"I think I might be attracted to her," I say.
The silence on the other end of the line is deafening.
"Michel?"
"I'm processing." Another beat. "The American? The uptight event planner? The woman you described as 'insufferably perfect' in your last message?"
"That was two weeks ago. Things have... developed."
"I'm trying to understand how you went from 'she's ruining my life' to 'I want to kiss her' in fourteen days."
"I didn't say I wanted to kiss her."
"You didn't have to. I know your voice."
I groan and cover my face with my free hand. "This is a disaster. She's straight, Michel. She's probably never even thought about a woman that way. And even if she had, we're basically roommates with a legal agreement, and getting involved would be—"
"Complicated?"
"Catastrophic."
"Or," Michel says thoughtfully, "it could be exactly what you both need."
"That's not helpful."
"I'm not trying to be helpful. I'm trying to point out that you've been alone for a year, you're living in a romantic farmhouse in France with a beautiful woman, and you're doing that thing where you convince yourself it's impossible before you've even tried."
"It is impossible."
"Why?"
"Because—" I stop. "Because she's Grand-mère's real grandchild. Because this is complicated enough without adding feelings to it. Because I don't even know if I'm staying here after the ninety days are up."
"Are you?"
The question catches me off guard. I haven't thought about it—haven't let myself think about it. The ninety days have felt like a bubble, a suspended reality where the future doesn't exist.
"I don't know," I admit.
"Then maybe you should figure that out," Michel says gently. "Before you decide anything else is impossible."
The next morning, I'm barely functional. Too little sleep, too much wine, too many feelings I don't know what to do with.
Iris is already in the kitchen when I emerge—of course she is—making coffee with that focused intensity she brings to everything. She's wearing running clothes, her hair pulled back, and she glances up when I enter.
"You look terrible."
"Thanks."
"Didn't sleep?"
"Not much."
She pours a second cup of coffee and slides it across the counter to me. It's a small gesture, automatic almost, and it does something uncomfortable to my chest.
"Jacques is coming by later," she says. "The irrigation."
"Right. Okay."
