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)
“And he has a nice smile, doesn’t he, Primrose? Primrose, doesn’t Alejandro have a nice smile?”
“Yes, I suppose he has.”
“I have all my own teeth still,” I grumble, much to her amusement.
“I like his long eye lashes, just like Lola’s.” My daughter flutters her lids. I hope she learned that from the fucking llamas and not from her nanny.
“Alejandro says humans and llamas are the same because they’re both silly when they are in love.”
“Alejandro seems to have a lot of opinions,” I mutter flatly.
“He was just being friendly,” Primrose insists once more.
“Yes, he seems very… sociable.”
“Is that the French way of insinuating he’s a flirt?” she asks with just a touch of pique.
I sigh like a teacher despairing of his pupil. “Primrose, my French has much more imagination than that.”
Her head comes up so sharply, and her cheeks take on a wonderful pink hue.
“If Alejandro has any sense at all. He’ll learn from the llamas.” Finally, I bring my wine to my lips. I sense Primrose’s eyes on my neck as I swallow. And feel the effect of her attention much farther south.
“In what way, Papa?” Felix asks.
I lean back in my chair and hold out my wine as though to study it, determined not allow my eyes to stray. Every glance her way is an act of self-sabotage.
Yet I still find my eyes on her.
“Papa,” my son prompts. “What will he learn.”
“That persistence isn’t always rewarded.”
Primrose curls one elegant brow. An inquiry or a taunt? My own gaze narrows in response.
“Sometimes a younger man is just bothering the wrong female.”
The children exchange a confused look as Primrose fights a smile. And I decide I probably won’t need to fire the grape man.
“Primrose, will you be here for la vendimia?” Sylvie asks as she scoops the last of the dessert from her dish.
“The harvest,” I expand. “We usually visit later in the year. September, sometimes October, depending on the weather and the subsequent harvest.
“It is so much fun! We get to stand on the grapes, and they squish between our toes.”
“Feet wine?” Her lovely eyes sparkle with amusement. “And you expect me to drink it?”
“I made sure they were clean! Please have a glass of the wine I helped make,” she pleads, pressing her hands together.
“Fine.” Primrose finally holds out her glass, her beautiful mouth tipping in one corner. I need to pull my head out of my ass and stop mooning after her. “Seeing as you made it with clean feet, I’ll try a little.”
“Hourra!”
“But just a smidge,” she says as I the bottle meets her glass.
“It is the best wine ever!”
“And you know that how?” she teases, full of good humor.
“I am French. Wine is in my blood! Also, I have tasted it.”
Primrose slides me a look, part doubt and part reprimand.
“It was just a couple of drops,” I add, not sure why I feel the need to explain myself.
“Monsieur Maria—”
“Otherwise known as José,” I add.
“He says if you make the wine, you must taste the wine. It is bad luck to do otherwise.”
“And it was good?” Primrose asks, lifting her glass.
“It was delicious.” Sylvie gives a little shiver or remembrance. “Or I think it will be when I am old enough to ’ppreciate it.”
Primrose laughs as she brings the wine to her nose.
“What can you smell?” I ask, suddenly intrigued.
“Berries.” She seems surprised by her own answer, her teeth grazing her full bottom lip. I almost want to tell her this isn’t a test, that there are no wrong answers, but something tells me she wouldn’t appreciate that. “Lemon. No, maybe orange?” Her gaze lifts briefly. “Citrus, at any rate.”
“Bon—well done.” But my praise doesn’t seem to sit well with her. Maybe she’s not used to hearing it.
“Taste it! Taste it!” Sylvie chants.
She does. And I watch. And I want. And I hope she doesn’t notice.
“How do you like it?” My voice sounds huskier than it ought to. I clear my throat and shift in my chair. Snatching up my glass, I look anywhere but at her.
“You were right, Sylvie. It’s delicious.”
The pleasure I feel? It’s as though I planted the vines myself, as though I made it with my bare hands, rather than just with my money. The moment passes and Sylvie chatters a little more about her favorite things on the island and the places she’d like to visit while were here.
“I would like to take Andiamo out on the trail.”
“Do you ride, Primrose?”
“Horses and me…” Primrose gives a shiver. “We don’t see eye to eye.”
“We could get you a small one. The stables have many ponies.” Sylvie’s earnest suggestion makes us both chuckle.
“I think Primrose means she doesn’t enjoy horse riding. But we’ll go together later this week, mon chou. And with Felix, of course. If he would like to come.”
My son nods enthusiastically.