally distant.
I never made myself vulnerable. I couldn’t help it. Not when I’d learned early that disappointment came from being dependent on another person’s affection.
And that was precisely why I shouldn’t get involved with an inexperienced, young girl, my childhood friend’s daughter no less, who liked to read romance books for fun. No matter how many people seemed to think it would be good for me.
“I’ll tell you why it would be a bad idea, and why I have zero interest in it, Lucie. She’s at that stage of life where sex and love are confused. I can’t have her romanticizing me.”
“Yes, I know you believe you’re invulnerable to love. I used to be the same until Arnaud.” She tugged at my arm. “But she’s smart, she wouldn’t want to be confronted with your sullen face for the rest of her life.” She nudged me with her hip. “She reminds me of myself when I was her age.”
“Having known you at that age, I can safely say that you are delusional. I can’t think of anyone less like you. She’s sensitive and dangerously selfless. A recipe for disaster.”
“You mean, she would give too much of herself and you wouldn’t want that?”
“No. I never have. It’s best that she stays far away from men like me.”
Lucie sighed and hugged me closer. “Oh, my dear, it is you who is afraid to give too much, and perhaps that is precisely what you need.”
“I’m very happy as I am,” I insisted, but even to my own ears the words sounded hollow.
No, it was for the best that I had suggested Olivia go back to Paris.
She’d meet influential industry insiders and be with other people her own age, not stuck here with my cynical ass.
I was shit company for a multitude of reasons right now.
Still, when she’d accepted the offer, a small pang of regret had settled in my chest.
Even now it sat there like a heavy stone. I rubbed at it, unwilling to believe that it was anything other than physiological ache. Maybe I was getting heart disease like my father; God knows I was on my way to being just as miserable as he was.
* * *
After having dinner with Lucie and her fiancé, I got back home just as Callie’s Uber pulled up in the driveway.
“Leaving already?” I asked, getting out of the car in time to lift her suitcase into the trunk. “I could have taken you to the station.”
“That’s all right. You’ve already been so generous letting me crash here.
” She said before turning to hug Olivia tightly.
“Remember what I told you, chicken.” Olivia nodded, her eyes glistening with tears in the moonlight.
Then Callie flung her arms around me and kissed me on the cheek.
When I stepped back in surprise, she said, “Sorry, sometimes I can be too exuberant. Take care, Jake. Thanks again.”
“Anytime.” I held the car door for her as she slid in.
She blew kisses out the window. “Love you, chicken!”
“Bye! Text me when you arrive so I won’t worry.” Olivia waved and pressed her lips together, surreptitiously wiping a tear from her cheek as the car rolled away over the gravel path, spitting up stones in its wake. “I hate goodbyes.”
I nodded in agreement. “I meant what I said, you can invite her anytime. And anyone else for that matter.”
“Well, if I’m leaving soon, I’m not sure there’ll be time for that.” Right, how had I forgotten already? “Anyway, I don’t know anyone else in Europe, except my cousin Levi.”
“He’s the fighter pilot stationed in Italy, right? Whose kid is he again?” I still couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that the Peterson boys had kids, let alone adult children. Made me feel old as dirt.
“He’s my second cousin,” Olivia explained. “He and Callie dated briefly. Very briefly. They don’t have much in common except for an intense love of French pastry.”
“Ah, another foodie.”
“No, Levi isn’t that discerning. He just likes to eat. He’s basically a stomach on legs,” she laughed as we walked toward the pool, illuminated like sea glass in the dark flagstone. She hesitated, glancing uncertainly in the direction of the cottage.
I should have said good night and left it at that. But instead, I found myself once again reluctant to let her go. “I think you’re overdue for your next wine tasting. How about if we open Reynaud’s red?”
Her eyes widened at the unexpected invitation, and her entire face lit up. “Yes, absolutely!”
I went to the cellar to find the bottle and, when I came back up, she’d already set the glasses out on the terrace.
