Chapter 37
“Well, I was aiming for your face, but your chin will do.” I sniff, crossing my arms over my chest, now wishing I had a better throw. Only to have a piece of cake hit my forehead. “Uhhh!” I scream as Luc laughs. “You think this is funny, huh?” I ask, pointing to my cake-crusted forehead. There are pieces of strawberry interwoven like a Viking braid in my hair.
“Nope,” Luc replies, his face stoic as he throws another piece of cake, this one landing squarely in my chest. “I think it hilarious.”
“Oooh. You smug, spoiled ass,” I seethe, my body vibrating with anger as I let fly piece after broken piece of cake. My fingers hack the perfect cake apart as if I had sharp talons creating the perfect palm-sized missile. Luc returns my fire, chunk after chunk.
“My cakes!” Michèle gasps, causing us to stop and face him. Half of the kitchen has been covered in a thin film of strawberries, cream, and pale gold sponge. I grab a glob from the corner of the table and shove it in my mouth.
“It was delicious,” I say, my mouth still full, and give Michèle a thumbs-up, causing Luc to snicker under his breath.
“Now what will I serve the guests?”
“Um, ice cream?” I offer, shrugging my shoulders as heat floods my cheeks. From the corner of my eye, I see Luc still is the picture of cool, calm, and collected. A small chunk of cake falls off my shoulder and lands on the floor with a soft thunk, drawing Michèle’s attention, his eyes zeroing in on it. “I think I hear Madeline calling my name.” I make up a quick excuse so I can leave.
“I don’t hear her,” Luc replies. I open and close my mouth, staring at Luc, grinding my back teeth.
“Perhaps it was me that needed to tell her something.” My piercing gaze is so sharp it could cut through him.
“Just go.” Michèle’s voice catches, his head in his hand shaking slightly. Not needing to be told twice, I hurry out of the kitchen.
I manage to avoid everyone as I enter the g?te, closing the door to the laughter behind me. I lean against it, taking a few deep breaths of air in. At least everyone is still having a great time. My eyes burn from hot, angry tears that I won’t let fall. There is a quiet knock on the door, and I already know who it is. “Go away, Luc.”
“I can’t do that, Impératrice.”
“Yes, you can.” I don’t dare meet his stare, focusing instead on a bit of worn-down carpet.
“Not when you sleep in my bed, in my arms, I can’t.”
Luc rests his arms on the side of the doorjamb. The small g?te suddenly becomes so much smaller. But I won’t budge. The g?te is my only security against Luc, and I plan to use the door as the metaphysical wall for the mental one I’ve put up between us.
“I’m not in bed or in your arms. Therefore, you can.” I wrap my arms around my middle.
“But part of the will means I need to sleep here.”
“You found another place the other night.” I never told Timothé about that, but maybe I should. Luc places a finger under my chin, meeting my gaze.
“I’ll sleep in the glamping tent again,” is all he says before turning to leave. The moment the door closes behind him, I’m alone once again, and my tears fall.
Somehow, no matter how hard I try to resist, Luc always manages to pull me in. I wake early and slide out of bed, quickly getting changed so I can make way straight to my studio. I need to clear my head and the only way to do that is with my paintbrush. I set a timer on my phone—the chateau renovations need to continue, even if I’m not having a great mental health day. The looming deadline isn’t going to lengthen just because I need it to. I turn the dial on the radio and blare the French radio station French Culture and set to work painting.
A few hours later, I meet Madeline in the garden, where André is helping to stack all the tables and chairs to go back to the city council office to be stored for the next town event. Luc must have cleaned the kitchen up after our little cake fight, because when I walked into the kitchen, there wasn’t a single piece of cake splattered on any surface. That just left me with the dreaded task of collecting all the dirty plates and cups that have been scattered around the gardens.
“How many cups did people go through?” I grumble, nursing a slight hangover. Madeline picks up yet another discarded recycled wine cup from between the tree-lined driveway.
“I don’t even want to think,” Madeline replies, tying a knot in the first garbage bag.
“How did people even bring this up here?” I ask, surprised at just how far people managed to bring their drinks, and simultaneously questioning why someone would have a need to bring their glass into my driveway.
“Where’s Luc?” Madeline asks, looking around.
“Do not bring up that name.” I need to spend a few more hours—or maybe days—holed up in my studio before I’m ready to broach the subject. It took me six shampoo washes to get all the remnants of cake from my hair.
“Why?” Madeline quirks her head to the side.
“You know why.” I glare at her.
“I’m still not sure if it was the speech or the fact that you guys had a cake fight…” Madeline trails off, making me wince. Just mentioning the words instantly transports me back to last night.
