Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
I ’ve decided that there’s no better time than the present to drown my thoughts into a pot of coq a vin, only stopping my incessant stirring when the kids start impatiently banging their silverware on the kitchen table. The red wine braising the chicken and vegetables will have cooked off by now, so I let them feast before getting them ready to wind down for the night.
After putting the kids to bed, I return to the symphony of thoughts racking my brain. I volley between the last unfilled portion of my Young Soarers application, the pesky little gossip article that Solange demands be ready in three days, and the fact that Damien hasn’t gotten back to me yet. I hope I didn’t offend him with the business poaching accusation. I refuse to believe that Damien’s some conniving evil mastermind who cares more about his bank account than the baker that’s fed him his entire life. I tell myself that his backstory will amend things and put my mind at ease.
I hunker down in the villa’s home office while Angela departs for her dinner out with Howie and Estelle. My face slumped in my palm, I bounce my gaze from the almost-complete application on my laptop to a notebook page spread out on the desk. The latter is empty except for the picture of the chateau paper clipped to the left-hand corner and the title I’d quickly scribbled, “Bienvenue à Eze, nouveaux propriétaires!”
Slapping a cutesy title at the top doesn’t erase the fact that the contents are more than a touch nosy.
I take in a deep breath and return to the Young Soarers application. I’ve been avoiding it for too long, and I need to send it no later than 7 a.m. tomorrow. Examining the final essay question, my stomach sinks.
It reads, “Why is the Young Soarers program your dream?”
I sigh, my entire posture collapsing. Fuck. I don’t know.
Past the office’s double glass doors, the other end of the darkened hallway illuminates as the foyer’s light comes on. Muffled voices accompany the unexpected arrival.
Nick’s and Jamie’s voices get louder, their conversation becoming more crisp as they walk through the house. The negotiations must have ended early. And by Nick’s tone of voice, they might not have gone as planned.
Jamie peeks his head down the hall, noticing me at the desk. He smiles and Nick hoarsely calls after him.
“Watch it, Jamie,” Nick warns.
“What’s the damage, Dad?”
“I’m sure neither of us wants to find out.”
Jamie’s exact response is inaudible but undoubtedly coarse. A few moments later, he taps at the glass doors and gives a smile. There are bags under his eyes from only a few days of Chessley Enterprise meetings, though his hair is as lusciously hickory golden as ever.
My toes curl while butterflies tickle my stomach.
Until the image of Angela’s cream-masked frown pops up in my mind.
Screw it. She’s out tonight anyway.
I wave him in, and he melts in the sofa chair beside me, loosening the collar of his button-up.
“Well you look great,” I joke.
“I know right, never felt better.” He leans forward, groaning and rubbing his forehead.
“Tired?”
“The opposite actually.”
“I know what you mean,” I say, slouching my shoulders back in the leather swivel chair.
The week has left me in a whirlwind. From emotional analysis to au pairing to gossip writing, I’m aching to expend some energy.
Jamie stares at a bookcase and clicks his tongue.
“I know a place. If you want to come, grab your bathing suit and meet me down here in ten minutes.”
Anticipation courses through me, and I gladly slap my laptop shut. I’ll plug in some cookie-cutter responses later. Besides, given Howie’s encouragement, I’m fairly certain my resume will outshine anything I scribble onto the essay portions.
* * *
Did I think twice about sneaking out past ten with Jamie? Yes. In fact, I thought about it thirty times over. And all the ways Angela would publicly defame me. But my hormones got the better of me. Still, I hadn’t mentally prepared for the onslaught of nerves that’d be electrifying my body while sitting in the passenger seat of Jamie’s convertible.
The silence between us isn’t awkward or draining, however. We’ve simply learned to enjoy each other’s presence. Still, I try to distract myself by the impressive mountains, jet-black against the deep navy night sky.
“Where is it we’re going exactly?”
“A place I used to go to get drunk with my summer friends.”
“Oh?” I look out the window but feel Jamie’s eyes searching me. He takes a moment to respond.
“Some mates I knew down here when I was in high school.”
We take a turn onto a grassy dirt drive, following two lines of pine trees toward a gorgeous two-story limestone manor. Warm floodlights caress the neatly trimmed hedges and cypress along the exterior.
