LUC
As my fingers drum against my thigh as I wait for the world to right itself, as Jacques closes the car door and nods to the driver. The Mercedes pulls away with a crunch of gravel, making a path up the long, winding road to the helicopter pad.
My focus should be on Barcelona and the meeting with a family of Andalusian leather makers I plan to bring under the group’s branding.
But instead, my mind seeks to torment me by remembering the shape of her breast before I can consciously defend.
I close my eyes as I recall her soft sigh in response to the path of my tongue.
The heat and tenor of her pulse under the pull of my lips.
That fucking bite mark. In a dozen silent conversations, I’ve reasoned with myself that I just got carried away—that it was a heat-of-the-moment thing, and not a mark of possession or ownership.
But the sight of it this morning felt more significant.
More rousing. Stirring. Fuck it, the truth is that I was turned on by the sight of it. I’d marked her, and it felt right.
My jaw tautens, my molars moving a step closer to becoming dust. The nanny.
I am the worst kind of cliché. A wealthy widower lusting after the younger, less experienced woman.
The press would have a field day, I think darkly.
Insinuate that I’m just another old fool who believes youth is a luxury he can afford to acquire.
The headlines would be damaging to say the least. I know better than to take these kinds of risks. Yet, when she walks into the room, all sensible thoughts become unavailable to me.
The object of my (near) obsession was at the pool with my children when I left. I wouldn’t let myself go there. In body or in mind.
I thought we were on the same page this morning, that the only reason she was coy in the kitchen was because of our audience.
That’s why I’d asked her to follow me into the office.
Commanded, perhaps. Some habits are hard to break.
I hadn’t planned what happened, though I will admit that I longed to kiss her again.
The fact that she denied what we’d shared last night, that she refused to admit the memory of it had embedded itself in her skin… well, it was like a challenge she’d thrown. I’d felt vindicated when I’d touched her and she’d melted, the room seeming to dissolve for both of us.
“We’ve had another call from Marchand’s legal team again.”
I come back to the present with my fingers at my mouth. Despite having washed, it’s as though I can still enjoy the aroma of her. Like I’ve somehow absorbed her.
“They’re still threatening breach of contract.”
“Let them.” I force my hand to rest on my knee. “The cost of litigation will wipe them out.”
“Not if they win,” he mutters under his breath.
“Unlikely,” I retort. “But you may convey a message to him.” I turn my head and watch my land pass by the window. “Tell him he showed me how he treats people when he believes they have no power, so I decided to curtail his.”
“Cryptic as fuck,” he says, entering it into his tablet word for word.
“I won’t get into bed, so to speak, with a man like him.”
“I’ll… call him.”
“It’s better you go to Paris and deliver the message yourself.”
“Okay.”
The car falls quiet again, but for the hum of quiet the engine and sound of the tires.
“I’ve booked your usual suite for tonight.”
“Cancel it,” I reply impulsively.
Beside me, Jacques stills. “I’ll make arrangements for an early flight back.” His gaze dips to the phone in his hand as though stalling for time. Or arranging his thoughts. “Is everything okay? The kids, they’re not ill, are they?”
I should be relieved he wasn’t in the main house this morning. One look at Primrose and he wouldn’t need to ask.
“They’re fine.”
“Is there another reason?”
“Not that you need to be aware of.”
“Noted,” he says in that way of his that suggests he already knows. “Do you wanna go over the agenda?”
I dismiss the offer with a slight shake of my head. There’s little point when I can’t concentrate.
He taps at his screen, glances at me, then drops his voice as though unconvinced. “Okay.”
He isn’t easily fooled. I don’t pay him to be as he rubs his chin in an action that seems oddly out of place for him. “How about I brief you on the guests?”
“Any changes?” Hijos de Valdés is a family concern. The board is comprised of family members. Most of whom I’ve already met. Courted, you might say.
“One of the brothers has pulled out.”
“Issues?” My gaze turns his way sharply.
As the producers of some of Europe’s finest leather, I want no surprises today.
What I do want is to own their operation—the workshops, their people, their connections.
I plan on relaunching them as the atelier of the next must own brand. That is my plan, without deviation.
