Oh, God… where hadthatthought come from?
Sophie knew where. It was a splinter from long-forgotten dreams that had been buried deeply under a mix of deep shame and guilt and the determination that they would be the best-kept secret ever.
That determination was still there. She wasn’t about tofaire la biseand brush an air kiss or three to his cheeks. A hug was out of the question. Even a polite handshake was not going to happen. Sophie had never—wouldnever touch this man in real life. Eye contact was as close as she was going to get and even that would be minimal and well-guarded.
This was a totally unexpected collision of her past and present and it had to be the worst possible time and place for it to be happening. The small tables had been covered with crisp white linen cloths and each had a vase of white flowers as a centrepiece. Small clouds of white gypsophila were being tied with pieces of silk ribbon to where the thin, flexible strips of oak crossed in the back rests of the chairs. Silver cutlery and crystal glasses were being brought out, catching the sunlight to add a sparkle that brought the whole scene to life.
It couldn’t be anything other than a wedding.
How ironic that this was where she was facing Luc Moreau for the first time since…
No. She couldn’t tap into any of that again today. Not even for a heartbeat. Preferably not ever again. With a flash of desperation, Sophie turned her head. Tilly was on the other side of the terrace, checking a sample table layout. She was adjusting the position of a fork or spoon, perhaps, but she looked up sharply, as if she had sensed the glance.
Sophie tried to send a telepathic message to her friend.
I need you. Like… now!
‘How are you, Sophie?’ Luc asked.
‘I’m fine.’ Her tone was clipped. Icy, even. ‘You?’
He simply dipped his head. A silent agreement. Or possibly a refusal to answer a personal question. That was also fine by her. She wouldn’t ask another.
‘I hear you run Marry Me in Provence?’
‘I do.’ The appropriateness of her response, given the surroundings, was not lost on Luc. He gave a soft snort. ‘Makes sense, I suppose.’
Sophie stiffened. ‘Why?’
He wasn’t looking at her now. He was gazing up at the château. ‘Oh, I don’t know…’ His voice dropped to a level that suggested he didn’t intend his next words to be heard. ‘Unfinished business?’
Thank heavens Tilly arrived by her side before Sophie had time to wonder whether that was a reference to something other than the obvious fact that she’d never been able to attend her own wedding. Surely he couldn’t be hinting at what had been buried in the same instant that it had surfaced? Something that was still as unlikely to be acknowledged as it would be for them to voluntarily touch each other.
‘Bonjour,’ Tilly said, with a smile. She had a talent for not appearing star-struck by any celebrity she met. ‘I am Mathilde. Sophie’s assistant.’
‘Enchanté.’
‘Could you take Phoenix up to meet Zara, please, Tilly?’ Sophie deliberately used a tone that would alert Tilly to the significance of her request. ‘I have a rather urgent phone call I need to make.’
It was true, Sophie reminded herself. She needed to ring the hospital in Nice and find out how Greg was doing. Never mind that she desperately needed a little time to herself to try and find a solid footing for a day that had just been disrupted by a rather large bomb being detonated, leaving shards of her past to float slowly down around her like tiny feathers.
‘Of course. Come with me, Monsieur Phénix.’
But Luc didn’t move. ‘I’d like some time,’ he said. ‘To scan for backdrops. May I walk for a while? Is there a limit to my access?’
Tilly’s glance at Sophie was a little uncertain. Did she have the authority to allow access to parts of the venue they hadn’t used in the past?
‘Take him to meet Madame Fournier,’ Sophie said to Tilly. ‘She’s the head housekeeper for the château,’ she told Luc. ‘I’ll call her to let her know you’re on your way and that we would appreciate permission for access to any areas that are not prohibited for personal or safety reasons.’
‘I’ll give you my phone number,’ she heard Tilly say to Luc as she led him towards the tall doors. ‘You can call me as soon as you’re ready to meet our bride, Zara. You may know of her? She’s an influencer…’
Tilly’s voice faded. Sophie rang the housekeeper and then rang the biggest public hospital in Nice.
‘Gregory Glasson,’ she told the person she was put through to in the cardiology department. ‘Je suis sa fille.’
It was a lie but she wouldn’t be able to get any information about his condition if they didn’t believe she was close family, and having an accent would help, even if it was English, not Scottish. She’d felt like his daughter for long enough to make it seem convincing, as well. Especially in recent years following the loss of her real dad – the man who’d devoted himself to raising her alone after he’d lost the love of his life when their daughter was only a child – but Greg had been a father figure from the time they first began working together, when she lacked experience or adequate funding or a place to call home. When she’d lacked the ability to see any joy in the future or what direction she should be going in.
When all she’d had was the vision of being able to give other people something she would never be able to have herself.