“Are you sure we can be here?”
“Positive,” Jamie says. He raises a finger. “Pinky promise.”
An impenetrable contract.
He leads me around the rectangular building to a side door. He taps a sequence on the electronic keypad, and we head down a dim, humid stone hall that smells of chlorine. It leads straight to a giant indoor swimming pool. Moonlight shines through the glass ceiling, making the water’s surface appear smooth as glass. Potted ferns and plush lounge chairs surround the perimeter.
“Care to join me?” Jamie asks.
He removes his shirt. The moonlight dances over the curves of his muscles, accentuating his form.
I catch Jamie sneaking a few glances as I take off my clothes and sport my ruby-red one-piece.
“Hey. Eyes up here, buddy,” I teasingly scold him.
Jamie’s dimpled grin sends chills up my arm.
“As you wish.” He winks before raising his arms to the side and looking around. “So whattaya think of this place?”
“Not bad,” I say, placing my hands on my hips, examining the slanted glass roof.
As if I’m lured, my feet make my way to him.
We stand millimeters apart, his heels on the edge of the deep end. I’m so tempted to close the distance and press my lips to his. But again, Angela’s face flashes in my mind, so instead, I push my palm against his chest and send him flying into the water.
I gasp.
Oh my gosh, did I just do that? He flicks his head back, curving a line of water with his hair, and wipes his eyes. A wide grin plastered on his face. He points at me. “Oh, you’re gonna get it now.”
My tongue peeks out between a bashful smile as he wades toward me, but I dive in right past him. The water is as chilly as the ocean, and it liberates my entire being. When I emerge to the surface, Jamie’s there waiting for me with the most genuine smile I’ve ever seen on him.
We paddle back and forth on our backs, examining the starlit sky. In addition to the ceiling, the walls are glass as well, giving way to a view that I can only imagine is just as breathtaking during the day.
I kick my way to the edge of the pool, resting my elbows on the tile edge. The view of Monaco lit up and glittering in the distance catches my eye.
Jamie joins me, resting his chin on crossed arms.
“Nice, isn’t it?” he asks.
“It’ll do.” I bite my lip. “So I’m guessing this is the grand Lavergne Vineyard?”
“X marks the spot.”
“Just when I thought you were the bad boy sneaking me onto private property.”
“C’mon, you’re saying you don’t get the same thrill from legally entering?”
“Hits different.” I shrug, catching his grin.
Apparently, the neighboring lavender farm hosts their spa and bath shop on the bottom floor of the manor while the second story houses the winery’s tasting room. The entire property is completely booked when it’s not being used for a wedding or private event. It’ll be perfect for the big bash that Angela’s volunteered me to help arrange.
“I don’t know how you do it,” Jamie says, searching my face.
My top bun slumps a bit. “What do you mean?”
“It’s like you have this well of ambition that never goes dry.”
The compliment tenses my shoulders, and I swallow hard as he goes on.
“I mean you come in and take, let’s be honest, not the most relaxing au pair gig. Then you build a mini media enterprise. And now working with Mum’s party planner.”
A bashful smile grows on my lips.
“You’re fearless,” he adds.
I chuckle, but my tone turns stern as I press my chin deeper into my forearm. “Exactly. I’m really good at making you think I am.”
“So what are Kat McLauren’s deepest, darkest fears, then? Aliens? Angela Lavergne?”
I start to smile, then sigh. “That it doesn’t work out,” I mumble.
Jamie twists his torso to face me straight on. “The Soarers program?”
“That too.”
He inhales slowly and trots his finger along the pool’s edge. “McLauren Films?”
I don’t say anything, just take a deep inhale, the chlorine thick in the air.
“And why wouldn’t it work out?” Jamie asks.
“Well, I’m not Steven Spielberg. Or Octavia Butler. Or Jane Austen.”
“No, you’re not.” He turns toward me.
“Oh, thanks.”
“You’re not supposed to be. You’re Kat McLauren. That’s all you ever have to be.”
The ripples of the lapsing water are reflected in his emerald eyes. Those same eyes that pierce me to the core.
“You owe it to yourself to start somewhere,” he finishes.
