Dion leans in close and points at the roof. “I signed it for her.”
“You had to do the smallest handwriting!”
“I know,” he replies with a chuckle.
“Thank you so much,” I say as Étienne walks back outside.
He passes Dion a beer, retaining one for himself, and then he drags his chair closer to mine and sits down, slinging his arm around my shoulders.
I breathe in sharply and turn to look at him in surprise. Is he playing?
“Ça va?” he asks quietly, his eyes half hidden behind several dark curls. He leans in and presses a kiss to my mouth.
My lips fizz as though I’ve been drinking Eau de Sainte Églantine.
I feel Jackson’s eyes on us. I try my hardest not to glance his way, but I can’t help it. He looks stunned.
“What do you think of the key ring?” Étienne asks.
“Mellie’s going to love it. Thank you. Oh! I’ve got something for you, actually,” I say as I remember. He lifts his arm as I grab my bag from under the table, pulling the pin badge out of the inside zip pocket.
“Where did you find this?” he asks with a smile as he takes the tiny Michelin Man.
“At Aiguèze in an antique shop. We went there today.”
“Who? You and Mellie?”
I nod. “And Jackson, his mum, and Albert.”
Jackson glances over at the mention of his name. He and Dion had been talking about the Tour de France—it’s the final stage tomorrow.
“Merci,” he says. “It’s cute.” He meets my eyes again, and then he reaches out and tucks my hair behind my ear.
I still don’t know if we’re playing.
But I suddenly want so badly for it to be real.
I lift my hand up and brush the curls out of his eyes. The tiny scar on his eyebrow is revealed. I trace my thumb over it and he flinches and drags his fingers through his hair to set his curls back in place. He reaches for his beer.
Okay, so he didn’t like that.
I awkwardly pick up my wine. He takes a swig of his beer, places the bottle down on the table, and then he takes my free hand and moves it to his lap, giving it a gentle squeeze before he reaches for his beer again.
Jackson can’t even see the hand that’s under the table.
But I still have no idea if we’re playing.
The four of us sit and chat and order a couple of sharing platters for the table and another round of drinks. Every so often, Étienne rests his hand on top of mine. And the feeling that I had in Mellie’s car earlier—of getting invested—increases.
I really like him.
“Are we still going to Les Saules tomorrow?” I ask when Jackson and Dion are distracted.
“If you want to,” he replies.
“What jobs are next on the list?”
He hesitates. “I wondered about boxing some things up.” He’s talking about his mum’s belongings.
