He pressed his lips to mine, sweeping his tongue with sweet kisses down my chin to lap up the sticky nectar. “I quite agree, delicious.”
Once we’d had our fill, sated with wine, bread, and cheese, we tossed everything back into the basket, clearing the blanket to make room for us to stretch out across the fleece. Bastien rolled over on his side and slid his hand onto my stomach, pulling me to him, his fingers finding the skin under my shirt. I sucked in a gasp as his cold touch moved up my warm skin, and his eyes found mine before drawing me in for an enveloping kiss. His hands in my hair and his breath mingling with mine were intoxicating, and yet I still felt so in my head, unable to let go and enjoy the moment.
“Let’s take this back to my appartement,” he whispered against my neck, every few words interrupted with a peck to the soft spot behind my ear.
Goose bumps trailed over my skin and down my legs. I wanted this. I wanted him. What was with my apprehension? I pulled away from Bastien and slowly shook my head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Not yet, Bastien. I just . . .”
“I do not understand.” His pained face registered as hurt more than upset. He tilted my chin up toward his face to look him in the eye.
“It’s just . . . this is all so new for me—this town, you, this relationship. I was with my ex, Rhys, for years. He was so intrinsically tied to my life and my happiness—it was like I didn’t know how to breathe without him. I’m just trying to figure out who I am on my own, and I’m not sure if it’s smart to get involved, especially with the distance and the short duration of the project . . .”
I wasn’t sure if it was the language barrier or if I was starting to ramble senselessly, but Bastien looked more confused than when I had pulled away. “I still . . . I don’t . . .” He struggled to find the right words. “What you are saying is that you do not want me, n’est-ce pas? That you are still in love with Rhys?”
“God, no! That’s not what I’m saying at all. I just don’t want to rush into anything. I don’t want to feel pressured by our limited time together, or by what we feel like we need to squeeze in before I leave. I just want it to feel right, you know? And at this moment, it doesn’t. I’m sorry.” I searched his eyes for any indication of his emotion. “Is that okay?”
Though he looked hurt and still confused, his shoulders softened, and he wrapped me in a hug. “Of course it is okay. I just want to be with you in whatever way I can be. I do not wish to pressure you to do anything you feel you are not ready for. We can just stay here and enjoy the night together like this, yes?” He quickly popped up from the blanket, and I sat up too, wondering where on earth he was going and at such a strange moment. But before I knew it, the glow of the garden lights disappeared, leaving us in complete darkness. Bastien pulled his phone from his pocket and used the flashlight to make his way back to me on the blanket.
“Now we can see the stars. There is little light for kilometers and kilometers, you will be amazed at everything you can see.” He lowered himself down to snuggle close to me, pulling me in and tucking me into his chest where his heart beat steadily like a clock. “We can lay here, together, and just be. I don’t want you to do anything you do not feel is right for you. In my culture, we are très expressifs with our affection.” He kissed me softly, pulling the breath from my lungs. I could see he was trying to lighten the situation and conceal his hurt.
I moistened my lips. “In my culture, if we are too expressifs, we risk getting hurt.”
He caressed the side of my face. “I will not hurt you, Plum.”
I wanted so badly to believe him. To let him take me in his arms and back to his apartment and help me forget about the tape, about Rhys, about all of it. But I wasn’t ready, not yet anyway. “Can we just take things slow?”
“You are right,” he said, his tone gentle and reassuring, “there is no reason to rush something you want to last.”
“Merci.” And as I melted into his embrace, I couldn’t help but wonder two things. One: How did Bastien always seem to know just the right thing to say? And two: When would the weight of my past begin to feel just a little bit lighter?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ever since arriving in France, I’d been looking forward to Kate’s visit to the set. She’d become a lifeline for me, taking early-morning calls, answering late-night texts, and basically reassuring me every chance she could that even though Château Mirabelle was far behind its renovation schedule, Heart Restoration Project would still be a success.
Since the crew would be continuing to work full steam ahead to get things ready before we could restart filming, Kate suggested we meet in Paris for a quick weekend jaunt before joining up with the rest of the production team in Provence. I jumped at the offer, desperately needing a change of scenery, some breathing room from whatever was starting to develop between me and Bastien, and a chance to escape to the City of Lights. There was one downside, though: Kate wanted Elliott to come along to film a bit of me in the bustling metropolis, a stark contrast from the sleepy vibe of Maubec. She thought our little foray to Paris might even serve as a good midpoint or lighthearted transition episode for the series.
