“Wonder no more—it sounds like me,” I blurt out in English without thinking. “Thank God we speak French to each other!”
She stares at me, then bursts out laughing. “Youspeak posh British English?”
I regret my rash comment deeply, but what’s done is done. There’s no taking it back now. All I can do now is distract her from the topic.
With a dismissive wave, I pick up the remote. “Would you like me to check if we can watch this episode in English? That way, you can decide if this part is genuinely funny.”
“Yes, please! I’d love to hear Ross’s fake British accent!”
I grab the remote and fumble with the menu, scrolling through language options.
“Voilà,” I announce after a few seconds. “Original audio.”
The French voices vanish, and suddenly Ross is speaking to his students in an unnaturally deliberate and totally fake British drawl.
Laura leans forward, her eyes glued to the screen. “Oh my God, that’s awful. And funny!”
“You’re welcome.”
We watch Ross struggle through his lecture, his face twitching nervously as he tries to maintain the accent, which becomes spotty, until he drops it entirely and comes clean.
Laura chuckles. “Finally, this episode makes sense!”
On-screen, Rachel storms into the classroom, her voice sharp with anger, “Ross! Ross! You didn’t get the annulment?!”
His already crumbling composure shatters.
“Oh, bloody hell,” he sputters, his fake British accent snapping back into place.
Laura cracks up. I laugh, too, hard. We howl, uncontrolled and loud enough that the sound technician has to readjust the mic.
Laura wipes at the corner of her eye. “That was perfect.”
“I agree.”
“Aren’t you glad you gave it a chance?”
“Maybe,” I admit.
The truth is, I’m bewildered. I’d expected to endure this challenge like a root canal, but it turned out to be fun. It occurs to me that almost every waking hour since we arrived in Sardinia has surprised me this way by being more fun than anticipated.
Weird, that.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ANTOINE
We leave the restaurant with a bottle of wine in hand. Laura chatters about how impressive everything was. She’s wearing a shimmery black number that leaves her shoulders and arms bare and hugs her unfashionably curvaceous but oh-so-alluring bod.
I’ve only ever dated women who are tall and slim. It’s my type. And I still think that. I admire their elegance, their muscle tone, the way they can wear a burlap sack and look good. But there’s something Laura can do that Celeste and women like her can’t. She makes me work hard not to ogle her ostentatious breasts and hips. Her explicit femininity has me struggling not to touch her, while “my type” of woman leaves me in complete control.
I picture Celeste’s racy, athletic figure in my mind’s eye, then let my gaze wander over Laura’s. Normally I’d find a body shape like hers vulgar, which would be a turnoff.
I’m fighting a hard-on as we speak.
“And the complimentary bottle?” she gushes, pointing at the rosé I’m holding. “I feel like I should send that chef a thank-you card.”
“We already thanked him profusely,” I say, reminding her.
