“Iwouldlike,” I reply, happy to have my old friend back. “Shall we exchange numbers? And could we make a plan to go and see the other Sainte Églantines?”
He nods. “I could take you tomorrow, if you’re free?”
“I am.”
“I’m helping Lise out again, so come by La Terrasse after the lunchtime rush. There’s a painting close by.”
Jackson joins us. “You keep disappearing on me,” he says accusatorially. “I’ve barely seen you all night. I’m going to shoot off. Are you coming?”
“Um.” I check the time. “Whoa, it’s after one.”
“What’s your number?” Étienne interrupts.
I reel it off, aware of Jackson standing rigidly beside me.
“I’ll text you so you have mine,” Étienne says, firing off a text before pocketing his device.
My phone vibrates as he leans in to kiss me goodbye.
We’ve been chatting, not flirting, here at the back of the garage, so I’m not in the frame of mind to anticipate anything other than a typical French air kiss. When he slowly brushes the very edge of my lips with his before doing it again on the other side, I go completely still.
He straightens up. A smile tugs at his mouth as he looks past me at Jackson.“À bientôt,”he says.See you soon.
“Thanks for having us,” Jackson replies tersely, offering his hand.
After a slight pause, Étienne shakes it, and then Jackson puts the same hand on my back and guides me out of the building in what feels like a surprisingly possessive move.
11
Étienne has his back tothe door when I walk up to the bar at La Terrasse the next afternoon. He’s at the coffee machine, frothing milk. I decide to wait until the spluttering stops before saying hello. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and his skin looks very tanned against the fabric. He doesn’t have super-curly hair, but it does kind of curl down to cover the tops of his ears. It looks soft. Itissoft, I recall.
I feel pretty edgy. I’d had alcohol zinging through my blood when we were talking—and, well,flirting—last night, but now I’m stone-cold sober. I have no idea what the dynamic will be when it’s just the two of us.
“Hello,” I say when Étienne finally turns around.
He starts a little and then he smiles, saying “Salut” as he places thecafé crèmehe’s just made onto a tray along with a black coffee. “Ça va?” he asks, pushing his hair back and revealing the tiny scar cutting through his right eyebrow.
I remember it from when we were younger, but never felt comfortable asking how he got it.
“Good. You?”
He nods, resting his forearms on the bar top. A waitress approaches and he straightens up and checks his watch, asking her something in French. She replies as she picks up the tray.
“Two more tables, both just finishing up?” I say as she walks outside with the coffees.
“So you understand French better than you speak it,” he teases. “I shouldn’t be too long. You want a coffee while you wait?”
“Sure, thanks.”
I perch on a stool while he gets to it. Gigi Perez is playing on the stereo. Behind him on the wall are three framed photographs that I didn’t pay attention to the last time I was here, but now I can see Lise standing in one of them, beaming, with her arm thrown around the shoulders of a girl with braided brown hair. The girl is in the other pictures too, wearing the same white jersey. I realize that the wordsGREAT BRITAINare emblazoned across her top at the same time that I register she’s holding up a bronze medal.
“Who’sthat?” I ask, getting Étienne’s attention.
He follows the line of my sight to the picture, and for about two seconds, he goes as still as a statue.
“Eve,” he replies at last. “Lise’s sister.”
“What sport?”
