Primrose
Dinner is a tense affair, not that the children seem to notice.
Sylvie chatters about this marvelous, mythical place—the best place on earth for a summer vacation.
Even Felix joins in, though when he catches himself being enthusiastic, he clams up quickly with a scowl.
It must be so hard keeping up your rep as a cool dude.
Thoughts and prayers to those around him when he actually hits his teenage years.
Meanwhile, I barely look the boss’s way.
I speak when spoken to and keep my conversation for the children.
I’m not rude. I mean, I’m as rude as I can be without the kids noticing.
The last thing I want to do is upset them.
I’ll just bide my time until they’ve left the table before I tell Monsieur Le Dick Head exactly what I think of his plan and where he can shove it.
I’m going nowhere with that man.
And what the hell was with that comment he made about my bikini?
“Peaches are not my very best favorite fruit.” Sylvie’s voice brings me out of my rumination. Briefly.
“They aren’t?” So I have a bikini—what of it? I am on flippin’ vacation! There really was no reason to mention it. Unless like he likes the look of me in it. Ack, shut up, brain!
“I don’t like the skin.”
“What was that, lovely?” My bikini does unfortunately show a lot of skin.
“Peach skin,” Sylvie says, picking apart a piece of heavenly white crusty bread and dropping the crumbs to her side plate. What a waste. I bloody love French bread. La boulangerie is one of the best things about being in Paris. “Do you like peaches, Primrose?”
“They’re not my favorite fruit, but yes, I like them.” Especially the ones I’ve just eaten as part of the entrée. Peach, burrata, and prosciutto salad, the fruit burst-on-your-tongue juicy and the sweet stickiness combined with the salty elements tasted like summer on a plate.
“I ate the peaches today because Chef Zoe took off the furry skin for me.” The little girl shivers as though remembering something unpleasant before smiling at the chef.
“You’re very welcome.” Zoe reaches for the little girl’s plate as she begins to remove the remains of our plat principal, the main course, from the table.
“Non, merci!” she says, holding her hands over her plate.
“For the birds?” Zoe asks, and Sylvie nods. “How about I peel you some fruit instead?”
“Thank you, Zoe.” Monsieur Le Dick Head—M. LDH in the interests of brevity—turns his laser-like blue eyes the chef’s way.
“No problem.”
“Dinner was delicious,” I offer up. It was so tasty, in fact, that it takes a supreme kind of effort not to grab another hunk of bread to swipe it through the oh-so-tasty tomato tian as the remains of the platter pass by my nose.
“The tastiest thing I’ve eaten in months.
” The steak was perfectly grilled, the vegetables seasoned to a T and, “I’m going to bug you for the salad dressing recipe. It was so good.”
“It’s just a little of this and a little of that,” Zoe says with a soft smile as she loads the dishes in her arms with the finesse of a plate-spinning acrobat. “But I’ll jot it down for you.”
“Let me help.” I reach for a dish, though she snatches it away.
“No need.” And then she’s gone, leaving my tablemates looking at me as though I’ve grown another head. Hmm. Must’ve been a posh person faux pas.
“Whoever said you don’t make friends with salad clearly never had Zoe’s vinaigrette.” I say. Because, awkward!
“You cannot make friends with salad.” Felix scoffs, all superiority.
“Arrête.” His father pauses in the action of twisting a gold signet ring around his pinkie finger, his mild rebuke making the kid scowl.
“But, Papa, what she said makes no sense—salad is leaves.”
“It’s just a saying. Or was it a silly song?” I give my head a tiny shake. “I’m pretty sure it’s from The Simpsons.”
“You are allowed to watch Les Simpsons?” Sylvie asks, wide-eyed with shock.
“Yeah, I am a grown-up.”
“Grown-ups do not watch Les Simpsons,” Felix grumbles.
“Tell that to my brother.” At this, his father’s gaze catches mine. I quickly look away. “My youngest brother.”
“Emmy says Les Simpsons is brain rot,” Sylvie declares.
“Does she?” Funny. I seem to remember us both watching it when we were younger. “Well, I’m sure Emmy would know better than me.”
“Yes, Emmy would know,” the little girl says with a nod. “She is very clever. She sewed back the eyes on my favorite bear. And she helps me with my homework.”
“She helps you with coloring in,” Felix mutters with derision.
“Because I don’t like coloring in, and Emmy does! Do you like coloring in, Primrose?”
“Well—”
“What about fishing? And the sea? Do you like to swim in the sea?”
“I’ve never been fishing.”
“Papa will teach you when you come to Mallorca—he is the best!”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m not coming to Mallorca with you.”
“But Papa said so.”
