‘The night of our lives, you say?’ I said, my voice low and teasing.
‘Well, it’s not over yet,’ he quipped, his voice equally soft.
I felt an intense fizzing sensation in places I definitely shouldn’t have been having such a visceral reaction. Every part of me felt alive, engaged, turned on. Was he flirting with me? Or was it my imagination playing tricks on me because it no longer knew what was real and what wasn’t?
I busied myself getting my phone out of my bag. ‘Come on, then,’ I said, shifting in my seat and manoeuvring the phone so that we were both in shot.
‘Ready?’ I said.
Marcus slid his arm around my shoulders. I felt myself go rigid under his touch and he must have felt it too, because I could sense him looking at me out of the corner of his eye.
‘You do know we’re going to have to make this look authentic?’ he said.
‘Obviously,’ I said. ‘I’m still fiddling with the shot,’ I added as an excuse, flustered now.
The truth was that being this close to him was making me nervous. His thigh had literally slid up against mine, and his fingers, which were draped casually over my shoulder, were gently stroking the top of my bare arm. All of a sudden I was hyper aware of every single movement, the tiniest adjustment he made to his position. Needing to getthis over with as quickly as possible, I dipped my head, pretending to nestle into him, noticing how broad his chest was, how he smelled so good, like the expensive perfume I’d caught on the wind in Monaco, something woody and exotic and out-and-out sexy. I breathed it in, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath my cheek. The feel of his cashmere jumper on my skin was so soft and comforting that part of me wanted to say to hell with the photo and just curl into him and stay there, and to be fair he didn’t seem to be in a particular hurry to move either, and was still stroking me, his fingers applying more pressure than they had before.
‘Ready?’ I said, my voice light and breathy.
‘Mmm,’ he said, looking at the camera and smiling in the almost-not-smiling way I’d seen him do for publicity shots.
I snapped away, three, four, five photos.
‘I think I’ve got it,’ I said, not moving.
‘Good,’ he said, not moving either.
I put my phone in my lap, and sat up straight, still not wanting to move. I did a quick sweep of my fellow bakers, but seeing as they all thought we were a couple anyway, they weren’t giving our selfie-taking a second glance. I noticed that we didn’t look at each other for quite some time after that, pretending instead to be riveted by the conversation about croissant recipes and best patisseries in Paris and where to buy macarons to take home. We chatted easily about tennis – a subject I found myself genuinely wanting to know more about. Marcus felt under pressure to win the following day. He said that clay might not be his best surface, but if he wanted his opponents to see him as any kind of threat going into grass season, he had to do well at Roland-Garros, and that meant quarters at the very least.
And then a buzzer sounded and Colette announced that we must all return to our ovens to reveal our finished baguettes.
When we left the shop, Marcus suggested a walk around Place des Vosges and I jumped at the chance.
‘That would be a hard yes, because honestly? I’ve never eaten that much bread in one sitting in my entire life,’ I groaned.
‘Same,’ said Marcus. ‘And I’m begging you, don’t breathe a word of this to Patrick. He likes me to eat lean protein the night before a match. Do you reckon baguette and butter counts?’
‘Course it does,’ I said, feeling satiated and relaxed after one of the nicest evenings I’d had for a long time. The company had been spectacular – Colette, my fellow bakers and, of course Marcus, who had opened up to me in ways I’d never expected, at least not yet. And I’d learned something practical – I fully intended to cook more baguettes the second I got home and thought I could quite happily live on homemade bread and butter for dinner until further notice.
A low moon hung just above the steep slate roofs of the gorgeous peach stone, seventeenth-century townhouses lining the square. Marcus made me stop to post the photo of the two of us in the restaurant on Instagram because he thought I might talk myself out of doing it.
‘Also, it’s called Insta-gram for a reason – you’re supposed to post as things happen, not hours later,’ said Marcus.
‘Nobody does that anymore,’ I complained.
‘Well, I wantyouto,’ he said, looking pointedly at my phone.
He was asking me to splash our selfie all over my social media feed when it wasn’t my thing at all to gush about how wonderful my life was when that was only ever half the story, and these photos made it look as though my world was one big Parisian love fest. In order to keep it real, I should really be showing all the bad stuff, too, like ... my mind had gone blank ... obviously not everything had been perfect since I’d arrived in Paris. And yet, I couldn’t think of a single thing I hadn’t enjoyed. The hotel was adorable, the service impeccable, Marcus’s team were far less intimidating now I was getting to know them better, the tennis was unexpectedly fun to watch, especially from plush front-rowseats where I felt as though I was living every point vicariously through the players. And Marcus. Marcus was ... more charming than the British press would have us believe, and I fully intended to redress the balance, but all in good time.
‘Fine, I’ll post it now,’ I said, a thought popping into my head. ‘But only if you do, too.’
Marcus laughed off my suggestion. ‘I’m barely on Instagram.’
‘You have one hundred and sixty-six thousand followers,’ I said. ‘I checked. And no, I’m not stalking you. That’s one hundred and sixty thousand more than I’ve got. So if I’m going to announce our relationship to my friends, family and followers, then so are you,’ I insisted, daring him to disagree.
He tutted, pulling his phone out of his pocket. ‘You strike a hard bargain, Ava Whitfield.’
I pinged him across what I thought was the most flattering shot. Of me, that was – he of course looked stunning in all five of them.
