Chapter 19 #2
“Yes, I have no children. Who will take over? My nephews will sell the land to speculators and then they’ll build expensive, ugly block apartments with balcon and vue sur mer .” He clicked his tongue in disgust. “But he doesn’t think I’m serious.”
“How would he have time to take over your vineyards when he already has his business?”
“He doesn’t care about that anymore, but he just hasn’t realized it.
” He took my hand in his. “There comes a time in one’s life when running around trying to impress no longer fills a need.
Then you want to find somewhere to let yourself take root.
And, of course, someone to share it with.
” His face took on that dreamy expression he had when he talked about his wife, an Englishwoman he’d met after the war.
They’d been married fifty years when she passed away.
Anne-Sophie’s tinkling laughter caught my attention.
She had a hand on Jake’s arm, practically draping herself over him and giggling at something he’d said.
I tried to tear my eyes away, but it was impossible.
That self-critical voice in my head was already busy trying to convince me that they were much better suited.
She was so much more successful and worldly than I was.
As if reading my mind, Monsieur Reynaud said, “He does not need someone like that. Too superficial. That is who he would have chosen before, but not now.”
“Why? What has changed?” I sounded desperate to my own ears.
He winked at me then pushed himself up with his cane, groaning and rubbing his back. “I’ll go get some wine.” He disappeared into the kitchen while Jake went off with Spencer, and Anne-Sophie joined me on the terrace.
“Do you mind if I sit with you?” she asked in perfect English with a slight British intonation. She held her hand out. It was like touching silk. “I don’t think we met. I’m Anne-So.”
“Olivia.” I tried to smile, but I must have made a face because her perfectly groomed eyebrows drew together.
No sooner had she sat down than she began grilling me about myself and my relationship to Jake.
When she found out that I was into food, her expression brightened.
“You know, I took a short course at Ducasse. I’ve seen enough behind the scenes at restaurants to know that I could never do that kind of work.
Too much pressure. But magazines and newspapers are always searching for recipe developers.
You should consider it, especially if you write well. ”
“She does.” Jake dropped into the chair next to me. My stomach fluttered. I hadn’t noticed he’d come back, which was strange because I had developed a weird Jake radar, a certain tingling in my skin, whenever he was near.
I sat up straighter in my chair having no intention of letting on to Anne-Sophie that there was anything going on between us. “What? How do you know that?”
“I read your articles. Don’t you remember when we were discussing food writing you agreed that Callie could send them to us?”
“You read them?” I don’t even think my family read them.
I rubbed my sweaty palms on my skirt. I felt vulnerable in a way I hadn’t even when I was half naked in front of him.
Some of those pieces I’d written had been about my family, my mother.
It was so intimate. “Don’t tell me what you thought. I don’t want to know.”
He took a sip of Perrier, eyebrows drawn together. “Why? They were great. It’s too bad you stopped.”
“It’s hard when you have two jobs to find time for writing.”
“Two jobs?” asked Anne Sophie.
“I was working in a law firm last year and at a coffee shop on the weekends so I could afford to come to Europe this summer,” I explained. “I didn’t have much time for writing.”
“You could get into food criticism,” suggested Anne-Sophie.
I made a face. “I could never pretend to be an arbiter of taste. It’s so personal. And I would feel terrible if I had to tear someone down. No, I’m more into exploration, if that makes sense.”
“Then definitely recipe development. Think about it, and if you want some contacts, let me know.” She slipped me her card. “Speaking of arbiters of taste, I have to meet with Jér?me James in Antibes tonight, so must get going.”
I stared at her blankly and she gave me an indulgent smile. “He’s one of the hottest young designers on the fashion scene right now. I’ll send you my interview with him. Jake, it was a pleasure.”
She pressed herself against him gave him a kiss on each cheek—a proper peck, no air kisses!—letting her hand linger on his arm, and my goodwill toward her disappeared.
When Jake sat back down, I glanced away, pretending to watch Spencer and Lucie show Monsieur Reynaud the photos on Spencer’s camera. “Did you really read those articles?”
He turned his intense gaze at me, making my insides warm, and raised an eyebrow. “Why does that surprise you? I thought I made it clear yesterday that I’m interested in you.”
His hand glided over my fingers, lightly tracing their contours. I held my breath. “They were amazing. Like everything else about you,” he whispered, his breath tickling my ear. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you. I had to stop myself from coming to your room in the middle of the night.”
“I wish you had.” I breathed raggedly as his hand stroked down my back, settling just above my ass.
“This day is never ending,” he groaned. “It’s torture not being able to touch you.”
Spencer reappeared, but Jake didn’t back away from me like he once might have. It was almost like that evening with Thomas, like he was staking a claim. “The light’s better now. Let’s try a couple more shots here and then head back up to your place for sunset photos.”
Jake stood reluctantly, bending to whisper to me. “As soon as he gets his last shot I’m kicking them out.”
I watched them walk away, then slumped back in my chair, relieved and tingling with anticipation.