“Your father is mistaken.” My smile feels wooden as I fight the urge to look his way. Nope, no way. This is not happening, no matter what you say, M. LDH.
“But Papa never makes mistakes.” She blinks earnestly.
“Everybody makes mistakes,” I murmur, reaching for my water glass.
“Please may I be excused?” Felix, uninterested in the sudden atmosphere at the dinner table, looks to his father. “I need to be online with my friends in five minutes.”
“Not too late,” his father instructs.
“But there is no school tomorrow.”
In the place of an answer, M. LDH sends him an eloquent look.
“Entendu.” Understood, Felix capitulates grumpily. As he leaves the room, I find myself wondering how often that quelling look works for him. If he thinks it’s going to work on me, he’s in for a shock.
“I will go to get the bird fruit from Zoe,” Sylvie announces, sliding down from her chair. “Please may I be excused, Papa?” she adds laughingly, already at the door, and not waiting for a response.
“Why would you tell them that?” I hiss immediately.
“Because it’s true,” he says, reaching for his wine glass. “We leave Monday.”
“You might be leaving Monday for Mallorca, but I’ll be heading in a different direction.”
“As far away as possible?” The corner of his mouth quirks.
“Farther, if I can help it.” My smile is saccharine sweet. As in fake. The only thing keeping my bum in this chair is how happy Emmy sounded on the phone earlier. And relieved. There’s no way I’m going to let her down. But equally, I’m not putting myself through weeks of being near him.
“The time will come when you can put this family behind you and never think of us again. But that time is not now.”
“You put the d in delusional.” I plonk my glass down, cross one leg over the other, and fold my arms across my chest for good measure. How can this man be so good with his mouth, and also so vile with it? I’m not supposed to be thinking about his mouth and its many talents.
“You want to keep Emmy’s position open for her return.”
“That’s why I’m staying for the weekend,” I retort through gritted teeth.
“Sadly, that no longer suits me.”
“Sadly, I don’t give a f-stuff. Your summer plans are not my problem.”
“I disagree.” For someone speaking perfect English, he gives a very Gallic shrug.
“I don’t care,” I say, mimicking the action. Exaggerating it even, one hand in the air, palm skyward. Bof! I’m basically a beret, striped T-shirt, and a string of onions away from really taking the piss.
But I shouldn’t let him goad me into this kind of behavior.
It’s not like he’s the first high-handed arsehole ever to cross my path.
I’ve dealt with loads of idiot men with more money than taste while helping in Lavender’s art gallery, and I’ve suffered my fair set-downs from imperious consultants. And I always keep my cool—always!
I’m react like water flowing around those human obstacles. I rarely take offence and I never, ever get my dander up. Well, hardly ever. But with him, it’s personal—very personal. I think I could happily throttle him. Strangulation with a smile. I bet he’d be into that.
“Ah, but you do care.” His voice is soft as he reaches for his glass again, holding his wine to the light as though to study the pale contents.
“I care about my friend, which is why I’m giving up my weekend.”
“One month.”
“One month minus twenty-eight days.” I realize my jaw is painfully tight and that my foot is beginning to jump. He’s getting under my skin. “That’s what was agreed,” I say, placing both feet flat.
“Your agreement was with Emmy. Your agreement with me must be until Emmy returns, or for one month. Whichever comes first.”
“No can do.” I reach for my own glass. Again. “I have a job—”
“From September.”
How the heck does he know that? “I have plans.” I take a sip as something twists inside me, but it’s not anxiety that makes words shoot like bullets from my mouth.
“My family is expecting me in Croatia.” Or they would be if I’d gotten around to texting them.
As I glare at him, my heart bangs against my chest like it’s trying to escape, and my insides are awash with… something.
Is it unease or is it exhilaration? It’s hard to tell.
Anxiety. It’s got to be. No way I’d be excited at the thoughts of being stuck with this… this highhanded hunk of good-for-nothing. Besides, he really can’t mean it. He can’t want to be around me. Not after last night. He’s probably just trying to make me run for the hills, tout de suite.
“How strange,” I murmur, setting the glass down. Elbow to the table, I press my chin to my fist. “Have you had a fall recently? Bumped your head at all?”
His smile threatens but doesn’t quite give. “I have not. But thank you for your concern.”
“Any headaches? Nausea? Blurred vision?”
“I feel perfectly well.”
“Hmm. Something isn’t right.” I tap a finger to my lips, then drop it as I notice his eyes following the motion. “You’re most certainly having some kind of cognitive issue.”
At this, he smiles properly. Why does he have to be so attractive? Give the man a pimple or something, for God’s sake.