Page 39 of One Time in Paris
Aiden swallowed more of his cappuccino and stared at the scene unfolding by one of the tasting stations. Tomas and Isla stood there, chatting with the shop owner, laughing like they were already in on some private joke. Tomas had eagerly assumed his job as boyfriend, his hand a constant presence at the small of Isla’s back—territorial, possessive.
Aiden curled his fingers around his coffee cup, knuckles stiff. He forced himself to sip and ignore the irrational irritation gnawing at his ribs. Tomas had every right to touch her.
Yet Aiden wanted to break his fingers.
Tomas even knew how to chum it up with Kyle, who had fallen easily into the role of humorous third wheel when he’d butchered the pronunciations of every wine they tasted.
“Need something a bit stronger than wine?” a deep voice asked from beside him with a chuckle. Aiden glanced over and saw an older gentleman, broad shouldered and wearing a plaid shirt and bow tie ...and a cowboy hat. He flashed a bright smile framed by a St. Nicholas-like beard.
Aiden returned a polite smile. “Something like that.”
The man winked. “I hear you. I’m staying away from the stuff, too. If I’d started drinking wine at five, I would have been asleep by six.” He extended a hand. “Name’s John.”
“Aiden,” he said, shaking John’s hand. “Are you a local?”
“Yup. Lived here all my life.” A proud look filled his eyes. “Wouldn’t want to call any other place home. We might be a humble town, but we’ve made it through a lot of adversity.”
“Ah, so you’re a native Parisian then?”
John barked a laugh, then cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey Kathy, this fellow wants to know if we’re Parisians,” he called to the woman speaking to Tomas and Isla.
Kathy rolled her eyes and grinned. “You asked the wrong man,” she said to Aiden with a shake of her head.
John set his hand on Aiden’s shoulder. “We’re Parisites.” He winked again.
Isla’s lovely laugh trickled through the shop. “That’s clever.”
“So how do you fit in with this group?” John asked, lowering his hand from Aiden’s shoulder. “You seem to be mostly observing.”
“That’s apt. My role is more. . .accessory,” Aiden said as he set his mug down on a table.
“You’re the money, eh?” John gave him a thoughtful look. “From England?”
Aiden nodded and shifted with discomfort.
“You’re a long way from home. What do you think of our small town?”
“It’s charming,” Aiden said in a practiced tone.
“Bet you say that everywhere you go.” John chuckled. “Our town has its problems, just like every other town. Young folks leave and don’t come back. Not much to do here compared to the bigger cities. But it’s a good place to settle down with someone you love and have a couple of kids. Grow old in a place where people actually know you—there’s a value in that young people don’t always recognize. What’s home to you, Aiden? What does it look like? Smell like? Sound like? More importantly, who’s there waiting for you? If you can answer those questions, you’re pretty fortunate.”
Of course he’d get stuck talking to the most gregarious person here.So un-British to pepper a complete stranger with so many invasive questions.Aiden restrained a sigh. “So, what are the answers to those questions for you, John?”
John smiled. “Home is that lovely lady over there.” He pointed at a woman with short gray hair serving wine at a tasting station. “Been married to her for forty-three years.”
“And the rest?” Aiden arched a brow.
John inhaled an exaggerated breath and released it. “Home smells like rolls from Ideal Bread baking on the square in the morning, Speas Vinegar in the air. Crepe myrtle blooms in the summer, and the sounds of kids running through the sprinklers.” He gave Aiden a wink that he was increasingly sure must be one of his trademarks. “I don’t ask questions I don’t already know the answers to, sonny.”
As John moved away, Aiden settled into the background again, vaguely drained by the interaction. His gaze flicked toward Tomas and Isla once more. Tomas had slipped his arms comfortably around Isla’s waist, tugging her back against him.
Kyle was laughing with another local. The film crew moved around, capturing their conversations, while other people here for the wine festival sipped on their drinks in various states of attire—some dressed to the nines, some in jeans.
No wonder John had taken one look at him and realized he wasn’t at home. Not here. Maybe not anywhere. He was a man who traveled the world but had nothing real of his own. No crepe myrtle summers, no scent of fresh bread on the square, no one waiting for him at the end of the day. Just the cold sterility of offices, boardrooms, and polished steel elevators.
And really...I wouldn’t be here if I had a choice.
He’d toiled in front of a laptop all night, trying to catch up with all the work that demanded his attention. Tonight would likely be similar.
