Chapter Twenty-Seven When You Least Expect It
Chapter Twenty-Seven
When You Least Expect It
Frankie
I smooth down the flowy white sundress I changed into, the light fabric swishing around my legs as I step onto the deck, where Hayes is waiting.
He looks effortlessly put together in a crisp navy button-down with the sleeves rolled up, paired with khaki shorts that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
Sunglasses hang from the collar of his shirt, and his hair is still slightly tousled from the breeze, making him look unfairly good.
Charles stands nearby, watching us with the same mild amusement he always carries, but today, there’s something softer in his expression.
“You two look decent enough,” he says, taking a slow sip of his coffee. “Try not to embarrass the yacht.”
Hayes shrugs, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No promises.”
I roll my eyes but smile, stepping closer to Charles. “You sure you’ll be okay without me for a few hours?”
He scoffs. “I think I’ll survive. Go. Enjoy yourselves. And don’t let this one”—he gestures at Hayes—“get you into too much trouble.”
Hayes places a hand over his heart. “I would never.”
Charles snorts, shaking his head as he waves us off. “Go on, before I change my mind.”
As we step onto the dock, Hayes glances over at me, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Ready?”
I take a breath, strangely nervous, and nod. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
A sleek silver car waits for us at the curb, parked like it belongs in a Bond movie.
Hayes opens my door before sliding into the driver’s seat. As with most things in his life, I’m sure, things just appear where and when he needs them to.
We pull away from the port, tires humming against cobblestone before the road smooths into narrow, winding lanes that cut through hillsides dotted with olive trees.
I bask in the warmth of the sun as it spills through the window and dances across my bare arms.
“You’re awfully quiet over there,” he muses, shooting me a quick glance. “Regretting your decision to get in a car with me?”
I smirk. “I’m good. Just wondering if you have a plan or if we’re winging it today.”
“Of course I have a plan,” he says, slipping on his sunglasses. “We’re going on a picnic.”
“A picnic?”
For a man with all the money, all the connections, and everything at his disposal . . . he’s going to throw a blanket down in the grass and call it good? I’m not sure whether to laugh or be disappointed.
He scoffs, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know, I take my picnicking very seriously. Blanket? Check. Food? Check. Extremely charming company?” He gestures to himself. “Check.”
I shake my head, laughing. “Wow. The humility is astounding.”
“I try.” He grins, tapping a few fingers on the steering wheel. “And what about you? What’s your picnic contribution?”
I pretend to think. “Well, I brought my sparkling personality, which, let’s be honest, is carrying this entire outing.”
Hayes laughs, deep and warm, and it settles something in my chest. “You’re going to love the lavender fields. You’ll see.”
While I gaze out the window, taking in the breathtaking scenery, Hayes hums along to the soft music playing from the car’s speakers, one hand on the wheel, the other draped casually over the back of my seat.
A little while later, Hayes makes good on his promise. Provence is a dream—rolling hills, charming villages, and the golden glow of the late afternoon sun spilling over endless fields of lavender that sway in the breeze.
He parks along a gravel country road, and we climb out. I gaze out at the field stretching before us—vibrant purple against green hills. It looks like something out of a watercolor painting. The fragrant scent of lavender surrounds us, warm and intoxicating in the June breeze.
“Wow,” I whisper, turning to take it all in. “This is unreal.”
I hadn’t realized how much I needed this. To be off the yacht—to feel the ground beneath my feet.
He grabs a picnic basket from the back seat and grins. “Not bad, huh?”
We find a perfect spot among the lavender and lay out a blanket under the open sky.
Bees hum lazily nearby, uninterested in us, and the sun casts everything in a soft, honey-colored glow.
Hayes unpacks our picnic—fresh baguettes, creamy cheeses, ripe summer fruit, and a chilled bottle of Provencal rosé.
“Very civilized,” I murmur as he pours the blush-pink wine into two glasses.
He hands one to me, his fingers brushing mine for just a second too long. “Only the best,” he says, eyes catching mine as he takes a sip.
“Santé.”
I accept the wine and clink my glass to his. “Santé.”
The wine is delicious. Crisp and buttery with soft floral notes. I help myself to all the goodies, not even minding that these snacks are more gourmet and less grocery store grab-and-go.
“I can’t get over how beautiful this is,” I say, gesturing to the purple flowers.
“Agree. But the color’s more of a wisteria than a lavender.”