It was a three-hour-plus train ride from Avignon to Paris, and for most of it, Elliott sat curled up in his seat, engrossed in a book. Some nonfiction, boring-looking behemoth with a plain cover and a thick spine. Every so often he’d yank out an earbud and ask me to scoot my knees over so he could pass to get to les toilettes or the café car. But for the most part we kept to our separate corners. Since our heated argument that afternoon we’d spent in town, he and I had barely spoken more than a few necessary words to one another. Still, with so much of the show left to shoot, I knew I needed to keep it civil between us if we were going to have any hope of making it through to the end.
We met Kate at George V, one of the swankiest hotels in the city with oversize suites and Eiffel Tower views right off the Champs-Élysées. She was waiting for me in the lobby, looking chic as ever, pin-straight blonde extensions framing her perfectly made-up face. You would never have guessed she just stepped off an almost twelve-hour flight.
“Plum, darling,” she said, springing over to me. “You look fabulous!” She eyed Elliott up and down. “Hello, you must be Elliott Schaffer?”
“Nice to finally meet you in person, Ms. Wembley,” Elliott said with a nod. He hoisted his camera onto his shoulder and switched it on, its bright light practically blinding us both.
Kate looked into the camera, seemingly startled that it was focused on her. The footage was supposed to be of me, not necessarily us, in Paris, but Elliott would need to film as much material as possible in order to ensure we’d get great edits.
“Best to think of him as a piece of furniture or a plant, something in the background nobody pays much attention to. Better yet, pretend like he’s not even here.” I waved a hand at him dismissively, only half joking.
Kate eyed him up and down and whispered, “Looking like that, easier said than done, am I right?” She brought her voice back up to a normal level. “Anyway, I dropped my bags in my room and came straight downstairs to meet you.” She jumped up and down, clapping her hands like an overexcited schoolgirl. “I planned the most fabulous day for us. The first dailies are testing so well with our focus groups that Tributary has almost quadrupled our budget and my expense account,” Kate said with a mischievous grin. “We’ll start with coffee and a macaron at Ladurée and then hurry over to Le Bon Marché, where two personal shoppers will be waiting to assist us through the store. Then, I arranged for a private tour of Coco Chanel’s Paris apartment followed by spa treatments here at the hotel and finally, dinner at Café de Flore. You’ve been working so hard, I wanted to treat you to a special day.”
“That all sounds wonderful,” I gushed. And it did. After lots of long hours sweeping and disposing of construction debris, attaching and mudding drywall panels, and spackling every godforsaken hole I could find, I was in dire need of some good R & R. And I had a feeling Parisien R & R was going to be just what the doctor ordered.
Kate lifted her tote over her shoulder and pushed her oversize sunglasses down off her head onto her face. “Good, let’s go, all of Paris awaits.”
We left the hotel, turned onto the Champs-Élysées, and headed straight to Ladurée, a gorgeous old French tearoom famous for its brightly colored macarons and people watching. As we approached the front door of the restaurant, Kate turned to Elliott and said, “Why don’t you let me and Plum have a private girls-only catch-up? We’ll meet you in front of Le Bon Marché at eleven to start filming for real.”
“You’re the boss,” Elliott grumbled, and without being told twice, he turned and headed in the opposite direction.
“Is he always like that?” Kate asked once Elliott had left.
“Yes, always.”
“Noted.”
Kate gave our name to the maître d’, who seated us at a small banquette right off the main dining room. After browsing through the menu, we settled on a few pastries: un plaisir sucré, un millefeuille, and a selection of colorful macarons. The sweet scent of powdered sugar swirled with the bitter aroma of fresh-brewing espresso, and I inhaled it as deeply as I could.
“Did you know that until the late 1800s, women weren’t allowed in cafés without their husbands?” Kate said, passing the two menus back to the server. “Ladurée was one of the first restaurants in Paris that allowed women to dine on their own.”
I folded a mint-green linen napkin onto my lap. “I have to say, I love it here even more now.”
“There’s a Ladurée in Beverly Hills over on Wilshire, but it’s not the same. For a start, you’d never see people in LA shoving their faces full of pastries,” she teased. The server came over, balancing a tray with two coffees and our assortment of sweets. He carefully set them on our table, along with a small metal pitcher of warm milk. “I have to be honest with you,” Kate said, stirring a heaping spoonful of sugar into her mug, “I have slightly ulterior motives for asking you to join me in Paris.”
I took a bite of my macaron, the crisp outside melting into a soft, delicate texture. The pistachio flavor was perfectly balanced, and my mouth flooded with nutty sweetness. “Oh yeah?” I asked midchew, catching a crumb on the corner of my lips with my pinkie.
“I’m hearing different things about the construction delays at Château Mirabelle. What’s really going on?”
“Well, I guess that depends on who you ask.”
“I’m asking you,” she said pointedly.
