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)
“Can we play Monopoly next time we’re in London?”
“Of course, but for now, the house awaits.”
“Yes! And sailing and fishing and picking fruit from the trees. Oh, and Bouton will be there!”
“That dog has fleas,” Felix mutters.
“Lies!” Sylvie spins around to face her brother. “I wouldn’t care if he did have fleas because I love him, and Primrose will love him too.”
“Oh, sweetie, I can’t—”
Before my daughter’s expression crumbles, I cut in. “Wait—Primrose can’t wait for you to show her around the estate.”
“Yes!” My daughter throws her hands up in the air.
The nanny glares. “I think you might be laboring under a misapprehension,” she mutters through gritted teeth.
“Are you suggesting I might be disappointed?” I purr dangerously.
“I know you will.”
“Impossible,” I retort. “I already know you’ve packed your bikini.”
11
PRIMROSE
Dinner is a tense affair, not that the children seem to notice. Sylvie chatters about this marvelous, mythical place—the best place on earth for a summer vacation. Even Felix joins in, though when he catches himself being enthusiastic, he clams up quickly with a scowl. It must be so hard keeping up your rep as a cool dude. Thoughts and prayers to those around him when he actually hits his teenage years.
Meanwhile, I barely look the boss’s way. I speak when spoken to and keep my conversation for the children. I’m not rude. I mean, I’m as rude as I can be without the kids noticing. The last thing I want to do is upset them. I’ll just bide my time until they’ve left the table before I tell Monsieur Le Dick Head exactly what I think of his plan and where he can shove it.
I’m going nowhere with that man.
And what the hell was with that comment he made about my bikini?
“Peaches are not my very best favorite fruit.” Sylvie’s voice brings me out of my rumination. Briefly.
“They aren’t?” So I have a bikini—what of it? I am on flippin’ vacation! There really was no reason to mention it. Unless like he likes the look of me in it. Ack, shut up, brain!
“I don’t like the skin.”
“What was that, lovely?” My bikini does unfortunately show a lot of skin.
“Peach skin,” Sylvie says, picking apart a piece of heavenly white crusty bread and dropping the crumbs to her side plate. What a waste. I bloody love French bread. La boulangerie is one of the best things about being in Paris. “Do you like peaches, Primrose?”
“They’re not my favorite fruit, but yes, I like them.” Especially the ones I’ve just eaten as part of the entrée. Peach, burrata, and prosciutto salad, the fruit burst-on-your-tongue juicy and the sweet stickiness combined with the salty elements tasted like summer on a plate.
“I ate the peaches today because Chef Zoe took off the furry skin for me.” The little girl shivers as though remembering something unpleasant before smiling at the chef.
“You’re very welcome.” Zoe reaches for the little girl’s plate as she begins to remove the remains of our plat principal, the main course, from the table.
“Non, merci!” she says, holding her hands over her plate.
“For the birds?” Zoe asks, and Sylvie nods. “How about I peel you some fruit instead?”
“Thank you, Zoe.” Monsieur Le Dick Head—M. LDH in the interests of brevity—turns his laser-like blue eyes the chef’s way.
“No problem.”
“Dinner was delicious,” I offer up. It was so tasty, in fact, that it takes a supreme kind of effort not to grab another hunk of bread to swipe it through the oh-so-tasty tomato tian as the remains of the platter pass by my nose. “The tastiest thing I’ve eaten in months.” The steak was perfectly grilled, the vegetables seasoned to a T and, “I’m going to bug you for the salad dressing recipe. It was so good.”
“It’s just a little of this and a little of that,” Zoe says with a soft smile as she loads the dishes in her arms with the finesse of a plate-spinning acrobat. “But I’ll jot it down for you.”
“Let me help.” I reach for a dish, though she snatches it away.
“No need.” And then she’s gone, leaving my tablemates looking at me as though I’ve grown another head. Hmm. Must’ve been a posh person faux pas.
“Whoever said you don’t make friends with salad clearly never had Zoe’s vinaigrette.” I say. Because, awkward!
“You cannot make friends with salad.” Felix scoffs, all superiority.
“Arrête.” His father pauses in the action of twisting a gold signet ring around his pinkie finger, his mild rebuke making the kid scowl.
“But, Papa, what she said makes no sense—salad is leaves.”
“It’s just a saying. Or was it a silly song?” I give my head a tiny shake. “I’m pretty sure it’s from The Simpsons.”
“You are allowed to watch Les Simpsons?” Sylvie asks, wide-eyed with shock.
“Yeah, I am a grown-up.”
“Grown-ups do not watch Les Simpsons,” Felix grumbles.
“Tell that to my brother.” At this, his father’s gaze catches mine. I quickly look away. “My youngest brother.”