“I didn’t realize. You inherited your father’s eyes though. I remember you telling me that once.”
“You said the same thing, as I recall.”
I’m hit with a flashback of him leaning in close, studying me with an intensity that made me blush. When he said my pale green eyes looked golden in the sunlight, the heat on my face spread to every part of my body.
I’d never seen eyes like his before. I’d had a boyfriend the previous year who had light blue eyes, but the color was vivid, whereas Étienne’s are washed out, a bit like faded denim but with a gray hue. They’re incredibly beautiful, especially when set against his thick, dark lashes.
“Do you ever miss your dad?” I ask.
His brows knit together as he shakes his head. “I can’t really miss what I never had.”
“I missmydad,” I confide. “I didn’t know him either, but I think youcanmiss what you never had. You can miss the idea of what youcouldhave had.”
“Your father was a refugee. Have I remembered that correctly?”
“Yes, Kosovar Albanian,” I reply. “He came to the UK with his mother, but went home when he was old enough to fight in the war. His father and uncle had stayed behind.” He’d been at university with Mum—I was conceived the night before he left, but he was killed before Mum found out that she was pregnant. He inspired her, not just in life but in death. She never went back to finish her film studies degree; instead she became an aid worker.
We continue looking through the postcards.
“Here she is!” I exclaim as we come to the lady in the oyster shell. I can see her resemblance to Sainte Églantine, but other postcards have influenced her too. I think my favorite is of a woman ina blue dress with a heavy crown of yellow roses—the crown reminds me of Estelle’s pavilion painting.
I grin at Étienne, but my smile fades as he rests his head back against the bed, a glint of gray beneath his dark lashes. His expression is somber. The rain is still pounding down.
“It’s always so hard coming here,” he confesses.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
I don’t like witnessing his pain, but I feel as if I know him better when he’s like this. He’s more familiar somehow, as though we never fell out of touch. I’m glad that he’s opening up to me again.
“But it’s been easier coming with you,” he adds.
My heart lifts. “I can come back with you anytime you want. I could help you with some house repairs, although maybe we should start with a good clean.”
“Haven’t you got enough on?” he asks, and his sudden smile makes me feel lightheaded.
“I can always find more time.”
I jolt as a drop of water splashes onto my arm.
“Merde,”Étienne exclaims, leaping to his feet and rushing out of the room as I look up at the ceiling. He hurries back in with a bucket. “You want to retract that offer?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Maybe there’s more to do here than I thought, but I’m still game if you are.”
15
“Did he give you permission?”
They’re the first words out of Jackson’s mouth when I arrive at work on Monday morning. He invited me over for a swim yesterday, but I told him that I was seeing Étienne.
“Not yet—I haven’t asked him.”
He frowns. “Why not?”
“It’s delicate. I don’t want him to think that I’m only interested in him because of work.”
Jackson looks shocked as he turns back to face his desk.
I actually didn’t mean to make it sound as though I’m into Étienne romantically, but I can see that that’s exactly what Jackson has taken away from my comment.