“No. Andre, the youngest brother? He’ll be joining the meeting remotely. A Family issue. One of his children is ill, I understand.”
I relax back in the seat. “I trust it’s nothing serious. Find out and send the child something appropriate.”
“Will do,” he says with a nod. The car falls quiet again, but for the noise of tires over gravel.
“Though, you know you kinda promised the brothers a good time.”
“I did what?” My attention swivels Jacque’s way. Is he fucking with me? I think as my mind jumps immediately to Ardeo.
“It’s part of your schtick, your sell. Your reputation.
You’re flying them private to Barcelona, putting them up in the best hotels, getting some big-name chef to serve up the kind of dinner they’ll be talking about for years.
Wines from your own vineyard, a taste of your home.
It’s what you’re known for, Luc. What the group is known for.
What you want the sellers aspire to. Quality, class. The fuckin’ high life.”
“Today is nothing but decoration,” I retort brusquely, despite hearing the truth in what he says. “They’re here to collect a fat check with their name on it.”
“Yeah, but—”
“They want to increase production and profits without putting their homes at risk. They want their history and their artisans protected, and a flagship store in Paris with their name above the door.” I turn away. “That is what they’re here for.”
“You’re the boss.”
Like I don’t know that already. “Anything outside of that, what do you call it—the wining and dining? I’m sure you and Albert can handle,” I say, speaking of the groups’ COO.
“You want me to stay over?”
I shrug like I don’t give a fuck when the reality is, I don’t like being called out. I’m just waiting for him to say her name. “I’m sure he’ll be glad of your help.” Let them play bon vivant.
“Whatever you say.” Jacques tucks his phone away. “Can I ask something? Off-book?”
No one ever says that unless the next words are a risk. Or a stick. I glance pointedly his way, surprised when he speaks.
“What’s going on with you?
His gaze lingers on my profile longer than it should.
It feels like I’m being dissected, though I know he’s banking on another brush-off.
For me to remind him to watch his mouth, mind his business.
For me to reestablish the narrative that I am, above all else, impenetrable.
But what comes out instead is a sound I don’t recognize, a ragged noise halfway between a laugh and a cough.
His brows draw together in shock. “Luc?”
What the hell is going on with me? It feels almost as though the sound was a preventive subconscious attempt. Which is fucking ridiculous because when have I ever confided in anyone?
It’s nothing,” I mutter gruffly. I’m not sure what I’m feeling right now. Rebuffed. Confused. A bit of an asshole. But I’m not losing my mind.
“I can get a priest if you want to confess.” His offer is only half-joking.
I’d be chased out of the confessional for admitting the things I want. I glance at my thigh, where my fingers have begun drumming again. I curl them inward.
Jealousy. There’s something else I’m feeling. Fucking Alejandro. My teeth clench and my jaw flexes. It’s an entirely ordinary name for the region for an entirely ordinary man not from the region. An American, pah! What the fuck makes them so confident?
Alejandro with the nice smile and lashes like a camel. Or was that a llama? I can’t even remember his face. Just as well, or I might seek him out and shove my fist in it.
Sois pas con. Don’t be an asshole, I tell myself.
But ordinary is just another word for normal, and normal must have its advantages. A life lived with freedom. Without scrutiny, suspicion, and mistrust. The need for high walls.
Perhaps that’s where the attraction lies. He is a man who might offer her a future, not just a month of making her scream his name.
Mon dieu, what is with these thoughts? Whatever has passed between us, we aren’t destined to be together. Wanting Primrose is one thing—it’s just lust. A fleeting whim. Lust belongs to stolen moments and borrowed time and asks nothing of tomorrow.
Love, though, it promises permanence. It seeps into you, into the cracks, until there is no corner of your life untouched by it. By that person. Your person. Their laughter becomes your home, and their happiness becomes your own. The presence steadies you. It fortifies you.
Their pain undoes you.
Their absence destroys you.
This I know because I have survived both love and loss. But only just.
I know what it is to watch the one you would give your life for fade before your eyes.
I know how it feels to wake in the morning and wonder why the sun has risen, and why the birds continue to sing when it feels like the world should’ve stopped spinning on its axis hours ago. Days, weeks, months, and even years.
