Chapter 13 #2
An hour later, a familiar figure approached in her periphery. Laurent Duret strolled across the sand carrying a box the size of a small country, his shirt already undone halfway like the sun existed to glint off his chest.
“Delivery,” he announced, voice carrying.
Huh. Curveball. Rafael’s orchestration, obviously, but the motive was unclear.
Umma perked up. “Is he another one of your friends?”
“Something like that.”
Laurent stopped by their towels and offered a little bow. “Bonjour. Laurent Duret. Friend of Rafael’s, occasional bad influence.”
“At least you’re honest.” Umma arched a brow. “Hello, I’m Bea’s—”
“Sister?” he guessed.
“Mother. But nice try.”
He winked, dropped the box in the middle of them, and sprawled out like he was family.
“Griffin!” he called through cupped hands. “Lunch is served.”
Bea peeked inside. Pastries, sandwiches, eclairs. Not just any; the kind that wouldn’t have been out of place served in Versailles.
Realization hit. Rafael had used Laurent—an heir of Duret Bank—as an errand boy to fetch lunch for her family. A laugh bubbled in her chest before she could stop it.
Laurent caught her eye. Lifted one tawny brow, and smirked like he saw the irony, too.
Claire bounded back, feet wet and sandy from the tide, trailing after Rafael who had left his rod dug into the sand.
Laurent turned to greet them. She stopped. So did he. They gave each other a once-over.
“And who are you?” she asked.
“Laurent,” he replied, voice just a touch lower than his usual. “You must be Claire.”
“Guilty.”
Claire sat across from Bea. Rafael sat next to her.
“Papa isn’t going to abandon a fishing rod for food,” Umma said. “You kids enjoy, I’ll join him. Thank you, Laurent, lunch looks delicious.” Umma plucked two long, neatly wrapped baguette sandwiches and padded to the shoreline.
That left the four of them and the tension, alone on the towels.
Claire bit into a croissant, paused, then closed her eyes in bliss. “I’d marry this.”
Bea grabbed one, and after one bite she made the same reverent sound. “Double wedding.”
Laurent flopped back on his elbows with his boule de pain. “I feel…a little unmanned?”
“Only if you’re competing with the pastries,” Rafael said, unwrapping a sandwich.
Claire rummaged through her tote bag. “Let’s add vibes.” She plopped a Bluetooth speaker on the towel. A moment later, Korean pop spilled into the air.
A groan escaped Laurent. “No.”
“Yes.” Claire queued up the playlist.
“Absolutely not. No man should have to eat perfect patisserie to this.”
“It’s called fusion,” she shot back.
He squinted at her. “I’ll challenge you for it. Change the music if I win…something.”
She brightened. “Deal.” And then, like a magician, she pulled out a battered deck of UNO cards.
“You brought UNO?” Rafael asked.
Bea pinched the bridge of her nose. “Don’t ask how many other mysteries are in that bag.”
“UNO is universal,” Claire said, fanning the cards with a flourish, and started to deal four hands. “Win a hand, you can touch the speaker. Until then, enjoy pastel-haired perfection.”
Laurent’s “Children’s games” was faintly disparaging, but he still picked up his cards. Rafael did, too.
Fifteen minutes in, Laurent was howling.
“Plus four? Again? How many do you two have?” he demanded.
Claire slammed down another. “Stacked, baby.”
“C’est la guerre,” he muttered darkly, dragging eight more cards into his disastrous hand.
Claire and Bea had formed an unholy alliance—reverse-skipping, color-swapping, trading silent glances like assassins. Not a single round had gone to the men. The playlist continued its rhythmic melodies, mocking them in Hangul.
The score grew comical: Claire twelve, Bea nine. Laurent zero. Rafael zero.
Bea tried, truly tried, to keep her grin in check. Rafael shifted beside her, thigh brushing hers as he leaned in, holding nearly half the deck. “You’re hustling us.”
Her shoulders jerked once with a suppressed laugh. “You guys just don’t play well.”
Another giggle slipped out. She slapped a hand over her mouth as Claire crowed with delight, smacking down her last card.
The men looked ruined.
“Victory,” Claire announced. “Women: infinite. Men: still zero.”
Laurent lowered his sunglasses in slow motion. “You were conspiring.”
“It’s called strategy,” she replied, smile all teeth.
Rafael tossed his cards into the pile with silent disgust. “We need a game with fewer colors.”
Laurent’s blue eyes lit with mischief. “Basketball.”
Bea shook her head immediately.
But Laurent didn’t look at her. He was focused on Claire. “Unless you’re scared.”
Who sat up so fast her ponytail swung. “Scared? Of you? Please.”
“Teams,” Rafael said, casual as sin, flicking a look at Bea. “Two on two.”
Claire opened her mouth—no doubt to seal their doom—when a shout cut across the beach.
“Got one!” Papa’s voice, triumphant, from the shoreline. His feet dug into the wet sand, rod bent like it might snap. Umma was laughing, holding her hat from where it was fluttering in the breeze.
Rafael was on his feet instantly, sand spraying as he jogged toward the water. Laurent followed with a whoop, stripping off his shirt like the fish was going to demand a duel.
Bea hugged her knees to her chest, grinning defenselessly. The sun, the surf, the company, it felt right. Good.
Just…joyful.