My nostrils flare and I grip the cement edge before he can offer any more advice that he won’t walk the walk himself.
“And what? Take a leap of fucking faith? And what am I supposed to do with that?” I push myself out of the pool and wrap myself in a towel before charging out the nearest door. In my rush, I knock my folded shirt into a damp puddle on the tile. But I leave it and march onto the backyard patio to cool my rage.
I close my eyelids, not even close to tired, but confused, frustrated, and torn. Sighing through my nose, I turn to see Jamie joining me on the porch swing. He’s brought a bottle of champagne. No glasses. It’s that kind of night.
He hands me the chilled green bottle of my good old friends Mo?t and Chandon. It weighs heavy in my palm.
“Count of three,” Jamie says, his thumbs pressed with mine on the bottle’s cork.
“One, two...”
Pop!
“Woo,” Jamie exclaims softly as cool bubbly foam runs down the bottle and around our hands. He hands me his button-up, and we drink in silence, admiring the moonlit view of Monte Carlo. My focus lands on the labyrinth of hedges outlined in front of us.
“I’m sorry,” I begin to say, but Jamie waves his hand.
“You don’t have to apologize. I’m the one who should be... I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s not your fault. You were just my punching bag.” I take a sip and press the bottle against my chest, the thoughts that’ve been swirling in my head over the summer are ready to erupt. “I think I might’ve just wasted half my life trying to get something I don’t even know if I want anymore.” The hopelessness seeps into my words.
“Couldn’t have been a complete waste.”
An appreciative smile tries to tug at the corner of my mouth, but it fizzles out. We sit, admiring the view.
I’d never imagined, not from my first encounter with Jamie Chessley, that we’d be here now. Him on the verge of earning a Michelin star, and me running the Riviera’s most profitable travel magazine—with Manon’s help, of course—even after the crapshoot reception that accompanied the first publication.
I take a swig of the sweet, bubbly drink. I’ve been hogging it, Jamie’s barely had any. The bottle is half empty, and the buzz is coming in hot. Jamie’s words have hypnotized me, and he’s not done yet.
“So what if you give up the Soarers? Would you regret it if you didn’t?” The moonlight gleams in his eyes. “You’re not leaving something to chance by being yourself.”
My voice is depleted and raw. “That’s the thing though. If I just be myself, I’ll be a stranger to everyone I’ve ever known. I’m Kat McLauren, full steam ahead to being a corporate big shot in the travel industry. I’ve been spouting that line since I was in the sixth grade. No one knows Kat McLauren, filmmaker.”
Jamie’s eyes soften, and he mutters, “Like how no one knows the real Jamie Chessley. Pastry chef and...” He casts his gaze to the sky.
“We’re more alike than I’d realized,” I say.
He scrunches his brow, and I go on.
“We both have dreams and visions, but both care too much about what other people think about them. As much as we’d like to deny it, it paralyzes us.”
I stare into his gentle green eyes, and his closed lips curl into a smile.
“I think you might be right,” Jamie says. “You hungry?”
* * *
Thank you, creators of this world, for planting the idea of twenty-four-hour McDonald’s drive-thrus in the minds of humanity. And not just any Mickey D’s. The bougie European kind. Which, when enjoyed while slightly intoxicated, is an out-of-this-world experience.
Since Jamie didn’t really drink any of the champagne, he drives us to the nearest joint. Our hair, drying like hay, reeks of chlorine, but all my attention goes to the electric signage listing familiar menu items like Le Big Mac and Le Filet-O-Fish.
Out of pure stupor, I hit his forearm in shock and point to the menu board.
I’ll admit, maybe I don’t go to McDonald’s enough back in the States to know the menu backward and forward, but I’m like eighty-seven percent positive we don’t have a KitKat McFlurry!
“Hey!” Jamie laughs. The car in front of us releases their brakes, and we cruise closer to the lit-up sign.
As he rolls down the window, a chirpy voice greets us from the speaker box.
“Bienvenue, je vous écoute,” they say so fast, I’m shocked I even caught it.
“Ready?” Jamie asks.
“Oh, merde.”
