“I’ll see you tomorrow?” I ask awkwardly.
He nods, averting his gaze. “See you tomorrow,” he replies brusquely, moving some papers around on his desk.
Mellie’s Clio is on the forecourt, looking all clean and shiny with brand-new tires, but the garage is locked up. I wander down the hill to Étienne’s apartment. All the doors are wide open so I see him as he comes out of his bathroom, drying his hair with a towel. He’s wearing shorts, but his chest is bare, and my pulse speeds up as he comes over to greet me with two cheek kisses. He nods at Mellie’s keys on the coffee table.
“How much do we owe you?”
“Nothing,” he replies.
“Étienne!” I chastise with a laugh. “That’s no way to run a business.”
“You’ve been helping me at Les Saules,” he says with a shrug. “That’s how it works with friends.”
At least he considers us that much.
“You want a drink?” he asks over his shoulder as he wanders back into the kitchen.
“Sure.” I pick up Mellie’s car keys and drop them into my bag. “I’ve actually been thinking about another way that I might be able to help,” I say as I follow him.
He glances at me, waiting for me to go on.
“You’re not on Instagram.” I don’t mean personally—obviously I did a deep dive into that weeks ago, as any respectable single girl would—I’m talking about Garage du Rallye. “I’ve been overhauling Eau de Sainte Églantine’s website and social media channels and it’s got me thinking about your business. I wondered if you could show people the restoration process—there’s such a demand online for that sort of thing.” And there’s obviously a huge market for his cool retro cars. “I have no idea if you want to expand, but I thought it might help you to reach buyers further afield.”
Word has obviously spread about his showroom parties, but he might not always want to host them.
“Léo has been saying a similar thing,” he says thoughtfully as he opens the fridge. “He takes a lot of photos.”
“Well, that’s perfect! If he’d be happy to share them with me, I could set it all up.”
“Don’t you have enough work to do?” he asks with amusement, bringing out a couple of ciders and offering one up to me with a questioning look.
“I don’t mind. I’d like to help.” I shake my head at the cider. “I should probably stick to something soft as I’m driving home.”
“Drive back in the morning,” he suggests casually.
I try to keep a straight face as I pretend to contemplate this. “I suppose I could.”
He smiles and sets the ciders aside before taking two steps across his tiny kitchen and bracing his hands against the worktop on either side of me. His hair is damp, clean, and curly—andwhatever he used to wash himself with smells out of this world. As his lips tug up at the corners, my heart slips out of my chest and falls at his feet. I try to ignore it, figuring I’ll get it back eventually.
Or maybe I won’t.
Over the nextweek, Étienne consumes most of my waking thoughts—and most of my unconscious ones too. I’m falling hard and fast and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.
It doesn’t matter how much I repeat his warning back to myself, it doesn’t take effect.
I’m not someone who gives up easily anyway so I can’t help but think that I might be able to bring down his defenses. I know he’s scared about giving his heart away again and getting hurt, but I’m not Eve. We just need to go slowly.
On Sunday, Dion and Charles come to help with the garden. I’m only half surprised to hear that they haven’t visited the house in years. They’ve all been friends since they were kids, but they stopped coming round when Estelle got too tired to handle callers.
I get stuck into the weeds by the strawberry patch and soon realize that there’s a terrace underneath. Meanwhile, the men attack the brambles and then strim and mow the grass. We all swim in the river afterward and drink cold ciders on the bank and then Étienne kayaks me back to town—it’s the first time he’s done this since we were seventeen.
I’m supposed to be having dinner at the château, but I’ve run out of time to go home and get changed. I don’t mind. My blond hair has dried into natural waves after the dip in the river and my skin is glowing with a golden tan. I feel beautiful: happy and carefree.
By coincidence, Jackson happens to be driving past as we arrive at the landing point. He pulls over and gets out of his BMW, hanging his arms over the bridge railings and watching us with a smile.
I wave up at him.
“Hey!” he says. “You need a lift?”
