“There’s another painting like this somewhere in town. I remember seeing it when I was a little girl. I think it was on the other side of the river.” It was over twenty years ago, but I still recall how it calmed me when I got lost.
“She painted a few,” he replies. “There are four in total, but you have to know where to look.”
“Is she Sainte Églantine?” I remember that’s what Mellie called her.
“Yeah. At least, my mother’s interpretation of her. But she only wrote the name on one of her paintings.”
“That must have been the one I saw because it’s how Mellie referred to her. Is it near the factory?”
“Yes, on the back wall of a restaurant.” He hesitates. “I can show you if you want.”
“That would be great,” I reply enthusiastically. “Will you show me the others too?”
He gives me a small smile. “Sure.”
My insides warm. If hehasbeen keeping me at a distance all these years, I sense that his resolve is weakening.
“Drink?” he asks.
“I think Jackson’s got one for me downstairs,” I reply as we walk back into the party.
“He’s not downstairs, he’s over there with Nina.” He nods toward the spiral staircase where Jackson is talking to a gorgeous blond girl. He laughs at something she’s said. “I don’t think he’s missed you,” Étienne adds nonchalantly.
“No,” I agree with irritation, shooting him a sidelong look. “I don’t suppose you’re feeling competitive?”
It’s out of my mouth before I can think twice about it, but he shrugs and nods, entertained. “I’m always feeling competitive.”
He puts his hand on my lower back and steers me in the direction of the car bar. Suddenly I’m thinking less about Jackson and more about the firm press of his palm, but then the contact is gone as he’s intercepted by a middle-aged man in a white shirt.
I carry on alone. It’s packed up here now, but I can still see Jackson with the girl on the other side of the room. I grab a bottle of blissfully ice-cold water and down the whole thing before launching it into the recycling bin and turning and crashing straight into Étienne. With my palms braced against his chest, he leans in close.
“You’re kind of hot when you’re angry,” he says directly into my ear.
My heart thumps in time with the beat as he pulls back by only a few inches, his eyes glittering. His dark hair is clinging to his damp brow and disco lights are flashing in his pupils. He reaches past me to pull a bottle of beer out of the trunk of the car and his chest brushes against mine, but before I can take a step backward, he places his free hand on my lower back, holding me in place.
Okay, he is very good at this flirting thing.
“You still haven’t explained why you kept me a secret,” he says.
“Andyoustill haven’t explained why you never hunted me out to say hi.” I’m not just deflecting, I’m genuinely upset.
His eyes narrow as he pulls back to look at me. Could he hear the hurt in my voice?
“There you are!” Jackson interrupts, making me jump. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“Oh, hi.” I sound dazed—I’m not acting.
“Came to get your own drink, did you?” he asks as he grabs himself a beer.
“Just water. I was thirsty.”
“Blame Brett” by the Beaches suddenly comes blaring out of the giant speaker.
“Oh, I love this song!” I exclaim.
“Dance with me.” He snatches my hand and tugs me into the crowd.
I glance over my shoulder at Étienne and give him a sheepish shrug. He cocks an eyebrow and takes a swig of his beer.