He snorts but contains himself as he relays his order. When it’s my turn, Jamie waits for me to tell him my choices, but I have other plans. I unbuckle my seat and nearly clamber over the driver side, leaning my palms on his door. My chest is probably two inches from his nose as I poke my head out the window.
“Bonjour!” I shout at a little black speaker.
Jamie’s snickers get louder, only making mine more delirious. The cars behind us probably think we’re two lunatics.
“Bonjour, s’il vous pla?t. Je suis, em, no. I want... Je veux... le Charolais.” I point at the sandwich on the screen. “Et les Deluxe Potatoes. Ooh! Et La Sauce Curry. Et Le McPancakes, s’il vous pla?t.”
That last one was an impulse decision, but am I gonna say no to two pancakes sandwiching a layer of chocolate cream? I think not.
Jamie talks in between explosive laughter. “Don’t forget your Mc...”
“OH! Et Le KitKat McFlurry! S’il vous pla?t!”
The worker reads our order back, and I nod, but I’m not even listening. Anything sounds good right about now.
By the tone of their voice when they tell us to pull forward, I can only guess the massive eye roll they’re making.
Jamie tries suppressing his chuckle. “Never seen anyone so flabbergasted by a burger with cabbage and spicy ranch.”
“I’m glad I was your first.” I bat my eyes toward him, sending him into an uproar all over again.
“Good one, McLauren.”
We’re handed our food through the window. Here comes eye roll numbuh two! Pulling into the parking lot, we gorge on our feast for a few uninterrupted moments.
“What in Dieu’s name is that?” I point to his circular ham and cheese toast sandwich.
“A Croque-monsieur,” he says, taking a bite of half of it.
“Hmm.” I scoop up some ice cream with one of my potatoes deluxe .
Jamie lifts his brow. “What in Dieu’s name are you doing?”
“You’ve never...?”
I hand him a crispy potato wedge that’s more like a home fry from an American diner—McDonald’s, please bring this to the US—and Jamie hesitantly dips it into my McFlurry.
Wow, I might have to use that as an innuendo if I ever write a steamy romance screenplay.
His face contorts from apprehension to surprised delight after the first bite.
“Good?”
“Merde. Yeah.”
We plow through the rest until we’re fully satisfied. It’s amazing how much my hunger disappears when I’ve got eleven hundred things on my plate.
Now that the champagne has almost burned itself entirely off, I still don’t feel tired.
“Who would have thought you and I would be here now,” I say, taking a sip of water.
“I know. I thought I’d never see you again after that picnic on your first day.”
“Oh?” I turn my torso to face him.
“With Manon’s hijinks alone, I figured you’d be packing the next morning. But that was before I knew the Kat McLauren.”
“And what do you know about the Kat McLauren?” I press.
His gaze goes soft, and silence invades the front seats, only interrupted by the bumbling song on the radio.
“That you’re a no bullshit badass.”
Heat crawls along my neck and cascades in my blushing cheeks.
“Can I ask... you’re clearly not some Don Juan girl-charmer, so why were you so willing to tell me about the Vigne when we first met?”
He lifts his head but doesn’t make eye contact until the words leave his mouth. “There was something about you that made me feel like I could trust you, like I already knew you.”
My breath gets shaky. We hold each other’s gaze until Jamie has a moment of reckoning.
He turns the ignition and says, “I want to show you something.”
Despite my persistence in questioning our next stop on this midnight road trip, Jamie keeps quiet. The road signs say we’re heading straight for èze, so I figure it’s back to the villa we go until he blows right past the exit.
Instead, Jamie jolts us onto an unpaved downhill driveway. Brambles cocoon us, blocking the site. Then it comes into frame. Manon’s hiding place and the highlight of Solange’s gossip piece: the chateau. Its recently scrubbed, creamy stone finish basks in the moonlight, and a newly appointed fountainhead gurgles in the garden.
“We shouldn’t be here,” I say, twisting my neck over my shoulders. Though there aren’t signs of other people, the last thing I need now is to get caught breaking and entering. Especially at the place whose owners I’m supposed to be writing a “welcoming” exposé on. That wouldn’t end well for Solange either.
“It’s all right. I know the owner.”
“You do?”
