Page 136 of Prelude To You

Emily patted my hand. “I don’t know whether to be concerned, but there’s something you’re not telling me. Should I worry about you or not?”

“No, no, no, everything is fine.”

“You should have stopped at the first no, Roman. I hope you know you can talk to me about anything.”

“I know I can, thank you,” I said, standing up and kissing her on the cheek. “But it’s back to the salt mines for now. I look forward to my French pastries tomorrow.”

I could feel Emily’s curious gaze follow me as I left. She had to sense the change in me. All my life I’d been nothing but unsurprising and even-keeled, like the business I was about to inherit.

As I walked to my office in the south wing, I was barely able to contain this sudden flurry of anticipation. How was it possible that a situation as exceptionally problematic as this could make me feel like I was walking on air? Did I dare hope there was some magical solution lying in wait somewhere?

Once back in the office I made a fire, poured a Glenmorangie Signet and settled in behind the desk. I called the guard at the front gate to tell whoever was on duty tomorrow to message me directly when Isabel Le Roche’s driver arrived at the estate.

One of the ten office windows looked out over the house’s main entrance. I wanted to see her, even if just for a few seconds before she disappeared into the house.

39

ISABEL

Iwas in our small kitchen makingprofiterolesfor the staff tomorrow. I was obsessed with the idea that Roman would receive at least a couple of theseprofiteroles, so they had to be perfect. I was going to fill the pastry balls with vanilla bean cream and glaze them with toffee caramel.

By now the idea of Roman being in the house was beginning to settle, and maybe I was still wary, but chances were slim that our paths would ever cross in that maze of a place.

I piped thechouxdough onto the first baking pan and popped it in the oven. It was at that moment that Meg burst through the front door, threw her bag and coat on the dining room table and stormed into the kitchen. She grabbed me by the shoulders, searching my face for signs of madness or maybe a psychotic breakdown.

“Start at the fucking top,” she said, imploring me, her eyes the size of dinner plates. “I need to know everything. Now.”

I continued piping thechouxdough onto the second pan. “I already texted you everything. Nothing has changed in the last half hour. Roman is in that house. That’s where he lives. Somuch for me having a better chance of getting hit by a train than running into him again.”

“Listen, I said that to comfort you. And let’s face it, this is unfuckingbelievable. Destiny is like right in your face, begging you to pay attention.”

“Oh God, here we go again with the destiny thing.”

“Okay, okay,” Meg said, pacing the length of our tiny kitchen. “I know you don’t want to hear me say this…”

“Then don’t say it,” I pleaded. “It’s just a bizarre coincidence. That’s all it is.”

Meg shook her head, incredulous. “That’s all it is? Really, Isabel?

I didn’t have the energy to listen to how fate and destiny were barging into my life and how I was going to regret not paying heed. I opened the fridge and handed Meg the bottle of Laurent-Perrier Grand Siècle that Patrick gave me the night before. “Why don’t you pop this open? I need a drink. And I want to finish theseprofiterolesbefore I go to Le Petit Chateau tonight.”

“You know I worked out the odds,” Meg continued as she popped the cork on the bottle and pulled two coffee mugs from the dish rack. “Do you realize that we have a better chance of winning the billion-dollar lottery than this whole thing actually happening?”

“Then I guess you’d better buy some lottery tickets, Meg.”

“You fucking bet I will. But first let’s address the real problem here.” She poured the champagne and handed me a mug.

“What problem?” I asked. I took a sip of champagne and slid the first baking pan from the oven. I pricked the pastry shells to let the steam out, allowing them to dry.

Meg drained her mug and poured herself more champagne. “The problem staring you in the face, the one you refuse to acknowledge or address. The one where you assume that if he finds out you’re at his house, he’ll fire you.”

“I don’t assume it, Meg,” I replied. “Iknowhe’ll fire me.”

“So the fact that he walks around all sad and tortured and jumping through hoops to get your old job back at Petit Chateau, to you this means he feels nothing.”

I popped the next pan into the oven, wishing I could bake in the mansion’s kitchen. The baking oven there could take ten of these pans at once.

“Look,” I said patiently. “If he could send in that soulless viper to “handle” me in the penthouse after the night we had, he’s not a guy who’s going to get all warm and fuzzy when he finds me in his house.”

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