Page 36 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
But no. My nerves are standing on end and I want to get this talk over with. Anyway, if the conversation goes poorly, I’ll be locked up in this guest wing for a few days, so the Cinnamon Toast Crunch and I might have plenty of time together after all.
The hallway through the house is tiled with gray stone andseems to be heated from underneath. I’m struck again by the luxury of this home and wonder (a) how Sebastien affords it and (b) why he has such a big house if he lives here all alone. Does he have family who visits? Does he entertain a lot?
The smell of bacon frying incentivizes me to walk faster, even though my ankle still hurts and my body aches with the aftershock of the accident.
Unsurprisingly, the kitchen is as magnificent as the other parts of the house I’ve seen—stainless steel appliances like in an upscale showroom; black marble countertops with veins of gold throughout; copper pots and pans hanging from a gleaming ceiling rack.
“Good morning!” I say cheerfully, because bacon makes me happy despite my nerves.
Sebastien’s back is to me, but I both hear and see his sigh. It reminds me of long-suffering Reginald, the refrigerator in my rental cottage.
“I thought I gave you everything you needed in your kitchenette,” Sebastien says without turning around.
Oh god. It occurs to me again that I’m being very stalkery. And now I won’t leave him alone, even though he’s clearly trying to separate us and keep me in the guest suite.
I laugh, trying to sound lighthearted and not at all creepy. “But there’s no bacon in the guest kitchen.”
“Of course,” he mumbles, although it sounds less like annoyance and more like he’s realizing an actual oversight on his part.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” I say. “I appreciate your hospitality. You’ve gone above and beyond for someone who didn’t expect a houseguest in the middle of a blizzard.” I glance out the kitchen window. Only a little moonlight illuminates the sky—par for the course for an Alaskan winter morning—but the storm is definitely raging. Snow flies sideways, and the branches of the pine trees whip in the wind. The insulation and soundproofing in Sebastien’s house are excellent, though. I can’t hear the weather outside at all.
Sebastien lets out a single, rueful laugh under his breath. “You’re one of those people who sees the silver lining ineverything, aren’t you?” He scoops the finished bacon onto a plate lined with paper towels to drain, then turns and sets the plate on the kitchen island between us.
“I suppose so. Iaman inveterate optimist.” I pick up a piece of bacon but drop it immediately. “Ouch. Still hot.”
This time, he laughs for real. “Case in point. So optimistic, you think you’re immune to hot bacon grease.”
There. That’s a glimpse of the Sebastien I know. The one who teases me, the one who has so many laugh lines because he smiles all the time. I lean over the kitchen counter as if magnetically drawn to him.
And suddenly, I don’t want to tell Sebastien anything yet. I want to stretch out this tiny moment, if possible, so I can hold on to the version of him that I know.
How do I do that, though? I fiddle with my dad’s broken watch, and then it hits me. Pecan pie French toast. Dad invented the dish for me, and he made a heaping plate of it before each of myRomeo and Julietperformances (I adore breakfast for dinner). I’m a lousy cook in general, but this is the one recipe I can make.
“Let me cook breakfast,” I say.
Sebastien frowns quizzically.
“I’d like to do something to repay your kindness from last night,” I explain.
That makes him frown harder. I get it. He wasn’t exactly Prince Charming yesterday. But he wrapped my ankle. And he brought me coffee with Bailey’s. He couldn’t have known I love a good Irish coffee, but still, it was lovely.
And I know that he loves French toast, too. Well, the Sebastien I’ve made up in my head likes it (maybe because the creation of his character coincided with the play and Dad’s French toast dinners).
But anyway, if I ingratiate myself to Sebastien, maybe I can earn a little more openness from him for when I tell him he’s been the star of all my stories since forever.
I take the bold step of walking around the kitchen island and planting myself at the stove next to him. Old Helene would never have done this. But I’m New Helene now, even if it takes an extra dose of courage to embody her. “You just sit down and relax andeat bacon. I’m going to whip up my specialty—pecan pie French toast.”
His eyes widen for just a fraction of a second. “I do love French toast.”
My heart skips a beat at the possibility that Story Sebastien’s breakfast tastes align with Real Sebastien’s.
But then he shakes his head. “Who doesn’t like French toast, though? That doesn’t make me special.”
I think there’s something else Sebastien isn’t saying. Or I could be reading too much into it, because I want it to be true, I want him to know something that will render all of this logical.
Regardless, he surrenders the space at the stove and sits on the other side of the kitchen island on one of the barstools. He picks up a piece of bacon and eats it, just like I suggested. I purse my lips to hide my smile.
Then I get to work. It’s easy to find what I need—so easy that it’s uncanny, as if I already knew this kitchen and where Sebastien would put things. The cooking utensils are in the drawer to the left of the stove. The brown sugar, corn syrup, and pecans are on the highest shelf in the pantry, and the maple syrup is in the fridge behind the milk, between the loaf of bread and eggs.