But I endure, though I lack the desire to discover if I would again.
So I’ll let myself want Primrose. And if she’ll let me, I’ll steal moments and kisses and let my thoughts linger on her far longer than they should. But permanence? That I will not stand for. Loving Allegra very nearly killed me. I can’t build another life around someone I could also lose.
I huff out an unhappy laugh and shake my head. “It’s nothing,” I say as I realize my assistant is still waiting. Watching. Wondering.
Fate has a terrible sense of humor.
Nothing but the sudden sense of betrayal toward my late wife prompted me to set Primrose out of the door at Ardeo.
It wasn’t because she’d done anything wrong but because, for the first time since Allegra passed, I felt I had.
The sense of disloyalty was so sudden, like an anvil dropped to my chest because Primrose made me feel something I hadn’t in a long time.
And to thank her, I literally pushed her away, then slammed the door physically.
Emotionally. And when she turned up in my house the next day, perhaps I found there were no more doors I wanted to slam.
“Okay,” Jacques mutters under his breath. “You know you can run anything by me, right?”
This is ridiculous. My thoughts are so deeply introspective over a mythical future with a woman I barely know.
So little has passed between us. Moments.
Kisses. A few words. Sensory snapshots. My hand at the deep curve of her waist and the soft pout of her lips.
The heavenly sight of her without her clothes.
I promised her four weeks of self-discovery, and nothing else.
But she seems wants nothing from me, when it could’ve been perfect.
My life is in Paris. My children belong there.
Schools. My offices. Flagship stores. Board meetings.
Employees. Profits to grow. Life’s demands never cease.
Meanwhile Primrose belongs to London. Hospital wards.
Study. Accolades. Friends. A life fully framed.
A future that’s still opening in front of her, blooming like a flower.
She deserves a man who will offer her a beginning. Not one who would ask her to step into the middle of a story already marked by loss.
I twist my neck and rotate my stiff shoulders as I tear my mind from what feels like a pull back to the house, like I’ve forgotten something there.
This morning, I will climb aboard a helicopter and there I will concentrate on the day ahead.
I’ll sign a contract that promises the safest stewardship of a heritage brand after months of negotiations.
The deal isn’t done until the paper bears that ink.
I need to get my head back in the game. Get my priorities straight.
But I already know that later, I’ll fly back to a house I own, in a valley that is almost entirely mine to see a woman I have no claim on. A woman I want more from, to discover if she really is intent on dating an ordinary man. Alejandro, I internally scoff.
“The viniculturists we employed from California.” I’m almost surprised at the sound of my voice. Jacques visibly also. “Amador County, I think.” I was impressed with the chardonnay there.
“Okay, yeah. I remember that trip.”
“What is his name?” As though I didn’t already know.
“Martinez? Alejandro Martinez, I think.”
“When we get to the mainland, have HR send me a copy of his file.” I don’t know the man’s age. I don’t know exactly where he’s from, though I know he’s personable. A winning personality, I think sardonically. And that he’s proficient at his job, or I’m sure he wouldn’t be here on the estate.
“Will do.” A pause. “Is there a problem?”
Not until this morning there wasn’t. “I just want to check something.” What he has that I lack.
I take a moment to straighten the snowy cuffs under the sleeves of my bespoke suit that is a silk-linen blend, then run my hand down my chest. I wonder if he likes wearing overalls embroidered with my name.
Connard, I chastise silently.
Primrose owes me nothing beyond her professionalism, and after the way I treated her that night in Paris, I forfeited the right to resent her for choosing someone else.
So why does the thought of another man touching her leave such a bitter taste in my mouth?
Why does the thought of her face in his hands create the sense of a steel bar tightening across my chest?
Because it shouldn’t be him. The thought arrives uninvited. It can’t be me. Does that mean it shouldn’t be anyone?
I close my eyes briefly, and a vision of her arrives unbidden once more in my head. How she looks when she comes seems indelibly inked onto my brain.
Christ. Desire I can manage, but this acute sense of possessiveness… how do I manage that? I tip my head back against the headrest and allow myself a rare moment of honesty: possessiveness might the least alarming thing I feel for her.