Primrose
I wake excited. There, I admit it. As soon as I open my eyes, my insides fizz with anticipation and nervousness of what’s to come.
Drum roll, please…
Sylvie is out of bed, as usual, by sparrow fart, dancing and singing and asking a million questions a minute, though she does sit still long enough for me to braid her hair.
“That’s good to hear, sweetie,” I say, holding a hunk a little ways from the root as I tackle her silverly locks with an old-fashioned brush. “I don’t know how it gets so knotted. You must party in your sleep or something.”
“Emmy says I sleep like a cheese rolling down a hill,” she says with a giggle.
“Do you know there is a place en Angleterre, I mean, in England,” she begins to turn her head to look at me before remembering with a small wince that it might not be such a good idea, “that there is a place where people roll cheese down hills?”
“Yes, in Gloucester,” I say as though there’s nothing weird about that.
“Vous êtes dingos!” she replies laughingly.
“We are not all bonkers. Just some of us.”
“Brava, Primrose, you understood! Your French is getting better.”
“Thank you.”
“I told you I am a good teacher.”
So good a teacher that I don’t remember the lesson. Also, oops for slipping up. But at least her dad wasn’t around to hear. That would’ve been awkward.
“The only place I think you should roll cheese is into your mouth,” I say.
“Yes! I also think this.”
By breakfast, the sensation of anticipation has taken up most of the space in my chest. It feels like a secret that keeps trying to manifest itself as a smile. But I resist. Walking around smiling at nothing would make me look like a loony.
I can’t wait for tonight. Luc and me and a little privacy.
In my head, Marvin Gaye starts singing about getting it on.
“Bonjour.”
Later, we’re in the kitchen, when a rather subdued Felix trudges in.
“Good morning, Felix,” I say. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes,” he answers, which is better than a grunt, I suppose.
“Zoe made chouquette.” His sister says, dipping her third sugary puff into a tiny cup of Spanish-style hot chocolate.
The stuff is thick and gooey and sweet enough to trigger a diabetic coma.
“I kept you some. See?” She offers him the plate and he takes one.
And wonders upon wonders, he voluntarily takes a stool next to her.
I watch as she slides her cup between them, and he smiles as he dips.
It’s a heartwarming sight, watching them whisper and giggle, their heads close together as they share the cup.
Zoe’s eyebrows lift and I shrug. Tell you later. I move to the coffee machine.
“Some of us are going out tonight,” she says quietly, sidling up to me.
“Oh?” Uh-oh.
“A few drinks, some dancing, maybe even a few bad decisions.”
“Well, you enjoy.” I lock the portafilter into place.
“Wanna come with?”
“Me?” I do a quick double take. I’m not surprised by the invitation, but I am dismayed about its timing. I rattle my brain for an excuse, hitting the button in the absence of one. The machine begins to noisily extract coffee.
“Alejandro will be there,” she says, leaning closer.
“Cool.”
“I thought you might say that.”
“Why? You’re not still talking about the other morning, are you?”
“He told me he likes you,” she says, disregarding my question. “So…”
“I have the kids.” Ack, my delivery was a little too perky to portray disappointment
“They aren’t invited.” She grins. “And you’re entitled to a night off—ask him.”
“I…” I’ve got plans. Rain check because I’ve been promised a bloody good seeing to?
“Papa!” Sylvie announces, her voice somewhat muffled by pastry.
I glance up—twice—as I do a double take and lose my train of thought entirely. The man is wearing jodhpurs—real, honest to goodness riding pants—that he appears to have been poured into.
“Mercy,” Zoe murmurs next to me. “I think my sole just left my body.”
His shirt is white, the sleeves folded to reveal a little tan forearm porn. The jodhpurs are fawn and indecently fitted, and his narrow waist is denoted by a chestnut-colored belt. His boots are tall, brown and well-worn now, which says this get-up isn’t a prop designed to turn me on. Because I am.
Looking at him does make me wonder why Mr Darcy (the Colin Firth version) even bothered getting his shirt wet when he could’ve been wearing pants like that. Maybe Colin’s thighs aren’t as thick. Or maybe he has a pancake bum. As for the rear version of Luke, I know I’m in for a treat.
He greats his children, keeping his gaze from mine, as he should. Not that I don’t find it a tiny bit maddening.
“Good morning, Zoe,” he says, a tiny smile threatening. “Primrose.”
Look at that, I even get second billing.
“Bonjour, Monsieur du Beaumont,” Zoe trills.