I eye him. “Where’d you get that?”
“Crayola.” He shrugs.
I laugh until I realize he’s being serious. He tells me a story about coloring with his sister, Maddie, and how one of his favorite parts is listening to her theories on color names being a conspiracy.
It’s surprisingly easy, being here with Hayes—natural, even. The conversation flows, and we snack and laugh together.
The soft rustle of the breeze through the flowers. The absolutely gorgeous man lounging beside me.
I’m not sure how it’s happened, but this feels almost . . . normal.
As we continue to chat, a lull falls over us, and for a moment, we just sit there, drinking in the stillness of the lavender fields. But then, Hayes breaks the silence.
“Do you think life gets any better than this?” he asks, gazing out at the horizon.
I hesitate, biting my lip. “I should think so, yes.”
He looks at me curiously. “How do you figure?”
I shake my head. “Never mind.”
“Tell me. I genuinely want to know.”
I sigh and look at him, my thoughts shifting. “I would trade all of this for a cozy house, the smell of chocolate chip cookies baking, and a big ol’ Christmas tree. Wrangling chubby little limbs into pajamas. Homemade Halloween costumes. Homework. Saturday morning soccer games. I want a family.”
I feel vulnerable saying it, but it’s the truth.
Being thousands of miles away from home has only deepened that longing.
He goes quiet for a moment, his eyes scanning my face. I know he’s trying to find the right words, but they don’t come.
He finally speaks. “You make it sound so easy.”
I glance over at him. “It wasn’t easy for me. I didn’t have that growing up, and I know what it feels like to long for it. To want to create something different. That’s why it feels like the most extravagant thing to wish for.”
He’s silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. I don’t know if he understands.
After a beat, Hayes speaks, his voice low. “That’s not the childhood I had. It was piano lessons, pressure, constant criticism, rehab stints for my parents, and family drama.”
I glance at him, eyebrow raised. “Sounds like a blast.”
He chuckles, rolls his eyes.
I take a sip of my wine, trying to act like this is no big deal. But there’s something in his eyes that’s different. Instead of our usual bickering banter, we’re opening up. I think I like it.
This time, when I meet his eyes, my tone softens. “Family’s complicated. I get it.”
He gives me a half smile. “So, what about you?” he asks, turning the question on me. “What did your childhood look like?”
I sip my wine again, not meeting his eyes. “It wasn’t . . . conventional. No huge holiday dinners, no piles of presents. I didn’t really have a traditional family.” I pause, letting the words hang. “So I guess that’s why I want something different now.”
He’s quiet for a second, and then he says, “For what it’s worth, I think you’d be a great mom. Fun and real and just . . . accepting.”
I wonder if that’s what he never had—someone to just accept him for who he is—not who he was supposed to be.
I never talk about these things—not even with Tessa. My dating life has always been a disaster—and if I couldn’t hold down a boyfriend, how was I supposed to become a wife . . . a mother?
I look away from him, staring out over the lavender, feeling a little too exposed now. “I guess that’s the kind of life I always wanted. The one that’s not perfect, but it’s mine.” I finish my wine and glance back at him. “I know, it’s a lot. But . . . what about you, Hayes? What do you want?”
There’s a beat. Then he shakes his head.
“I don’t even know anymore. I’ve got all the things people say are supposed to make you happy—money, connections, nice suits, an amazing house.
But when you have it all, you start wondering if it’s really what you wanted.
I mean, look at me,” he says with a dry chuckle.
“I’ve got everything I could possibly need, and sometimes I think about what it would be like to just . . . walk away from it all.”
He meets my eyes, and I get the feeling he’s not just talking about his job. “Maybe I need to stop trying to control everything.”
I stare at him for a second, almost as though I’m seeing him for the first time. “You think you can do that?”
He shrugs, his gaze distant. “Not sure yet. But I’m starting to think maybe I need to figure out what really matters . . . without all the bullshit.”
I smile a little, the wine buzzing in my system, but it’s not just the wine. There’s something about this moment that feels different. More honest. Like we’re both not quite sure where we’re headed.
“You’re not as much of a grump as I thought,” I tease, trying to lighten the moment.
He smirks, but there’s something behind it. “Only for you, Frankie.”
The conversation falls into a quiet space, and I can’t help but wonder how we got here. Two people who couldn’t be more different, yet somehow, we’re here talking about life and sharing our insecurities.