“Or maybe it was the blow job I gave him around the back of the chateau before he went and tore my heart out.” The bitter acid spews from my lips, staining the ground, making sure nothing will ever grow there.
“It was a summer festival, I don’t think anyone will forget in a hurry,” Madeline agrees, only making me want to throttle Luc more. “Do you know if Luc is home orrr…?” Madeline presses. What is with her sudden need to know where Luc is? I couldn’t care if he decided to go swimming in the murky depths of our moat. Oh wait—scratch that—he’d probably spend the rest of my life haunting me.
“He slept elsewhere last night.” I roll my eyes.
“You always get this face when you say his name, your nostrils flare a bit.” Madeline mimics the action.
I gasp, my cheeks heating in irritation. “I do not.” I absolutely positively did not make the face Madeline is talking about, and if by any chance my nostrils did flare—by pure coincidence, of course—it would be because the smell of Luc’s perfume is so strong it gives me a headache, and would have absolutely nothing to do with the jerk and his perfectly straight teeth, soft, inviting lips, and honey eyes which make me just want to get lost in their sugary depths. “Have you been talking to André?” I ask. It sounds like something André would say.
“No, has he noticed your face too?” Madeline replies, a salacious smirk on her lips.
“No. I think you have been reading too many Anne-Sophie Jouhanneau books,” I chide. Anne-Sophie is quickly becoming my favorite romance novelist.
“Do not take the queen’s name in vain,” Madeline gasps.
“Definitely been reading too many Jouhanneau books,” I mumble so low she can’t hear.
“Heard that,” Madeline calls as an empty cup flies through the air and lands softly on the ground by my feet.
I turn slightly and eye the empty cup then look back at Madeline. “I can tell sports was never your thing, eh,” I say, one eyebrow quirked.
“Does this outfit look like it would enjoy frolicking around in the mud?” Madeline’s question is rhetorical, and I bark out a laugh at the thought of Madeline running around chasing a ball.
A few hours later, the front yard is all cleaned, and Luc is still noticeably absent. André, Henry, and I decide to fix the leaking moat, now that we’ve stopped the sewage from draining into it a couple of months ago. The building inspector report found the side wall compromised and leaching water. I have my fingers crossed that it’s a tiny fix and we don’t need to drain the moat, because as Madeline has already informed me, that would require the government’s permission. Just the paperwork alone has me running scared.
“Henry,” I call from where I’m perched in my wicker chair on the bank.
“Yeah,” Henry looks over, quickly causing André to wobble in the small, two-man canoe.
“Père, don’t move,” André squeals, his voice a few octaves above his usual baritone, the glittering water underneath a siren calling to him. The canoe stops rocking, André’s breathing returns to normal, and Henry rolls his eyes at his son’s dramatics.
“From the report, it says that the wall here,” I motion to the wall in front of me, “is the worst one. It particularly mentions this spot.” I stand and walk to the parallel point where the door to the basement would be on the edge of the moat. “Right here.” I lift the binder up again and double-check where I’m standing before nodding. Henry stands and grabs a metal pole from inside the canoe and places it in the water, measuring the depth. The silver pole glimmers with water droplets when Henry lifts it out.
“It’s only two feet deep here,” he calls. Over his shoulder, he looks at André. “Get in.”
André blanches and sputters, trying to come up with a reason why he can’t get in the water. I attempt to hide my snort of laughter behind a closed fist but fail miserably and proceed to cough when André glares at me.
“I haven’t got my waders.” André lifts his chin in defiance, like he is so proud that he came up with a great excuse.
“Oh, do you mean these?” A wicked grin pulls at my lips as I lift the parachute-like pants that were sitting next to a box of things Henry thought he may need.
Henry clicks his fingers. “Oi.” He smiles, showing all his teeth.
I skip the few steps back to where the guys are floating on the moat, letting the pants fly in the air. I place them on the grassy edge while André and Henry row closer to the bank. When the guys are close enough, the front bow of the canoe touches the muddy edge, and André growls, “Run.”
“Oh, I’m shaking in my boots.” I wiggle the pants for extra emphasis, André’s attempt to scare me only making me laugh harder.
“You should be,” he replies.
“Does someone have a fear of the murky moat?” I tease.
“Aurora, you have three seconds to magically make those pants disappear.” André clenches his jaw, the veins on his neck throbbing.
“You know, I think I am going to check out my plants.” I click my fingers and hastily walk away when I hear André’s feet land on the bank, only for him to miss his footing and slip down the embankment. “Make sure the guppies don’t eat your toes. I hear they’re vicious.” I giggle when André swears again.
I’m reckless, not senseless.