‘Allow me, indulge me, just one moment.’
She looked up at him, her hand hovering in mid-air.
‘Why? Don’t tell me I have to leave it to cool for half an hour?’
‘Non, you can eat, but you must savour it, taste a little bit, sip some wine, allow the flavours to reveal themselves to you slowly. We have no rush. It is, maybe, just a simple onion tart, but it is complex and, I hope, delicious.’
Her eyes gleamed and he felt strongly drawn to her, wishing he could push aside the food and kiss her, then apply his slowly, slowly philosophy to peeling off her shirt, revealing that pearly skin…
‘Léo?’
He jumped.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Ah, yes, yes, sorry, I was just thinking about…’
‘Yes?’
‘Salad! You mustn’t forget the salad.’
‘Right.’
He sensed he was losing his audience.
‘Bon, time to eat, come on.’
They both took a fork, and he was pleased to see that she paid attention to what he had said to her, taking her time over the first mouthful, then letting the wine complement it, in silence. He tried some himself and was happy with what he had made. It was soft and sweet but still tangy, and worked so beautifully with the delicate wine. Heaven. He looked at Juliet again, finding it hard to read her face. But then a glorious smile spread across it, one he wished he could see or, even better, bring about more often.
‘Oh, Léo.’
Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat.
‘Léo, that is unbelievably good. I was humouring you, really, with the bite thing but…wow. How on earth do you get so many flavours just from some pastry and a few onions?’
He didn’t want to point out, while things were going so well, that there were a few more ingredients, and twenty-five years’ experience behind the onions and pastry.
‘I’m glad you like it. Very glad. And the wine?’
‘Amazing. I’ve never really believed it could makethatmuch of a difference. I mean, I’m usually happy to swig down whatever I’m given, but these flavoursworktogether. Even an amateur like me can tell that.’
Léo gave an exaggerated shudder.
‘Mon dieu!Philistine.’
To his relief, she laughed.
‘I know, bad, isn’t it? But you’re going to spoil me; now I’m going to have to learn about more delicious food and wine pairings.’
She flicked him the briefest of glances from behind her lowered lashes, and he felt a jolt in his stomach. Was the ice queenflirtingwith him? He kept watching her, but it was as if he had imagined it, as she carried on eating and changed thesubject to start talking about the photographs she had taken that day. Maybe hehadimagined it? Maybe it was better to believe that he had. His good resolutions to avoid Juliet – and all women, particularly ones he wanted to rescue – were fast dissolving, and he knew that would do nobody any good at all.
ELEVEN
The next morning, despite being tired from the day before, Juliet woke early. When she glanced at the clock, she groaned and tried to snuggle down for another couple of hours’ sleep, but after flinging herself from one side to the other, plumping and flipping her pillow and feeling as if her pyjamas were twisting themselves around her like a determined boa constrictor, she conceded that she was going to have to get up. Even then, she found herself pacing the floor of her small dwelling, dissatisfied with anything on TV and throwing her book across the room in frustration as she read the same paragraph four times and didn’t take in what was happening even once. Work might help, she supposed, but when she flicked on the laptop, she was faced with row after neat row of photos of Léo, and she slammed it shut in irritation. Eventually, she settled for standing twitchily in front of the window with a coffee, staring at the unfolding morning and trying to push away images of the previous day, which flashed persistently into her head. She could see Léo vividly, one moment his face still with concentration, the next crinkling with laughter. She felt the touch of his hand burning into her arm as he reached out to stop her eating and exhort her to savour her food, not rush it. Her stomach flipped again, as violently asit had at the time, and she wished she had something stronger than coffee to try and suppress it. Although, she conceded, it was a bit early. Realising her cup was empty, and with nothing to occupy her, she decided to go up to the house. Breakfast preparations would be underway by now, and she could pretend she had had a fit of helpfulness. Anything to stop her standing there agitating for a moment longer.
‘Morning, Dad.’
‘Juliet! Good morning.’ Her father came over and gave her a kiss. ‘It’s very early for you, are you feeling well? We missed you at supper last night.’