“Oui.” He winks and gets out of the car. We make our way to the entrance. Once dilapidated, the stone steps have been polished and the cracks filled in. The buyer even took care to add a few plant pots spilling out ferns and vibrant irises that seem to glow in the night’s darkened light. Jamie types in the key code to the added electrical feature at the wide wooden doors. Inside, the crumbling brick walls have been patched and painted, and a gorgeously polished hickory staircase welcomes us to explore further.
“Wow.” I crane my neck to admire the wood beams across the ceiling, effusing its rustic modernity. “This is incredible.”
Jamie drinks in my admiration. “I’m glad you like it.” He looks away, but I settle my focus on him. And it hits me.
“This is yours, isn’t it?”
His silence confirms it.
Craptastic. And I’m gonna be the one to out him to the public and, more importantly, his parents? Of course not.
I consider bolting before I learn any more details, but my own curiosity overtakes me as he leads me from room to room. Some require a bit more paint, wall decor, and furniture. But on the whole, the three-story little castle is shaping up to be what I can imagine will be èze’s newest best kept secret.
Jamie confides the renovations he’s undertaken with the goal to open an inn. He admits that he’s rather enjoyed the restoration more than he anticipated.
“Is this your version of the Vigne?”
“Not exactly. People go there for the food and the views. I want people to come here to detach. To eat farm-to-table French cuisine. To explore the countryside. Sit in nature, be with it, be with each other.”
“A retreat.”
“Oui.”
He explains why he’s worked at the Vigne and London restaurants for ages: to sharpen his skills as a chef and to learn what guests crave, not just on the food side.
“So this is why you were so adamant about being my cameraman. To keep us far and away?”
“Well, I couldn’t have the right lot of them three running ’round here when the contractors were nailing in the floorboards and chatting me up for blueprint approvals.”
“Fair enough.” I grin and trace my fingers along the polished banister. “You’re lucky I’ve been pushing off that gossip article for Solange. Not that I’d rat you out. Seriously, I wouldn’t. I won’t.”
“I know.” He looks over his shoulder and casts a warm smile.
As we continue up the stairs, I ask, “When do you plan to tell your parents?”
“When it’s done.”
I scrunch my brow, and he continues.
“A win in their book is clear-cut uphill profit. There’s no space for the in-between.”
“Then did your mother consider her fashion line a failure up until she made her first million?”
“Not a failure, just a milestone not worth harping on when her end goal would blow that out of the water.”
“So you’ll just keep them in the dark?—”
“Until I triple my investment,” Jamie finishes.
He leads me to a little library on the second floor. Overtop a tapestry rug, blue velvet sofa chairs surround a grand fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling windows give the illusion that we’re standing in one big gazebo.
“This is my favorite spot,” he says. But I’ve stopped listening. My mind is abuzz with what-ifs until Jamie brings me back to the present. “What is it?”
“So what if you triple your investments and they still don’t get it? What’ll you do then?”
“You mean, what if they’re physically incapable of acknowledging their son as a success outside of the inherited world of Chessley Enterprises?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
He lights a match in the fireplace, and the logs crackle to life.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to go there. I just know what it’s like to chase approval.”
“No, you’re right though. There’s a good sixty-percent chance they’ll call this a well-done hobby project and move on to asking when I’m gonna get my life started.”
“I don’t believe it when people say that dissenting opinions don’t bother them.”
Jamie looks at me, intrigued and surprised.
“Really,” I press. “It’s like how every commencement speech always ends with the line ‘follow your passion,’ but we know full well that the second we actually do, we’re branded as nonsensical risk-takers because we opt out of the”—I use air quotes—“ safe option.”
“You’ve given this some thought, huh?”
“You think?” I say with a soft exhale through my nose.
“So how do we do it? How do we say eff it and c’est la vie?” he asks.
“I’ll let you know when I’ve figured it out,” I add.
“If Estelle were here—” Jamie starts, and I can’t help but jump in.
“She’d tell us to screw the patriarchy.”
“And get our heads out of our arses. If it’s worth giving up, we probably would have already done so by now.”
Our boiling cynicism slowly dries as we watch the flames dance. Jamie drops some dried twigs on the glowing logs. I glance toward my backpack and pull out a package tied in brown paper and string.
“Here,” I say to Jamie, handing him the gift.