She’d coiled her thick hair in a loose bun at the top of her head and, as she bent over to light the outdoor candles, the gold necklace she always wore glinted temptingly against the hollow of her throat.
I wondered, not for the first time, what it would feel like to press my mouth there.
Would her pulse beat like a hummingbird’s against my lips?
Turning around, she caught me staring. “What is it? You were smiling about something.”
“No. I don’t smile. Must have been a trick of the light.” I tried to play innocent as I set the bottle on the table, but my mouth curved up when I held out the wine key.
“You do smile. You have a dimple that gives you away. Right here.” She placed a finger gently on my right cheek and every nerve ending in my body converged in that precise spot.
Normally, I would have pulled away. So why did I want to lean into her hand where it lingered against my cheek?
When her eyes met mine, she was the one to jump back.
“Sorry.” She laughed anxiously then turned back to the bottle I’d placed on the table and took the wine key. “I’m not being graded on this am I?”
Taking the bottle with determination, she cut the foil in two twists of her slim wrists. She bit her lip as she drove the corkscrew in and then almost effortlessly pulled it out with a muted but pleasing pop.
“Ha!” She held up the cork speared on the bottle opener triumphantly. Her obvious delight at her newfound dexterity with the corkscrew was infectious, and I found myself smiling for real this time.
“I’ll give you a seven out of ten for that,” I said as I slid into the chair and handed her the glasses. “You jiggled the bottle.”
“Only a seven? Did you hear that, Sly? He’s a tough teacher.” She turned toward the garden wall where a pair of yellow cat eyes were watching us.
“Sly?”
“It’s short for Sylvester. You were right; Mr. Kitty doesn’t suit him,” she explained as she poured, clicking her tongue in irritation when she spilled a drop. “That doesn’t count. You distracted me by talking about the cat.”
“The cat distracted you, not me,” I argued, my cheek twitching with amusement. “Sly does suit him. You never see or hear him coming, he’s always just there like he dissolved out of thin air. Has he let you touch him yet?”
“We’re getting there. He rubbed against my legs the other day.” That fucking cat. He was one lucky son of a bitch.
I tried to concentrate on the wine, swirling it around until it clung to the side of the glass. “First impressions?”
She drew circles on the table with her glass like I’d taught her, admitting sheepishly, “I still haven’t perfected the hand swirl. It reminds me of learning to hula hoop. I was terrible at it.”
I chuckled as I brought the glass to my nose, watching her over the rim. When her eyes fluttered shut as she inhaled, my eyes darted to her soft, rosy mouth. “Oh, is that lavender that I smell?”
“Yes, you get the lavender in the red and the honey in the white.” Her forget-me-not eyes met mine and I couldn’t look away. My voice was husky as I said, “Not bad. Now taste.”
My eyes focused back on her lips as they touched the glass, and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Why was I doing this to myself? It was torture. I felt like a monk in a hair shirt.
“Mmm, that’s nice,” she murmured as she took a sip. “There’s lavender, and something fruity—maybe cherry or strawberry? It’s fresh and floral at first and then spicier at the finish. And it’s stony almost like the hills.”
“You’re getting good at this. Now, what would you pair it with?”
“I have an idea.” Her whole face brightened. She scurried to the kitchen and came back with a plate of magret de canard . “I made this yesterday but haven’t tried it yet.”
I took a thin slice and let it melt on my tongue, a hint of exotic spices tickling my palate. Amazed that I could distinguish the flavors, I wondered aloud, “Is that orange and curry?”
“Yes! And there’s a special ingredient. Any guesses?”
I shook my head. The spices weren’t too pronounced; there was just enough to give the duck some warmth and savoriness.
“Speculoos!” she said finally. I tasted it now—the subtle note of the thin gingerbread cookies they served in cafés.
“It’s surprisingly perfect.” I didn’t throw that word around lightly.
She beamed at me. “I’m glad you like it.”