Page 28 of Bordeaux Bombshell
A woman whose white blouse was rapidly turning tie-dye brown from the hot, dusty air kicked up by the roller suitcase dragging behind her. And who was regretting the choice to change into a pair of cute sandals.
All the guidebooks said that wearing sneakers in France was an instant faux pas, and I was determined to look as put together as possible while I declared my love. It felt like necessary armor at the time.
I dropped my voice an octave to try out an impression of Zoltar again, still unsure if I should do it or not, when I turned onto the main road. Joining the crowd of pedestrians walking down the street, I spotted a café at the end of the block and headed that way. A coffee and a pastry were exactly what I needed to muster up the courage to face Nate.
“Watch it, asshole,” I muttered at the teen who strolled by, his head bobbing to whatever was playing in his headphones. He paused, eyebrow raised, and I waved him off, embarrassment curdling in my belly.
He did nothing wrong, but my pent-up nerves needed a release valve. “Fucking French.” The manufactured irritation helped hide the anxiety that had been building since the plane took off, so I held tight to the emotion.
Clearing a couple of grandmotherly types blocking the sidewalk, I froze at the sight in front of me. A young couple was sitting at one of the outdoor tables, wineglasses in hand. The woman faced me, one long leg crossed over the other, a flash of red-soled heels showing as she chatted. I stood, transfixed at the way her short bob swung with her movements, shiny like a fucking shampoo commercial. The black pencil skirt she worehugged every curve of her slim hips and waist, a chic scarf tied unironically around her long, slim neck.
But as much as I wanted to obsess over the quintessentially fabulous woman, it was the too-familiar shoulders and messy brown hair of her companion that kept me rooted to the spot. And when he leaned close for a kiss, the sound I heard was the cracking of my heart into a million pieces.
Eyes blurred with tears, I spun on my heel and marched back to the train station without a word. The confused woman working at the ticket booth asked me repeatedly in broken English if I was injured before finally selling me a ticket back to Paris.
Changing my flight home was a bitch but worth it to escape the heartbreak and embarrassment of nearly baring my soul to Nathaniel. By the time I landed at home and climbed into Payton’s car, I’d talked myself into being relieved that I’d found out how he felt without ever having to admit it out loud.
Maybe if I faked the lie was true, I’d eventually be able to believe it.
Nate
Thefaintsmellofnew paint wafts out as I hold the door open, combined with a familiar expensive perfume. Workers have been down here for the last few days, repainting and fixing up a few things, and Mom and Sophie spent yesterday afternoon getting everything tidied up and ready. There was less work to do than they expected, considering it’s been sitting empty for months.
“Ah, this will do just fine.” Manon’s English was always good, but it’s improved since I last saw her. Or maybe she was always this proficient and was making me work on my French by pretending. It wouldn’t surprise me if that were true. “What a quaint little place.”
She thrusts her purse into my hand while shrugging off her jacket, which also ends up in my grip before she moves further inside.
“Thank you so much for coming, Manon.” Sophie edges past me to join her inside. “Greg—and Nate—highly recommended you for your expertise. Do you often deal with frosts in Bordeaux?”
Manon is wandering through the space, hand trailing across the back of the new leather couch. When Kel and Maggie lived here, it was full of bright colors against the white and timber walls. Now it’s redone with gray, navy, and yellow. It’s fine but lacks the personality it had before. I can’t help but wonder if Sophie is considering turning the cabin into a short-term rental.
Just what I need—a rotating cast of strangers living next door, expecting me to act as their concierge.
“Oui. Enough to know what to look for and how to help. My father and grandfather have seen many late frosts and taught me.” She waves a hand in my direction. “Nate, too. I am flattered by your desire for my expertise, but Nathaniel knows almost as much as I do.”
I cough, Manon’s flattery sinking like a rock in my stomach. “Your father taught me a lot, but there’s knowledge and then there’s experience. I haven’t seen a frost like this since I was a teenager, and I don’t think I retained enough to be confident in our next steps.”
Against my better judgment, I called Manon the day after the early frost that had left us scrambling, to ask her what to look for. Really, I’d been looking for reassurance that my instincts were correct, but Theo overheard some of the conversation, and after I explained who she was, he and Sophie insisted on flying her out to take a look.
My opinion on the issue didn’t seem to matter.
And, of course, Manon jumped at the chance.
She’d never miss an opportunity to remind me it was her bed I crawled into in an attempt to forget everything, and everyone, I had left behind. She’d been there when I’d gotten the call aboutmy dad’s fall and insisted on driving me to the airport, even though it was an ungodly early hour.
When I told her I wasn’t coming back, she begged, cried, and argued that I was making a mistake. Her passionate response was so completely different from Sydney’s silence that, in a panic, I offered to pay for her to visit.
But she would never leave Gabriel, or Vignobles Hermouet, and I knew it.
This trip was planned before I could object—too distracted by my game of tug-of-war with Sydney to explain the nuances of our relationship and deter the visit. When she called to confirm her flight number and that she was staying at the Ridge, I was too stupid with the feel of Sydney’s naked skin still tingling in my fingertips to do anything except agree.
Sophie continues asking Manon questions, so I excuse myself and head uphill to my cabin. There’s a tightness in my chest that could be from seeing my ex-lover or guilt that I haven’t told Sydney about her yet.
Also, if I have to listen to another minute of them discussing my vines and my home as if I’m not there, I’ll say something rude. And believe it or not, I’ve been putting in effortnotto be rude to Sophie.
I’ve been trying not to be a dick in general, an idea that admittedly has not been a priority these last few years. But after that amazing night with Sydney, the iceberg in my gut has been melting rapidly.
Kel’s constant good mood these days seems entirely reasonable if this is a taste of what being with the love of your life feels like.
