I glance at her. She gives me an impish look and I can’t help but laugh.
“It’ll all come out in the wash,” she says reassuringly, patting my back. “You look lovely, by the way.”
I’ve washed my hair and have blasted it straight and I’m wearing an emerald-green above-knee-length dress with red lipstick.
I wrap my arm around her waist and give her a squeeze. “So do you.”
I feel a bit more like myself when we arrive at Château Angèle, but it’s still hard to look at Jackson. Mellie asks Sandrine about the hotel she’s been to check out for a possible Thermalisme extension.
Sandrine turns her nose up. “It’s nothing special. I prefer the garage.”
Okay, enough of this. I need to nip Sandrine’s vision in the bud once and for all. “So Étienne, who owns Garage du Rallye,” I say, prompting everyone to look at me. “His mother is the artist who painted Sainte Églantine.”
“And?” Sandrine regards me with impatience.
“One of her paintings is on the outside wall of the building,” I explain. “Étienne is sentimental. He won’t sell the garage because he won’t want it to be painted over.”
She waves her hand dismissively and points at the house bell on the wall. “More champagne, darling,” she prompts Jackson before turning to her father and saying something in French that I think translates to:I’m bored of this conversation.
Albert looks uncomfortable as he changes the subject.
As soon asI’m able to, I escape to the balcony for some fresh air. The sun hasn’t set yet and soft swaths of pink and blue drift across the sky like candy floss.
I hear Mellie, Albert, and Sandrine relocating to the living room.
Jackson joins me. “Sorry about Mom,” he says gruffly, coming to stand right beside me. He rests his elbows on the balustrade.
“You don’t have to apologize for your mother,” I reply, edging away to put distance between us. “But why doesn’t Albert ever speak up when she’s rude?”
I love him to bits, but it’s frustrating to see how he panders to her.
“He was always too scared, I think. Maybe he was worried that if he upset her she’d bundle me up and take me back to America, never to be seen again. I think it’s a habit now that he struggles to break.”
I turn to look at him. “Why weren’t they close, when you first came here when you were seven?” It had been four years since Sandrine had last brought him to France. “What happened?”
His eyebrows pull together. “From what I understand, Mom grew up playing second fiddle to her brother and she resented it. She got married to my dad and moved to America to teach them all a lesson. Albie doesn’t fly so he could only see me when Mom felt like bringing me over.”
“I can’t imagine Albert favoring a son at your mum’s expense.”
“Neither can I,” he admits. “I’m not sure he did. I think Mom’s just extraordinarily needy.”
I smile at him. He smiles back at me. I’ve felt myself thawing as he’s opened up.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his smile fading. “I’m sorry about what I said.”
I release a long breath and turn to look at the view again, folding my forearms and resting them before me on the cool stone.
“But itdidwork,” he says, adopting the same pose.
“What worked?” I ask mechanically.
“It did make me jealous.” As he says this, his fingers come down on top of mine.
My stomach kick-flips and I glance at him with shock. His eyes meet mine, glinting beneath his brown lashes. He turns to face me properly, leaning his hip against the balustrade. I feel deeply on edge as he stares at me, so tall, so broad, soJackson.
But my mind whispers,Étienne.
His free hand comes up to touch my jaw.
