She stands, and I feel the loss of her hand like a physical thing. But she pauses before she goes in, looking back at me over her shoulder.
"Cat?"
"Yeah?"
"Take the job." A small smile curves her lips. "I have a feeling things are going to work out."
She disappears into the house, and I sit a while longer, watching the stars come out and wondering if she knows something I don't.
I pull out my phone and text Sophie:I think I'm taking the job.
Her reply is instant:FINALLY. And the girl?
Working on it,I write.
I've spent my whole life leaving before I could be left—burning it down first, so no one else got the chance. But I'm not going anywhere this time. The farm is mine. The kitchen's nearly mine. And the woman asleep inside is the first thing in years I've wanted badly enough to stay and fight for.
Maybe that's the difference. Maybe this time I don't run.
I finish my wine, head to my room, and pass her door. There's still light underneath—she's awake too, probably staring at the ceiling the same way I'm about to.
17
IRIS
The village square has been transformed into something out of a dream.
String lights crisscross overhead, casting everything in a warm golden glow. Long tables have been set up along the perimeter, groaning under the weight of food—platters of cheese, baskets of bread, bowls of olives and tomatoes and things I can't even identify. A band is playing something lively in the corner, accordion and guitar and a drum that sounds like a heartbeat.
And everywhere, people. Dancing, laughing, raising glasses in endless toasts. The whole village has turned out for the summer fête, dressed in their finest, celebrating the season and the community and the simple joy of being alive on a warm July night.
I'm wearing a dress I bought three days ago from a tiny boutique in Aix—floaty and floral and completely unlike anything I own. Cat's eyes went wide when she saw me, and she said something about looking like a painting, and I've been blushing ever since.
She's beside me now, a glass of wine in her hand, watching the dancers with a small smile on her face. She's wearing wide-legged palazzo pants in a print that's all warmth and color—ochre and blue and a green like the fields at midsummer—with a soft, loose shirt that looks like she chose it purely for comfort and accidentally landed on gorgeous. Her hair is down for once, tumbling over her shoulders in copper waves. She looks beautiful. She always looks beautiful, but tonight it's hitting me differently.
Tonight I feel brave.
"Dance with me," I say.
She turns, surprised. "What?"
"Dance with me." I hold out my hand. "Everyone else is dancing."
It's true—the square is full of couples, young and old, spinning and swaying to the music. Monique and Jacques. Sophie with a woman I don't recognize. Even ancient Monsieur Lefèvre is shuffling around with someone's grandmother, both of them beaming.
Cat looks at my outstretched hand, then up at my face. Surprise gives way to something warmer, something eager.
"Okay," she says, setting down her wine. "But I should warn you—I'm a terrible dancer."
"So am I. We'll be terrible together."
She takes my hand, and my whole arm lights up.
The band is playing something slower now, a waltz or something like it. Cat pulls me into the crowd of dancers, and suddenlywe're close—her hand on my waist, my hand on her shoulder, our free hands clasped between us. The space between our bodies is measured in inches.
"This okay?" she asks softly.
"Yes." My voice comes out breathless. "This is okay."
