“You do, do you?” I purred seductively.
“Yes, I do!” he exclaimed and pulled me across the room to a small corner under the biggest picture window.
Silhouettes of hundreds of twisted grapevines cast against the periwinkle night sky. “Just . . . wow,” I breathed.
Bastien entwined his fingers in mine and kissed the back of my hand. “Though it took a bit longer and caused more than a few headaches, today, Plum, we finally finished the foundation. We should be able to move much more quickly now that the main structural issues are meilleures. Now you will be able to be much more hands-on, and we can start filming your contributions to the renovation.”
“So it’s all fixed? We can move forward? That’s incredible news. I know how hard you’ve been working to try to get this all straightened out.” I kissed him again and hoped he could feel my gratitude.
I was used to intimate moments like this one being captured on film, but somehow it felt completely different with Elliott behind the camera. I glanced over and caught his eye before we both quickly looked away.
“Yes, because I want it all to be perfect. It will be so great for both of us when this show is a hit, right?” He pressed his lips to the top of my head. “Okay so, now look down. On the ground. By your feet. I wanted you to see this before we laid down the wood flooring.”
Confused, I stepped back, and with just the littlest light left from the descending sun, I could make out the faint outline of something in the floor’s layer of concrete. “What is—”
I squatted down to inspect, and there in the floor’s foundation, etched in for the rest of time, were my initials, PE, encased in a heart. Bastien continued, “This way no matter when you return home to Hollywood or wherever you jet off to next, you will be a part of this house here in Maubec so long as this house stays standing. And hopefully, it will be a part of you too.”
I traced my fingers over the letters and stood up to face him. “Always, Bastien. No matter where I go, this”—I gestured to the floor—“and you”—I took his hands in mine—“will always have a special place in my heart. This was just so thoughtful.” I stretched up on my toes and pulled him in for a long, deep kiss, taking the time to run my hands from his waist up his torso to settle on the tight muscles in his back. He passionately returned the gesture, his hands grabbing my hips and drawing me in close. He trailed sweet kisses down my neck, and breathless, I tugged lightly on fistfuls of his hair.
Elliott cleared his throat forcefully. “That’s enough for tonight. I’ve seen everything I need to.” He switched off the camera light and covered the lens.
I took my phone out of my pocket and snapped a photo of my initials in the concrete, quickly shooting it off to Kate in a text. Within seconds she responded.
Kate: Let me guess, Bastien? That’s quite the romantic gesture.
Me: I don’t know about that . . . but he said he wants me to always be a part of the château which was very sweet.
Kate: Sweet my ass. Flowers are sweet. Chocolates are sweet. That my friend was a gesture.
Me: LOL! See you in a few days.
Kate: Packing my bags as we speak. What’s the weather like?
Me: HOT and aircon is not a given.
Kate: Noted.
Me: À bientôt!
Kate: Can’t wait. XO
I shimmied my phone back into my pocket.
“I have another surprise for Plum, but let me drive you back to the inn first,” Bastien offered.
“That’s okay, I texted Odette. She’s already on her way to pick me up.”
Here I was feeling, I don’t know, guilty? . . . uncomfortable? . . . at Elliott having to play audience to Bastien’s and my PDA, but why? There was clearly something sparking between Odette and him. I mean, he had her on speed dial for god’s sake! And it’s not like he gave two figs about me in general, so why should he care who I was kissing? I’m sure he didn’t, and I was making something out of a big fat nothing.
We didn’t owe each other anything, let alone explanations, and I sure as hell had no right or reason to feel the small twinge of what I could only call jealousy needling somewhere deep under my skin. Especially not when I had a gorgeous, sexy, and attentive Frenchman literally in my arms. What the hell was wrong with me?! Why did I have to remind myself to stop paying attention to Elliott while Bastien was giving me all the attention I needed?!
Bastien took my hand to lead me toward the back door. “Parfait!” he said to the back of Elliott’s head as he headed out the front.
“Have a good night,” Elliott said.
“Yeah, you too.” I glanced back over at him, his hulking shadow moving out the door, pausing for one second to glance back at me too.
Outside, Bastien had set a small picnic, and though the vineyards were overgrown and untended, the expanse was still breathtaking—a world away from LA. He had cleverly strung a few bistro lights from some branches and a dilapidated trellis so that we were haloed in a soft glow as the sun continued to set behind the Provençal hills.
“Come, assieds-toi.” Bastien gestured to the fleece plaid blanket he’d laid out on a grassy stretch, which was adorned with a few fluffy, colorful throw pillows for us to sit on.
“Bastien, this is so sweet.”
We kicked off our shoes and got comfy on the blanket. Bastien reached over to a very stereotypical brown wicker picnic basket—it almost looked like a set prop—and took out a container of olive tapenade, a few small brown-paper-wrapped cheeses, a jar of lavender honey, a small bowl of bright-red strawberries and purple grapes, a slice of quiche lorraine, and two halves of a crusty baguette. Finally, the pièce de résistance: he fished around at the bottom to reach for a bottle of wine, a rosé from what I could tell in the dim light.
I didn’t realize just how hungry I was until Bastien popped a piece of gooey brie drizzled with the lavender honey in my mouth to try.
He licked the remaining honey off his finger and asked, “What do you think?”
“Of you? Of this? Or of the brie? All of it is very sweet.”
“You are the one who is very sweet. Speaking of, I brought a mirabelle for you to try,” he said, pulling two speckled, bright-yellow ripe plums from inside his pocket, along with a Swiss Army knife. He carved out a succulent slice and held it in his palm, the golden juice starting to trickle down his forearm. “Here, taste,” he offered, bringing the fruit to my lips.
With a gentle bite my teeth sank down into the tender flesh, releasing a burst of sweetness different from the dark-purple plums I was used to at home. The flavor was more complex, more nuanced, the subtle earthy notes of lavender and other aromatic flowers from the region deeply infused in the skin. It was like tasting Provence itself.
“So what do you think?” Bastien asked.
“I think it’s delicious.”
