by Natasha Boyd
Then she sent a cute selfie of her and Dauphine holding up some freshly painted nails. Dauphine’s were tangerine with little mermaid stickers, and Madame’s were a classy French manicure. I’d meant to ask Andrea what the French called a French manicure. Was it even French? French fries weren’t French, so what did I know?
A whistle drew my attention.
I looked up.
Xavier was casually leaning over the top deck rail, looking like an Instagram model. “Will you be joining me?” he asked and let out his megawatt smile that was like a shock starter to my chest.
Everything inside me was a complicated mess of emotion. I was upset at the things he’d said as we lay on my bed after the most incredible sexual experience of my life. Annoyed and hurt. And I had no right to be.
Why couldn’t I shut off my stupid brain and heart and just enjoy this for what it was? He’d made no promises. I didn’t want promises anyway. And just because it had been earth shattering for me, didn’t mean his sexual experiences weren’t always like that for him.
But, shit.
I was crazy about him. Beyond attracted to him. Addicted to getting him to laugh or smile. And the way he’d cried out my name as he climaxed? Well, that would haunt me soul deep for pretty much ever. And his daughter. God, I loved her. And I was enamored with the way he loved her. I had to make sure I didn’t confuse my love for his family with being in love with him. But I feared the waters were already too muddy.
My stomach, utterly empty, growled.
“Well?” he asked
“On my way.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Xavier Pascale and I walked side by side from the concrete jetty down to the small fishermen’s huts that clustered in a semi-circle around the port. The heat of the day hadn’t ebbed fully yet, but a breeze had picked up.
“So, this is Calvi?” I asked.
“Yes. The quieter part of the port. More fishing boats, less tourists. And I know it better here.”
“And is this where your meeting is tomorrow?”
He stopped at the entrance of a narrow cobblestone alley we were about to head down and pointed up past the hulking citadel wall that overlooked the rocky bay and to the top of the cliff. “Up there.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Okay.”
He gave me a side grin. “Long story. Maybe I’ll tell you over dinner.” His hand brushed against mine and then he clasped it, his fingers sliding between mine.
My belly gave a flutter of pleasure. The handholding came just in time as my flip flop caught on a cobblestone and I tripped. Or maybe it was the distraction of the action. “Whoa!”
His arm wrapped around my back as he caught me. “Attention. I’m sorry. Be careful. Are you okay?”
I winced and wiggled my foot. “Tripping in flip flops is painful.”
“Will you be all right?” he asked, his brow furrowed in concern. He dropped to his haunches and inspected my foot before his fingers trailed up the back of my calf. “The restaurant is not far. Perhaps a foot massage when we get back tonight?”
I knocked on his forehead. “Are you real?”
“Ah.” He rubbed his head, a funny smile on his face.
“Sorry. It wasn’t too hard, was it?” Who was this sweet, smiley, playful man?
“For this head? No.”
“Ha.” I wiggled my toes. “I think I’m fine, let’s go. Did I mention how hungry I am?”
He stood and leaned forward. What was he—? Oh. His lips pressed against mine. Soft, persuasive, and over too quickly. He stepped back.
My eyes fluttered open. “What was that for?”
He suddenly looked unsure.
“I’m sorry. That was just unexpected.” I glanced around. “And the handholding too. I thought you were worried about people seeing you. Recognizing you?” Pedestrians went on their way around us. Shopkeepers were hanging out on their front steps smoking and chatting to each other, paying us no attention. It reminded me of St. Tropez, but less flashy, and less groups of perfectly dressed catalog families.
“No one knows I’m here. And people here don’t care who I am. Mostly. It’s not like on the mainland.”
“Wait, we’re not technically in France? I feel so stupid. I mean, I thought we were. I just didn’t think. No one wanted to see my passport.”
He chuckled and brought my hand up to his mouth for a quick kiss before tugging us on our way. “Actually, this is France. Though, it wasn’t always. And Paco sent our passports ahead to the port master.”
“Oh?”
“You never used to have to do that. But we have so many refugees in Mediterranean waters from the genocide in Syria. Every country is feeling the strain, so officials are checking credentials of boats. And I have a good relationship with people here.”
“You do? How come?”
“Another long story.”
“Hmm. What language do locals speak here? French?”
He guided me up a hill and into a small stair-filled alley that was only a person wide, and guided me ahead of him. “Yes. But many consider themselves Corsican, not French. They have their own customs.” His voiced floated up from behind me as I climbed. “Their own dialect in many areas. Lots of Italian influence. It’s actually closer to Italy. France stole it from the Genoese in the 1700s. And putain, it’s really hard to be going up the stairs with your ass in front of me.”
I whipped around, catching him staring at the area in question. He raised his eyes to mine guiltily, his palms up and a smirk playing around his sexy mouth.
“Well, now I can’t walk ahead of you.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No. I can’t.” I folded my arms.
He bit back a smile. “That’s a pity. I’ll just enjoy it later.” He took my hand. “Besides, we’re here. Though a bit early.” We’d stopped outside a green door. It was set into a chipped stucco wall, the paint of the door peeling to reveal ancient wood. All of a sudden it swung open and a small man came out and propped it open and laid a blackboard against the wall. Then he looked up, and his graying face morphed into a wide tobacco-stained grin. “Pasqual-ey!” he erupted.