Cup in hand, I glance up from under my lashes. I’m not even laying it on thick. Just trying not to give away our plans by my expression. One look my way and Zoe will guess that the man has had his hands in my pants. “Good morning. Sir.”
One of his eyebrows quirks. I turn back to the coffee machine as I swallow a giggle. What was I doing again? Ah. Coffee. Milk? My latte.
“Papa, we’re going to be late,” Sylvie complains.
“One minute, ma puce.” He crosses to the coffee machine, but I don’t look. I absolutely won’t look. “Is that for me?” His voice is low, his tone sort of husky.
I hold the cup out to him without speaking. As his fingers brush mine, a frisson of delight runs through me. I find myself closing my eyes to fully appreciate the effect.
“Primrose has a question,” Zoe pipes up from behind me.
His reaction seems delayed, though his eyes lift to meet hers over my head. “A question?” He takes the cup from me as he adjusts his line of sight once more, those blue eyes back to undressing me.
“It’s nothing.” Move over Elizabeth Bennett. One glance and a brush of fingers and I already feel like I might swoon.
“A group of us are going to the port tonight,” Zoe says, taking it upon herself to sort out my life. “I thought I might show Primrose around. She hasn’t been into the town yet and—”
“No,” he says, cutting her off.
I feel the sting in his tone, and it’s kind of delicious.
No is a full sentence, of course. Even if I can’t seem to practice that myself.
Luc, meanwhile—M. LDH—he gets it. No explanation needed and no consideration for anyone else but himself.
Just a single, crisp syllable delivered with the high-handed certainty of a man who is accustomed to the world bending to his will.
Except when it comes to me.
“But it’s—”
“It’s fine,” I say, glancing away before my clothes disintegrate.
I’m a modern woman—a doctor. I’ve spent years getting to the point where people literally trust me with their lives.
I make my own decisions, pay my own bills, and I possess opinions on everything from the state of the Rainforest to the benefits of green tea.
It should feel wrong that his arrogance stirs this deeply unevolved part of me. Instead, it makes me want to purr.
Maybe because the way he’s looking at me says, Mine.
For a limited time.
“I just thought…”
The quelling look he sends Zoe seems to dissolve whatever else she was about to say.
“I have plans for Primrose.”
Exsqueeze me? He did not just say that—and not in that tone. I might be prone to fantasies of being exposed but that doesn’t mean I really want to be!
“Plans?” I don’t sound too happy about it, even though thrill races up my spine. “With the children?” I add, hoping to steer Zoe away.
“Felix, could you please help your sister to put on her boots?”
“Ouais.”
Sylvie is similarly attired to her dad, but Felix has on jeans. Maybe because he’s reached that stage of development where his legs are as thin as string beans. But the pair trot off as Luc drains his cup.
“Perhaps another time, Zoe. I have a surprise tonight for the children, and I require Primrose’s help.”
“Oh, sure.” She nods because no one wants to bite the hand that writes your paycheck. And because I don’t want to upset her, I slide her a disappointed look.
“Six o’clock” He turns to me, her words almost a warning. “Please have the children ready for then.”
My pulse gives a traitorous little kick as he turns to leave. “Yes, of course. Absolutely.” Anything else I can do for you? Anything?
“Have a good day, Zoe,” he murmurs as he turns. “Until later, Primevère.”
My entire body intuits his promise as he strides from the room taking my eyes with him. Glued to his bum. I was correct; those riding duds are no less problematic from behind.
Zoe clears her throat, and I whip back to face her. “Primevère?”
Shit—he said that?
“I know—what the hell?” I bluster, shoving my hands into the pockets of my shorts. “Does that bloke not even know my name?”
“Fuck that guy,” Zoe mutters, pouring a liberal amount of the estate’s own olive oil onto a tray of dough. “I’d put Ex-Lax in this focaccia if it wasn’t for the chance of the kids eating it.”
“It’s fine,” I say, my smile wobbling. “We’ll go out another time.”
“Yeah, but everyone is going tonight, and I wanted to introduce you to all the guys.”
“All the guys?”
“Everyone loves Emmy,” she says, not really listening as she massages the dough into the tray’s corners with experienced fingers. “I wanted you to see that.”
“Emmy is extremely lovable.” I don’t say nothing else. Let sleeping dogs lie, and all that.
I mean, technically, I haven’t lied to her; Luc has. But that doesn’t make me feel any less sneaky sitting here, assuming this crestfallen expression while it feels like something is doing a congo in my knickers. But I’m allowed to put myself first sometimes. I think.
And it’s like Lavender says, sometimes a girl doesn’t need romance. Or socializing, in this case. What she needs is to be folded like yesterday’s laundry by a man with a little life experience. And do hope he has a few more tricks up his sleeves.
