Chapter 7
“You don’t seem surprised to see me.” I sound shocked. I am shocked.
“I’m not,” étienne replies, casually returning his attention to slicing a lemon at the bar.
Why isn’t he shocked? And why isn’t he happier to see me? I couldn’t be more pleased.
“But…What happened to you? Where have you been?”
“Here.”
“But the house…”
“What about the house?”
“I went back there. It was empty.”
He pauses. “You went there?” And then he shakes his head and puts his knife down. “I meant that I’ve been here in Sainte-églantine. I’ve seen you around.”
“You’ve seen me? And you didn’t say hello?” Suddenly I feel breathless with hurt.
We’d connected that summer and then he just…ghosted me. Why?
“You were always with other people.” He looks past me pointedly.
I glance over my shoulder and see Jackson by the road, scuffing his foot on the pavement as he talks away on his phone.
Okay, now I think I understand.
étienne was an escape from what was happening between Jackson and Chloe so I never mentioned them.
But one day at the end of the summer I fled to the river house after coming upon them…
together. It was clear that they’d taken their relationship to the next level and I was distraught.
étienne was sweet as he tried to get to the bottom of why I was so upset.
When it finally became clear that I was crying about another boy, his features clouded over.
It had hurt him to know that I had feelings for someone else, that much was obvious.
But I’m not sure I realized until now quite how much.
“Still besotted, I see,” he comments dryly, nodding at Jackson.
I turn back to him with a frown. “How do you even know that’s him?”
“I have eyes and ears.”
“Come on, it was years ago. I’m over it.”
étienne raises his eyebrows, his expression telling me that he doesn’t buy a word of my denial.
“Didn’t he get married?” he asks as I pull up a stool.
I’m more interested in hearing about him, but I guess we’re still talking about Jackson.
“Yes, but they’re getting a divorce.”
“And you still want him, even after all that.”
His tone isn’t judgmental; nor is his expression. If anything, he looks weary.
“What makes you think that I still want him?” I ask uncomfortably.
“It’s written all over your face.” He lifts his chin in the direction of the window, making it clear that he’s had a perfect view of our table.
My cheeks flame. How can he see something I’m not sure of myself? Does Jackson see it too? I feel flustered as étienne picks up the chopping board he’s been using and slides the lemon slices into a bowl.
“We’re still just friends,” I say quietly. “I’ve actually come here to work for him.”
His eyes dart up to mine. “What work?”
“I’m running a branding project for Eau de Sainte églantine.”
A shadow crosses his face. “Did you want something?”
His question throws me and then I remember why I came inside in the first place.
“Oh yes! Ice, please.”
He turns away, grabs a glass and shovels some ice into it, then places it on the counter, glancing over my shoulder in the direction of the door.
“You want him to see you differently?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. “Play along.”
And then he leans in, resting his forearms on the bar top as he stares deep into my eyes.
My head prickles. What is he doing?
“Don’t look away,” he murmurs.
I fight against every instinct to do just that, but then I let myself focus on him, the details of him.
I’d forgotten how striking the color of his eyes is.
Wolf-gray is how I once described them. I’m mesmerized as his pupils expand.
“4runner” is building to a crescendo in the background, which amplifies the tension.
Play along. That’s what he said. But my speeding heart doesn’t seem to realize that this is a game.
“It is good to see you again, Grace,” he says in a low voice.
Does he mean it? I’m so glad to see him too. I still can’t believe that he’s been here all these years.
He reaches out and slowly brushes his thumb across the edge of my mouth, causing my breath to hitch. “Lipstick,” he whispers, using the same hand to twirl a lock of hair around his finger. “I like your hair like this.”
My butterflies, like my pulse, have not got the memo that this is just pretend.
“Gracie?”
Jackson’s surprised voice jolts me to attention. He’s come inside and is standing right there, staring at me as though he’s never seen me before.
“Oh, hi. You’re finished.” I slide off the stool onto legs that feel less steady than earlier and pick up my glass, throwing a dazed “Merci” over my shoulder at étienne.
“De rien,” he replies, straightening up as the song comes to an end.
It’s nothing.
It didn’t feel like nothing.
“What was that?” Jackson asks when we’re back at our table.
“What?” I ask nervily as I pluck three ice cubes out of the glass and drop them into my wine.
“You. Him.” He looks taken aback.
And it hits me: it worked. Attention from another man has thrown Jackson off-kilter.
The realization makes my insides spark with pleasure. I’m so sick of being the weak and vulnerable one, the person always having damage done to her instead of the other way around. I’d love to be in control for a change.
“Just getting some ice,” I reply with a forcibly blasé shrug as I pick up the menu. “We should probably order.”
I manage to keep a straight face for the several seconds it takes Jackson to follow my lead. And then I hide behind my own menu and smile.