The tiny man rushed forward, grabbing Xavier by the hand and slapping his back in a half embrace. It was returned with big smiles. “Cristo.” Xavier greeted the small man who came up to his elbow, if that.
“Venga! Venga!” the man named Cristo commanded excitedly. Xavier and I were ushered inside. Before my eyes had adjusted there was a fuss of greetings from staff in the kitchen and a few introductions made to waiters Xavier didn’t know. It was clear they were being told royalty had arrived. I hung back, letting Xavier catch up. He was responding in what sounded like rough Italian, definitely not French. And then slowly everyone kind of remembered I was there. I swallowed as one by one curious eyes turned to me. Xavier stepped back and took my hand. He held it up and said something, something, Joséphine.
There were some collective sighs and sounds of surprise. “Josephine,” a few people whispered reverently. Okay. Weird. And then my other hand was grasped and kissed and shaken and we were ushered to a couple of stools by an upturned wine barrel. “Um?” I asked. “What just happened? Are you like a secret soccer star or something?”
He chuckled, then scratched his nose. “Something like that. Not the soccer thing. I wish. Not that I was half bad in school.”
“And? Get there faster,” I encouraged.
He looked around. “They are getting us a table ready upstairs,” he evaded.
“And this is another long story?”
“Oui.”
“We might need more than one dinner together,” I quipped.
“We might,” he said, his voice dropping to a low octave and his eyes finding mine in the dim interior light.
Suddenly we were presented with a basket of bread, olives, and an earthen-ware jar of red wine with two short stubby glasses. For some reason I’d pegged Xavier Pascale as someone who frequented extremely fancy places. This was as ba
sic and as charming and as real as they came. “You are full of surprises,” I told him and bit into a tart and firm green olive, the smooth bitter flavor zinging across my tongue. Heaven. I moaned. “We don’t get olives like this back home. Wow.”
He smiled enigmatically and took a sip of red wine.
Cristo arrived back at the table saying something to Xavier that sounded like the words ten minutes in my European Romance language basic understanding. Then he poured some dark green yellow oil onto a saucer and kissed the tips of his fingers. He was so sweet.
“Our table upstairs will be ready in ten minutes,” Xavier told me. “He said he wants it to be perfect.”
“Mind if I gorge myself on bread and olive oil in the meantime?”
He tilted the basket toward me in offering. I took a piece of bread, tore a chunk off, and set it to absorb the oil Cristo had just poured. “Thank you.”
“I love watching you eat. I have from the very first night. It became impossible. I had to avoid it whenever I was able. I had to tell Andrea you needed to eat with the crew.”
I paused mid-chew, staring at him. “Uh.” Oops. Mouthful. I hastily chewed and swallowed. Too big. I took a swig of wine and almost choked. Nice. Someone tells you he likes watching you eat, and you decide at that moment to choke on your food. Great.
“But save some room. Cristo’s food is the best. Simple. But the best. And there’s a lot of it.”
I had one more bite of bread, and then reluctantly put it aside and took a sip from my glass. “The wine is amazing,” I said. “What type is it?”
“Just a local blend that’s left over from the vineyards, probably. They sell it as a house wine. It can vary slightly from year to year, depending on what’s exported.”
We locked eyes.
I set my glass down. “What do you do exactly?”
His gaze flicked to his glass where he trailed a finger down the side of it, then back to me.
“Long story,” we both said at the same time. Mine a question, his a statement.
He smiled, and I laughed into my wine.
“I love that you don’t know.”
I frowned. “And you want to keep it that way?”
He blew out a breath, his eyes growing serious. “I find myself wanting to tell you everything. You are so easy to be with.” He picked up his glass and took a healthy sip. Now that he was letting himself be with me was the unspoken follow up.
“I wish I could say the same.”
His head cocked to the side, wordlessly asking me to explain. A faint look of hurt rippled behind his poker mask.
“I mean this, here, you, right now. It’s … great. But on the same day you tell me women want too much of you. I can imagine, I know,” I corrected, “how they could fall into that trap of wanting more of you than you’re willing to give them. To give me. This version of you is …” I took a small sip of wine, wondering how honest to be and deciding I’d said enough. What I wanted to say was “this version of you is easy to fall in love with.” But the truth was every version of him was.
I couldn’t look at him. I picked at a small piece of my bread. Then Cristo was there, gesticulating and pointing to a small rickety wooden stairwell.
We got up and followed him. At the bottom of the stairs, Xavier waved me after Cristo and ahead of him. After what happened outside, this should have been funny. But I’d ruined the vibe. I moved ahead of him. But the moment my foot touched the first stair, he took my arm stilling me, and stepped up behind me, his mouth at my ear. “I was talking about other women,” he whispered.
“What am I?” I turned my face to his.
His dropped his forehead to my shoulder for a second, then he looked up at me, his expression helpless. “You’re … you.”
I nodded at his non answer, knowing it was probably all I’d get, then I continued following Cristo upstairs.