My whole reproductive system seems to flip at the thought.
Friend, hurry up and get this bread in the oven so I can go upstairs and shave my lady bits.
“Damn.” Her expression goes momentarily blank, then puzzled. “Where the heck did I put it?”
“What are you looking for?” From the other side of the island, I pre-emptively sit straighter in my chair.
Her head suddenly comes up. “Rose, I’m giving you permission to take a break from being the bigger person. Choose violence,” she says with a little of that in her tone.
“What?” The word and laughter, bursts from me.
“You don’t have to be so damned reasonable about the boss’s highhandedness!”
I stifle a smile. She’s basically me. Skin burstingly frustrated with M. LDH. Just because I’ve passed that point today doesn’t mean I won’t be back there tomorrow, even if my feelings toward him seem a little different somehow. Feelings—that other F word.
“It’s fine, honestly,” I say, noping out of that thought pattern. Feelings, schmeelings! “We’ll make time to go out before I leave, promise.”
“I don’t want Emmy to think I didn’t show you a good time.”
“Emmy knows you’ve made me feel welcome, because you have.”
“Which is more than can be said for some people.” Her words are sharply edged. “I love my job, but sometimes I get tired of cooking for people I could easily poison.”
“Oh, dear.” I try not to snicker.
“Such a contrast. Sometimes, I look at him, and I think, I’d hit that. And other times, I think I’d hit that. With my car.”
“You… fancy him?”
“What?” Her expression recoils. “God, no. But, I mean, I do have eyes.” And those eyes return to her search for whatever it is she’s missing. As she swipes away a dish towel, a dish of whole garlic cloves scatter across the countertop. “Dammit! And where in the hell did I put the rosemary?”
“Want me to grab some from the herb garden?”
“Would you mind?” She gives a wiggle of her olive-oiled fingers. “I’ll just prep the other one,” she says, pulling another bowl of dough from under the counter.
“No probs. Rosemary,” I repeat like a kid being sent to the corner store with a list. I climb from my stool and, scissors in hand, I make my way out into the shade of the herb garden.
I wander between the raised beds in no particular hurry, naming the herbs in my head.
Basil in the shade, thyme next to it, parsley and lemon verbena spilling over the sides of terracotta pots.
The sun dapples my arms, its rays defused by a hessian shade cloth as a breeze suddenly shimmers through the space, making the leaves of a potted bay tree shake.
It’s so peaceful, soft sun, lazy buzzing bees, and the crunch of gravel underfoot. I should feel relaxed after an easy morning, at ease. But there’s a restless current running beneath my skin. It’s an awareness of the hours still to pass, and an impatience for waits on the other side.
Tonight. Just the thought makes something flutter inside me. I smile because I can, because there’s no one around to ask why, or to tell me I look like an idiot.
I’ve just cut through some woody rosemary stems when Sylvie comes tearing around the corner. Still in her riding clothes, her boots kicking up the pale earth on the way to the boot room. “Primrose!” Her arms flung around my waist; she smells of sweet sweat and grass. “Horse riding was so fun.”
“That’s good, poppet. I’m happy you enjoyed it.”
“We saw a goat on a cliff! A steep cliff. Papa said they live there and that they have very good balance, but I think it was stuck.”
“He’s probably right.”
“And now I’m so hungry. I’m going to ask Zoe to make me a snack.”
“She’s in the kitchen.”
“Bon. And then I will go swimming. With Papa.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Will you come and watch?”
“We’ll see.” Or in other words, no. Last time was enough.
“Felix thinks he can beat me there.”
“Well, he probably can.” She frowns before I add. “His legs are longer.”
“Hmph.”
“Because that’s okay. You can do things that he can’t.”
“Like draw a horse,” she says, somewhat mollified. Or so I thought. “I’m going to try to beat him anyway.” With a quick squeeze of my waist, she dashes into the kitchen.
Seconds later, Felix follows at a run. “Last one in is a loser,” he bellows.
“Felix,” I don’t quite chastise. “Can’t you let your sister win this one time?”
“Ah, merde. I mean—” His eyes fly wide.
I bend to the rosemary again. “I didn’t hear a thing.”
He gives a laugh and the door slams. Silence settles over the garden again. Well, not quite silence. Footsteps over the gravel. I keep my attention firmly on the rosemary, even as excitement and trepidation swims through my insides with each of his measure steps.
His shadow falls over me, but he says nothing. So neither do I, though I am very careful not to chop off my trembling fingers.