I manage to keep a straight face for the several seconds it takes Jackson to follow my lead. And then I hide behind my own menu and smile.
8
Jackson texts me the followingday, right after lunch:Are you coming to the pool today?
Am I invited?I text back.
I can imagine his frown as I read his reply:You’re always invited. You know that.
I’ll see you in a bit, I tap out with a smile.
He hearts the comment.
I ask Mellie if she’s up for a swim, but she’s having a lie-down. “It’s the hottest part of the day,” she says disapprovingly. “Have you got a rash vest?”
“No, Mellie, but I’ll—”
“Put plenty of sunscreen on.” She talks over me as I say the exact same thing. “And wear a hat.”
“I will,” I assure her, reminding myself to be grateful that she cares.
Rash vests were the bane of my life when I was younger. While Chloe pranced around in string bikinis, I was strongly encouraged to wear what was effectively a baggy gray long-sleeved T-shirt. I didn’t like to disappoint my grandmother, but even when I daredto risk her wrath by taking the rash vest off, all I had on underneath was the sensible one-piece my mother had insisted I buy.
Now I can wear what I want. And I added a new bikini to my shopping list when I went on my recent spree.
I’m a little buzzy as I change into the fiery-orange two-piece: the top ties at my cleavage and the bottom at my hips. The color will look better with a tan, but it’s still the sexiest swimming costume I’ve ever owned.
I also bought a long sky-blue cover-up dress with a slit up the side, gold sandals, and a wide-brimmed hat. I’ve spent the last few years pretty much going from boring work suits straight into weekend casual wear so I feel like I’ve been tuned up to the max as I stuff my bright pink beach towel into my yellow beach bag and leave the house.
It’s sweltering today and by the time I reach Château Angèle, I’m hot and sweaty and my feet are filthy from traipsing along the dusty verge. If Jackson notices, however, he doesn’t show it. His grin when he spots me is blinding.
“Hey,” he calls as he gets up from a sun lounger and rakes his chestnut hair off his face, biceps on full display.
Acres of golden skin approach. He’s wearing cream swimming trunks, dark sunglasses, and nothing else.
“I’m so hot,” I say restlessly, dragging my eyes up from his six-pack as he leans in to give me a hug.
“I’ll get you a drink. What do you want?” he asks as he pulls away.
“I’ve got a bottle of water in my bag.” I avert my warm face to rummage around for it, irritated that I’ve found myself on the back foot again.
“Fuck that, you’re on vacation. Let’s live it up. How about a glass of something interesting?”
“Okay, I’ll have a Diet Coke with ice.”
“Boring, but fine. Back in a sec.”
My eyes stick to him like glue as he jogs toward the house. He’s even more ripped than he used to be.
He was distracted last night after we returned to the table. He kept looking through the window at the bar. It was extremely satisfying, but when I eventually chanced a peek over my shoulder, in place of Étienne was a girl in a black tank top with a sleeve of tattoos.
“I think his shift ended,” Jackson told me. “That girl came in and gave him a hug and then he took off.” He added, teasingly, “But if you’re keen, maybe you could get his number from the waitress.”
“And destroy this illusion?” I indicated the two of us, the candle. “It would break her heart.”
He laughed and picked up his knife and fork. We’d both gone for steak frites; he’d asked for his to be incinerated.
“Much as I’d love to have a holiday romance with a hot bartender…” I let my voice trail off, secretly determining to come back to chat with Étienne another time. No way was I letting him disappear off my radar again.