Chapter Thirty-Six
After following Cristo up four flights of ancient wooden stairs, that got narrower, and more rickety, I was seriously ready to question the safety of this adventure. “How old do you think this building is?” I asked Xavier over my shoulder.
At each turn, we passed closed wooden doors set into whitewashed stucco and kept climbing.
“Five hundred years, give or take. Maybe more.”
“Wow. Do they not have termites in this part of the world?”
“Normally, I’d say ‘what are you talking about?’ But I just read a frightening article. They are going to become more prevalent in Europe with the average temperature rising every year. We’ll lose so much history.”
“That’s so sad, I—” My words died on my lips as we reached the top and climbed through a trap door where I’m sure I flashed Xavier my black thong, and then we were on a roof terrace. It was strung with twinkling lights and potted plants. Full grown orange and lemon trees in halved wine barrels created a sanctuary but left the view open down to the harbor and the ocean. There was even a grape vine over our heads. The last of the day’s light had spilled mercury across the blue ocean. On the terrace in front of us was a single linen covered table for two with a candle in a glass jar in the middle. Soft classical music played from somewhere unknown.
Cristo fussed and moved us toward the table. My mouth was open and I closed it. “It’s beautiful,” I told him sincerely.
Apparently he knew what that meant. “Beautiful, beautiful, si, si,” he said, delighted. He turned to Xavier, gesturing to the wall in the corner, explaining some kind of dumb waiter contraption and a bell before turning back to us and filling our wine glasses with the last of the carafe. Apparently, the upstairs table got the fancy cut crystal. It was old and heavy. Beautiful. After seating us, Cristo disappeared back down the stairs.
I looked around, still in awe. “This is … stunning.” The breeze was cooler up here and caressed my bare arms.
“It is. I had no idea.”
“Wait. This isn’t your special romance table?”
“I think I covered how much romance I’ve had recently,” he said tightly.
My gut thumped. “I’m sorry. They seem to have known you a long time. I—didn’t you bring your wife here?”
“I take it back about you being easy to be around. You’re challenging me tonight.” He chuckled and picked up his crystal glass. “Chin chin.”
“Cheers,” I returned carefully.
We both set our glasses down.
“The truth is I did bring her here. Not up here. This was never offered to me before. I didn’t know it existed. Arriette, she didn’t enjoy when I came to visit Corsica. Perhaps Cristo could tell.” His voice was low, and his eyes strayed to the left as if lost in memories.
“What really happened to her?” I whispered. “How did she die?”
His shoulders moved, and he slowly unfolded his arms, setting his palms on the table edge as if steadying himself. He looked down at his fingers. “The sordid stories say she partied too hard and overdosed.” His voice carried shame.
“And you?” I managed. “What do you believe?”
He looked at me with hesitation, with so much pain that my chest cinched tight. “I … I believe she took her own life,” he said. “I believe it was … deliberate.”
Shit. I let his truth hang out in the air between us, fighting the urge to refute it, to reassure him, to crawl across the table and hold him so fucking tight. “Today, when you saw me in the bathroom, you thought of her, didn’t you?” I asked quietly when I could breathe again.
He nodded then lifted his palms from the table with an inhale and reached for his wine. “So. Now you know. And I would like for you not to discuss it with anyone.”
“Of course,” I croaked and cleared my throat. “I would never. I’m so sorry.”
“Not your fault.” He grimaced. “If Dauphine had to think about the fact her mother didn’t love her daughter enough to stay alive, well, you can understand why we do not talk much about it.”
I picked at the hem of my dress as I
quaked inside at his painful truth delivered so bluntly. And I’d bet he felt the same way—that she hadn’t loved him enough to stay alive either. No wonder he had trust issues. This was more than someone lying to you. This was trusting someone with your heart. With your life. With your daughter’s life. And it not being enough. My eyes stung and filled. I shook my head, blinking and looking out at the dark night view. I swiped a quick hand to my eyes before he could see. “Dauphine said you told her that sadness was a disease that people could die from. I think you have handled it well with her. It’s not that people who suffer don’t love their family enough,” I said slowly. “It’s that the disease is stronger.”
He gazed at me for a beat, and an understanding seemed to pass between us. “Are you real?” he asked softly, tossing my words from earlier tonight back at me far more poignantly.
There was a clang at the wall where the dumb waiter was. Cristo materialized out of the small roof door as if summoned, bearing a tray of goodies and breaking the morose atmosphere.
He set the food down on a cart that he wheeled over and began laying some of the dishes out on the table. Heavenly scents rose up, making my mouth water. Herbs, garlic, something lightly fried. By the time he’d also retrieved what was in the dumb waiter, my stomach gave a loud growl. Cristo’s eyes darted to me, startled.
“Excuse me,” I said, my cheeks blazing, sucking my lips between my teeth. I glanced up to see Xavier, head down, shoulders shaking as he tried to hold in a laugh.
He caught my eye, and we both cracked up.
Cristo was smiling his stained and gap-toothed grin and started talking to me.
“He’s saying he’s flattered that the food they’ve prepared will be so enjoyed.”
“Tell him you’ve been starving me in preparation to experience his cooking.”