Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
His eyes open, dark and fathomless. “Primevère.”
“I know.”
“Was it just a kiss or…”
My heart gives a little flutter. “Two weeks.”
Something changes in his face but before he can kiss me again, I put my hand to his chest.
“Meet you in the kitchen later for cake?” he says.
I give a little laugh at his words, at his expression. “I don’t know how this is going to work, but we can’t risk anyone knowing.”
He nods, suddenly serious.
“Not the children, not Zoe, not Jacques or anyone else. And never Emmy.”
“Understood.”
“Which means no more cake.”
“I don’t want cake. I want the whole banquet.”
“So what happens now?”
His mouth brushes mine again, maddeningly brief. “We go to bed. Alone, sadly.”
“And tomorrow?”
He considers me for a moment. “Sylvie has been bugging me to spend the night with Maria and her family, sleeping under the stars. I’ll arrange it for tomorrow.”
My eyebrows lift a little. “Camping? Your children?”
“Not quite.”
“But convenient.”
“Sometimes fate hands you the keys to paradise.” Luc catches my hand, his thumb moving once across my knuckles.
My pulse skips. “So paradise tomorrow?”
His smile is slow and devastating. “Heaven between your legs.”
I can hardly wait.
34
PRIMROSE
I wake excited. There, I admit it. As soon as I open my eyes, my insides fizz with anticipation and nervousness of what’s to come.
Drum roll, please…
Sylvie is out of bed, as usual, by sparrow fart, dancing and singing and asking a million questions a minute, though she does sit still long enough for me to braid her hair.
“I like it when you brush my hair, Primrose.”
“That’s good to hear, sweetie,” I say, holding a hunk a little ways from the root as I tackle her silverly locks with an old-fashioned brush. “I don’t know how it gets so knotted. You must party in your sleep or something.”
“Emmy says I sleep like a cheese rolling down a hill,” she says with a giggle. “Do you know there is a place en Angleterre, I mean, in England,” she begins to turn her head to look at me before remembering with a small wince that it might not be such a good idea, “that there is a place where people roll cheese down hills?”
“Yes, in Gloucester,” I say as though there’s nothing weird about that.
“Vous êtes dingos!” she replies laughingly.
“We are not all bonkers. Just some of us.”
“Brava, Primrose, you understood! Your French is getting better.”
“Thank you.”
“I told you I am a good teacher.”
So good a teacher that I don’t remember the lesson. Also, oops for slipping up. But at least her dad wasn’t around to hear. That would’ve been awkward.
“The only place I think you should roll cheese is into your mouth,” I say.
“Yes! I also think this.”
By breakfast, the sensation of anticipation has taken up most of the space in my chest. It feels like a secret that keeps trying to manifest itself as a smile. But I resist. Walking around smiling at nothing would make me look like a loony.
I can’t wait for tonight. Luc and me and a little privacy.
In my head, Marvin Gaye starts singing about getting it on.
“Bonjour.”
Later, we’re in the kitchen, when a rather subdued Felix trudges in.
“Good morning, Felix,” I say. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes,” he answers, which is better than a grunt, I suppose.
“Zoe made chouquette.” His sister says, dipping her third sugary puff into a tiny cup of Spanish-style hot chocolate. The stuff is thick and gooey and sweet enough to trigger a diabetic coma. “I kept you some. See?” She offers him the plate and he takes one. And wonders upon wonders, he voluntarily takes a stool next to her. I watch as she slides her cup between them, and he smiles as he dips. It’s a heartwarming sight, watching them whisper and giggle, their heads close together as they share the cup.
Zoe’s eyebrows lift and I shrug. Tell you later. I move to the coffee machine.
“Some of us are going out tonight,” she says quietly, sidling up to me.
“Oh?” Uh-oh.
“A few drinks, some dancing, maybe even a few bad decisions.”
“Well, you enjoy.” I lock the portafilter into place.
“Wanna come with?”
“Me?” I do a quick double take. I’m not surprised by the invitation, but I am dismayed about its timing. I rattle my brain for an excuse, hitting the button in the absence of one. The machine begins to noisily extract coffee.
“Alejandro will be there,” she says, leaning closer.
“Cool.”
“I thought you might say that.”
“Why? You’re not still talking about the other morning, are you?”
“He told me he likes you,” she says, disregarding my question. “So…”
“I have the kids.” Ack, my delivery was a little too perky to portray disappointment
“They aren’t invited.” She grins. “And you’re entitled to a night off—ask him.”
“I…” I’ve got plans. Rain check because I’ve been promised a bloody good seeing to?
“Papa!” Sylvie announces, her voice somewhat muffled by pastry.
I glance up—twice—as I do a double take and lose my train of thought entirely. The man is wearing jodhpurs—real, honest to goodness riding pants—that he appears to have been poured into.