Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61922 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61922 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
“Definitely not, darling. How rude.” My cheeks hurt from grinning as the first drops of rain fell on my face. “What do we do now?”
He put his hands on his hips and watched a group of fellow tourists without umbrellas racing toward the château. “Run!”
I laughed like a loon as we darted across dirt paths and slippery cobblestones to the exit.
And when Alistair slipped his hand in mine at the gate, leading me to the rental car, I barely noticed the rain.
We had lunch at a tiny pub in town with dark-paneled walls, low ceilings, and oodles of historical charm in its creaky floorboards and faded black-and-white prints of French landmarks. Our waitress had bobbed raven hair, red lipstick, spoke no English, and had a serious “Don’t fuck with me” look.
If I hadn’t been with Alistair, I would have pointed at the first thing on the menu and crossed my fingers in the hopes that I hadn’t ordered duck liver. But Alistair wasn’t intimidated in the slightest. He spoke with confidence, asking questions, gesturing at the menu, and slowly cracking the young woman’s haughty exterior. Her eyes twinkled as she replied in rapid-fire French, and I think she actually blushed.
Hold up. Was she flirting with my man, my date, my lover, my…Alistair?
Okay, no, he wasn’t mine for real, but he was mine for now and I didn’t share.
I set my hand over his on the table, staking my claim. Alistair turned his palm and laced our fingers, still conversing with the waitress about fuck knew what. That feeling of being protected, cherished, and cared for was back with a vengeance. Add a cozy table for two near a fireplace at a five-hundred-year-old pub in the French countryside, and damn, I could get drunk on this stuff.
I was torn between reminding myself this wasn’t real and reveling in something that felt like magic.
We toured a château with a moat and pristine gardens, then continued on to a teensy-tiny town built around a church that dated to the twelfth century and a castle with a turret that gave strong Rapunzel vibes. Alistair parked in front of a narrow house with bright flowers spilling from window boxes and a black-and-white smallish fluffy mutt standing guard on the porch.
“This…wow…gorgeous,” I whispered.
Alistair met me on the passenger’s side, carrying both of our bags. “Don’t set your expectations too high. It’s rather simple, but it’s clean and charming, and the owner is…colorful. You’ll see.”
The door flung open on cue and a small middle-aged woman with wild red hair bounced onto the pathway to greet us.
“Bonsoir! Bonsoir! Comment vas-tu, Al-ee?”
“Bien. Et toi?”
“I am,” she began in careful English. “…very nice to see you. Oui?”
“ ‘Happy to see you’ works better,” Alistair corrected affectionately.
The woman swatted his arm playfully and launched into a speech in French, complete with hand gestures and eye rolls as her dog ambled over to investigate. I bent to pet its ears while they chatted. I didn’t need to speak the language to know they were friends. Once again, I was curious. What did an Egyptologist from the UK and an innkeeper from a small village outside of Paris have in common?
“My manners are terrible. I am Françoise.” She thrust her hand at me and squeezed my fingers in a viselike grip as I stood.
“I’m Winnie. I’m Alistair’s…friend.”
In a move I was pretty sure I’d never seen outside a cartoon, Françoise arched an eyebrow to her hairline.
“Friend. Ohh! Z’is is good. Very good. Okay, I am Al-ee’s…c’est quoi ça…friends through zee ex-boyfriend? Old news and not good news. No worries for you, naturellement.” She gestured from the sky to the house behind her. “Come, come. It is raining now.”
She disappeared in a flash, leaving a vapor trail of Chanel number five in her wake.
Alistair led the way inside, pausing to set our bags on the bottom step of the narrow staircase off the foyer. The ceiling was low and the wide-plank wood floorboards were obviously uneven, but like the pub, Françoise’s house oozed charm with crystal sconces, colorful throw rugs, and pastural prints hung willy-nilly on red toile wallpaper. It was the sort of French chic look LA designers copied yet never quite nailed.
I hummed my approval. “This place is so freaking cute. I love it!”
Françoise reappeared with a thin, gray-haired man she introduced as her husband, Jacques. He spoke less English than his wife, so I was pretty much relegated to nodding with a stupid-ass smile on my face while Alistair translated. Apparently, our hosts were leaving for the night and Beau, the dog, was staying with us. Françoise had made Al-ee’s favorite stew; there was wine, cheese, and chocolate. Our only chore was to feed Beau breakfast and keep the treats to a minimum.
“Beau is…fat and lazy, but very handsome, oui?”
“Very,” Alistair agreed. “Don’t worry. He’s in good hands.”