“I’ve just walked inside,” I say stupidly, not wanting him to think that I’ve been standing here, ogling him naked.
He smirks and jogs down his spiral staircase. “We’ll go out that door.” He nods to where I’ve just come from and locks the internal door with a set of keys before swiping from my hands the cup I was about to put in the kitchen. He dumps it on the island and waves me outside, slipping on a pair of navy trainers as he goes.
“I know you’re not going to sell to Jackson’s mother, but this really would make an excellent café,” I muse as I cast my gaze over the patio.
He scoffs and pulls the door closed.
“Seriously though, it could be like one of those biker or bicycle cafés. Do you have them in France? Only this could be somewhere that car enthusiasts come.”
“Yeah, I think I’ve got enough to do,” he says dryly, shoving his wet hair back and leading me along the side of the building.
“Maybe one day you’ll meet someone who has more time on her hands.”
I picture a woman sitting outside at a white square table, laptop open in front of her, coffee beside it, surrounded by tables and chairs and a bunch of potted plants. I come to the surreal realization that I’m seeing all of this from the perspective of the woman.
“That will never happen.”
I shoot my head around to look at him. He sounded so definitive.
“Why not?”
“I’ll never have another serious relationship.”
“What are you on about?”
He throws me a grim look. “I’m done with love.”
“I know it’s painful now, but—”
“It will always be painful,” he says as we reach the car. “I won’t put myself through it again.”
“But don’t you want to have a family one day?” I ask over the roof as he opens the door.
He laughs, but it’s brittle; you could throw it at a wall and it’d shatter into a million pieces.
“So that’s it?” I say as I climb in beside him. “You love one person and you give up on ever falling in love again?”
“Two people. Two people, Grace.” He looks across at me. “And I lost them both.” He sounds bleak—and adamant.
I don’t know what else to say. My rib cage has become clawlike, closing around my heart. His words have hit me unfathomably hard.
Louis is superfriendly, but his English is indeed limited so I’m very grateful Étienne offered to come. I show Louis the photographs I’ve taken, promising to get some professional ones done if he agrees to take the job.
“We need a design that incorporates the name Eau de Sainte Églantine.” As I draw a bottle shape on a piece of paper with a rough layout of the design, Étienne translates. “We’re starting completely afresh so the font type can complement the style.”
I feel oddly jittery hearing Étienne talk in his native language. He pauses and looks at me and I stare back at him, slightly off-kilter. It takes me a second to realize that he’s waiting for me to continue.
“We may still need to employ a graphic designer to work on the font.” I’m a bit flustered as I try to concentrate. The branding is so important—it’ll be across everything. “But if you’re happy to work something into the artwork, that would be great. We just need to stay flexible.” I wait for Étienne to catch up. He turns to me when he has, a small smile on his lips.
I can’t believe he’s done with love.
Why am I thinking about this?
I clear my throat. “Mostly we need a simpler version of this here that we can etch onto bottles.” I indicate Estelle’s pavilion painting on one of my photographs.
Louis nods, leaning in to peer more closely at it. He glances at Étienne as he says, in French, “This is really beautiful.”
Étienne nods, replying, “Yes, my mother was very…”