“What’s this?”
“Something for a no bullshit badass in training.” We exchange smiles before he tears the wrapper. The intrigue in his face drains and trades places with unwavering stillness.
“Where did you find this?” His voice is raw. He palms the Epictetus volume’s worn leather binding.
“Saint-Tropez.”
Jamie bites his lip, flicking through the pages, before sending his gaze in my direction. He stands abruptly and grabs one of the few books along the mantle.
“And this... is for you. Saw it at Solange’s shop when we hid in there from Mum.”
He hands me a book titled “The Cinema of Agnès Varda: Resistance and Eclecticism.”
“She pioneered the New Wave of filmmaking. Got started with this experimental approach and created documentaries for social commentary. Basically invented her own style,” Jamie says. “I may have read a few pages. But you get the point. She didn’t have an end goal, just a north star.”
Shock layers over my fascination.
“But that was months ago. You didn’t know about my?—”
“I went back for it. And to every thrift store in Nice until Solange conveniently remembered the one she donated it to.”
My eyes meet his.
“Jamie. You didn’t have to?—”
“And you didn't have to do this.” He holds up the book I gifted him. “Look at us, a pair of bookworms who don’t know how else to express our feelings.”
My body stills. Did he say what I think he just did?
I can’t look away from his green irises shimmering in the firelight. Heat radiates off my chest. My fingers dig into the rug as I feel our bodies moving closer.
I can’t tell who leans in first.
He takes my face in his palms, and I wrap my arms around his neck.
Nothing else captivates me more at this moment than his warm lips firmly pressed against mine. The room is warm from the fire, but it’s cooler than the embers swimming through me. He moves his hands down around my waist and pulls me in. My chest melts against his. He’s grown out his beard stubble. It’s coarse and gruff against my bare skin. His tongue teases at the seam of my mouth, and I open up to let him in. The warmth of his palm melts my shoulders as his hand travels underneath my shirt, tracing his fingers along my lower back. My stomach flutters with delight.
A loud whack outside the window stops our movements, stirring my eyes open. For all I know it could’ve been a snapping branch, but it’s enough to snap me out of my daze and back to the harsh reality of our situation.
No one’s in the house but us. Still, I frantically untangle myself from his grasp.
“Jamie...I-I have to go. We can’t...”
Another snap draws Jamie’s attention to the windows where we’re surely on full display to any onlooker who might be traipsing around the olive groves at Angela’s request.
“Kat, wait,” he says and holds up a hand.
It’s too late. I’ve already swung my bag over my shoulder and started on my beeline back to the villa. I can’t risk getting back in his car and having anyone see us together like that.
“Kat!”
It takes everything in me not to turn around, but I fight every urge as I race down the staircase and out the front door. The night has chilled considerably since we left, but my body still burns. Running through the muddy groves back to the villa, there’s abundant glee coursing through my veins, and it helps to quiet the agony of now knowing the chateau’s owner and that I’ll have to keep the secret tightly sealed from Solange.
I helplessly giggle, brushing past fluffy branches, recounting that most luxurious kiss.
Slowing my sprint, I catch my breath in the crisp air.
Damien. What am I going to tell Damien? Am I going to tell him? I don’t owe him anything, sure. But withholding the truth is still a lie. What am I going to do? I can’t throw away the safe space we’ve built together just because I have the hots for Jamie, even though the feelings aren’t solely physical anymore.
“Et merde,” I say to myself and toss the debacle to the back of my brain. I’ll deal with it later. When the moonlight hides behind encroaching clouds, I use my phone’s flashlight to lead the way back to the villa where not a single light is on. Removing my shoes before getting to the terrace so as to avoid any soily tracks, I tiptoe through the door nearest the kitchen.
Back in the solace of my own room, I take a look at myself in the mirror. My capris are covered in dirt from the shins down. Though my hair has dried since the night swim, I realize I’m still wearing Jamie’s button-up. I press the collar to my nose and inhale. Either I’m still a little tipsy or I’m catching all the feels. (Cue the Twice song.) But I don’t care.
I lavish in the night’s events, scrubbing my feet in the bidet I thought I’d never touch before collapsing on the mattress and avoiding all consequential details till tomorrow.