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)
Zoe clears her throat, and I whip back to face her. “Primevère?”
Shit—he said that?
“I know—what the hell?” I bluster, shoving my hands into the pockets of my shorts. “Does that bloke not even know my name?”
“Fuck that guy,” Zoe mutters, pouring a liberal amount of the estate’s own olive oil onto a tray of dough. “I’d put Ex-Lax in this focaccia if it wasn’t for the chance of the kids eating it.”
“It’s fine,” I say, my smile wobbling. “We’ll go out another time.”
“Yeah, but everyone is going tonight, and I wanted to introduce you to all the guys.”
“All the guys?”
“Everyone loves Emmy,” she says, not really listening as she massages the dough into the tray’s corners with experienced fingers. “I wanted you to see that.”
“Emmy is extremely lovable.” I don’t say nothing else. Let sleeping dogs lie, and all that.
I mean, technically, I haven’t lied to her; Luc has. But that doesn’t make me feel any less sneaky sitting here, assuming this crestfallen expression while it feels like something is doing a congo in my knickers. But I’m allowed to put myself first sometimes. I think.
And it’s like Lavender says, sometimes a girl doesn’t need romance. Or socializing, in this case. What she needs is to be folded like yesterday’s laundry by a man with a little life experience. And do hope he has a few more tricks up his sleeves.
My whole reproductive system seems to flip at the thought.
Friend, hurry up and get this bread in the oven so I can go upstairs and shave my lady bits.
“Damn.” Her expression goes momentarily blank, then puzzled. “Where the heck did I put it?”
“What are you looking for?” From the other side of the island, I pre-emptively sit straighter in my chair.
Her head suddenly comes up. “Rose, I’m giving you permission to take a break from being the bigger person. Choose violence,” she says with a little of that in her tone.
“What?” The word and laughter, bursts from me.
“You don’t have to be so damned reasonable about the boss’s highhandedness!”
I stifle a smile. She’s basically me. Skin burstingly frustrated with M. LDH. Just because I’ve passed that point today doesn’t mean I won’t be back there tomorrow, even if my feelings toward him seem a little different somehow. Feelings—that other F word.
“It’s fine, honestly,” I say, noping out of that thought pattern. Feelings, schmeelings! “We’ll make time to go out before I leave, promise.”
“I don’t want Emmy to think I didn’t show you a good time.”
“Emmy knows you’ve made me feel welcome, because you have.”
“Which is more than can be said for some people.” Her words are sharply edged. “I love my job, but sometimes I get tired of cooking for people I could easily poison.”
“Oh, dear.” I try not to snicker.
“Such a contrast. Sometimes, I look at him, and I think, I’d hit that. And other times, I think I’d hit that. With my car.”
“You… fancy him?”
“What?” Her expression recoils. “God, no. But, I mean, I do have eyes.” And those eyes return to her search for whatever it is she’s missing. As she swipes away a dish towel, a dish of whole garlic cloves scatter across the countertop. “Dammit! And where in the hell did I put the rosemary?”
“Want me to grab some from the herb garden?”
“Would you mind?” She gives a wiggle of her olive-oiled fingers. “I’ll just prep the other one,” she says, pulling another bowl of dough from under the counter.
“No probs. Rosemary,” I repeat like a kid being sent to the corner store with a list. I climb from my stool and, scissors in hand, I make my way out into the shade of the herb garden.
I wander between the raised beds in no particular hurry, naming the herbs in my head. Basil in the shade, thyme next to it, parsley and lemon verbena spilling over the sides of terracotta pots. The sun dapples my arms, its rays defused by a hessian shade cloth as a breeze suddenly shimmers through the space, making the leaves of a potted bay tree shake.
It’s so peaceful, soft sun, lazy buzzing bees, and the crunch of gravel underfoot. I should feel relaxed after an easy morning, at ease. But there’s a restless current running beneath my skin. It’s an awareness of the hours still to pass, and an impatience for waits on the other side.
Tonight. Just the thought makes something flutter inside me. I smile because I can, because there’s no one around to ask why, or to tell me I look like an idiot.
I’ve just cut through some woody rosemary stems when Sylvie comes tearing around the corner. Still in her riding clothes, her boots kicking up the pale earth on the way to the boot room. “Primrose!” Her arms flung around my waist; she smells of sweet sweat and grass. “Horse riding was so fun.”