‘I walked into that.’
‘Sadly, not literally,’ said Luc, eyeing the gap between the two balconies before giving a mock wistful sigh. ‘How’s your afternoon been? I missed you.’
Her heart did a funny salmon leap.
‘Okay. How about you?’
‘I’d rather have been with you. Alphonse isn’t anywhere near as pretty as you to look at.’
Unused to compliments, Hattie laughed. ‘I hope you didn’t tell him that, you might have hurt his feelings.’
Luc’s face softened. ‘I think he might have guessed from my goofy face that I spent most of my time imagining kissing a certain cute Englishwoman.’
Her heart had surely just turned to mush. Any moment now her knees were going to give up on her. ‘I ought to go and get ready for dinner,’ she said, her eyes inadvertently straying to his chest again. She was a coward but if she had to look at half-naked Luc any longer she might spontaneously combust. She rose clutching the towel tightly. She thought she’d done quite well to have a conversation without once checking it was still secure.
‘See you soon,’ said Luc, and his eyes twinkled, full of wicked promise. She couldn’t wait.
ChapterSeventeen
Hattie walked into the kitchen wearing her best dress, enjoying the feeling of the fabric floating about her legs, Fliss had also changed and was wearing white linen trousers and a neat navy T-shirt.
‘Nice frock,’ said Fliss topping up the empty wine glass Hattie carried before filling her own.
‘Ta. You look nice, too.’
‘I thought we’d eat outside on the patio this evening. There’s a lovely big wooden table out there and it’s been such a lovely day.’
‘Good plan.’
‘So you can go lay the table.’
‘Yes, boss,’ said Hattie.
They grinned and toasted each other. Hattie realised it was actually rather nice having another woman around – someone who already felt like a friend. She’d lost touch with most of hers in the last few years and while she hadn’t had time to acknowledge it, she had been lonely.
Taking a handful of cutlery, she exited through the wide French doors onto the pale stone patio, coloured with patches of yellow lacey lichen. As she brushed past the needle fingers of a rosemary plant, so vigorous it seemed to be climbing out of its terracotta pot, the pungent woody scent perfumed the air. She paused for a moment. Sunlight crept through a vine-covered pergola, dappling the stone. Herbs – basil, oregano, thyme, chives and many more she didn’t recognise – were arranged around the corners of the patio in curving sweeps of varying sized terracotta pots. Just off centre the wooden table was beneath the pergola, perfectly positioned to take in the view over the valley.
This would be the ideal place for the bridal party to assemble before the ceremony. It was hidden behind a wing of the château, so small and private. Pleased that another piece of her jigsaw had fallen into place, Hattie laid the table, humming under her breath.
She returned to the kitchen just as Alphonse swaggered in. She watched him in surprise. Although a big man, when she’d met him before, although definitely masculine, he’d been a lot more understated. The swagger was new and exaggerated.
‘Something smells good. What are we having?’ he asked, starting to tug open one of the oven doors to find out.
‘No! You idiot,’ screamed Fliss from the patio doorway. ‘What are you doing?’
She rushed over and pushed his bulk out of the way.
The two of them stood glaring at each other, practically snarling, as Hattie involuntarily stepped forward as if to intervene.
‘God save me from interfering fools like this who think it’s okay to go around opening ovens willy nilly. What were you thinking?’
Alphonse, had he had a better day, Hattie suspected might not have reacted in quite the way he did, but at her words, he puffed himself up like a wood pigeon. ‘What was I thinking? This is my mother’s kitchen. She’s never had a problem with me in here before.’
‘I don’t have a problem with you being in here, per se. I have a problem with you opening the oven.’
Alphonse responded with a short, terse comment in French. Unfortunately, he’d underestimated Fliss’s command of his native tongue.
‘Who are you calling a spoilt princess?’ she spat in response.
