4. Iris
4
IRIS
T he brush snagged as I dragged it through my hair. The local tap water usually left my boob-length waves in ruffles, but today, after the pool, it hung in thick tangles.
I sighed, running my mind over the afternoon. The pool, the encounter with the definitely not security guard, the marauding dog, and the reprimand from my direct superior that must surely follow. It was only a matter of time before Agnes threw me off the property.
I zipped my hairbrush back inside my wash bag and gathered it into my arms, along with my towel. Thank goodness there were no other workers back from the vineyard yet. At twenty-eight years old, I begrudged the communal shower facilities. I’d left high school years ago, and the trauma of post-gym class showers still haunted me.
Heat kissed my skin as I stepped into the late afternoon sun. The white shirt hung in the fig tree. I reached up to touch the fabric. I rinsed it out earlier and although now a little crisper than before, I should return it to Agnes. She’d probably take the time to launder it lovingly for her boss. I held out no such hope for my sundress. No doubt, it still floated in the pool, gathering leaves.
I pulled the shirt down from the tree, being careful not to snag the cotton. This one item of clothing probably cost more than the entire contents of my backpack. The corners of my lips turned up. Luc Du Comtois had looked pretty damn good in it, too. Leaning against the tree, arms crossed, he’d exuded power and control. It’d suited him even better after his unscheduled swim. All Colin Firth’s “Mr. Darcy” on steroids.
But my boss was no prideful English gentleman. He was all that Chloe had described: broody, abs-laden and far too good-looking for his own good. But no matter how high his cheekbones were, it didn’t excuse not having better control of his dog. I’d feared for my fingers!
With a chuckle, I headed back to Chloe’s and my dorm, casting my eyes over the endless rows of vines disappearing into the distance. The Marsan estate's beauty always took my breath away. Its little outbuildings, gardens, and trees, and the palatial chateau on the hill, were stunning.
The murmurs of the returning pickers reached my ears with the first giggles and scraping of boots on gravel. Butterflies sprang into action in my tummy. I couldn’t wait to give Chloe a full run-down of my afternoon. At least we could have a laugh about my swimming adventures before Agnes marched me off the premises.
As I rounded the corner of the old stone building, something at the foot of our door caught my attention. A slim, paper-wrapped package lay on the mat. I crouched down to pick it up, throwing my boss’s shirt over my shoulder and popping my wash bag on the floor. I unwrapped the paper with trembling fingers, sucking in a little breath when the covering fell away. My sundress lay neatly folded and pressed inside, the smell of fresh laundry lingering in the air. On top lay a folded piece of paper .
With a thumping heart, I opened it. Was this my notice to leave?
I ran my eyes over the words. Twice. The note wasn’t anything official from Agnes. Instead, the paper bore a neat, handwritten note.
Please accept my apologies for Apollo’s behaviour. He can be rude. Don’t think the worst of him.
Luc Du Comtois.
My fingertips prickled as if the paper were on fire. Was this seriously a thoughtful note from one of the richest men in Europe? An apology from one of the most notoriously aloof men who ever graced the cover of Harper’s Bazaar ? I looked around to see if nobody hid behind a bush in stitches over their prank. But, no, I was alone.
A shiver passed over me like I’d stepped out of the warm sun into the shade. I re-read the note again, this time with a bemused smile. Luc Du Comtois had used the word “rude.” I chuckled. Did he mean his dog or himself?