Second Chance with the Best Man

by Katrina Cudmore

  Pale pink sleeveless blouse tucked into mid-thigh-length lemon shorts, plain white plimsolls on her feet, thick and glossy brown hair tied back into a high ponytail, she was all delicious curves and sweetness.

  He uttered a low curse to himself. He knew he’d hurt her. She deserved better than him remembering how incredible it was to hold her, to feel her soft curves. But in truth, their relationship had been built on a bed of intoxicating mutual attraction.

  He’d seen it flare in her eyes in the moments after they had first met, their handshake lasting a few seconds longer than necessary, neither trying to pull away.

  That first day, as they’d sailed on his yacht, Sirocco, which had then been moored out of Port Solent but was now moored out of Royan, Hannah had been friendly but he could tell that she was avoiding being alone with him. He’d wanted to shrug off her indifference but in truth her reticence had intrigued him and the intelligence in her eyes and her close friendship with Lara had had him wanting to know her better.

  She had turned down his invitation to meet for a drink later in the week.

  So he’d orchestrated it for her to attend a dinner party he’d thrown in his Kensington town house. He’d hoped to impress her with his cooking but she’d left early, saying she had an early flight to Paris in the morning. As he’d walked her out to her awaiting taxi, for the first time ever, he’d felt tongue-tied. All night he’d been unable to stop staring across the table at her, her natural warmth that was evident behind her initially reserved nature, her genuineness, her authenticity lighting something inside him. On the few occasions she had looked in his direction, he’d seen that spark of attraction again, but she’d always snatched her gaze away. That night of the dinner party, he’d let her go, without pressing his lips to her cheek as he’d ached to, something deep inside him telling him he had to wait until she was ready to accept the spark between them.

  Their paths had crossed several times in the months that had followed. He’d used to playfully remind her that his offer of meeting for a drink was still on the table but she would smile and turn away.

  And then, one day, when they had all gone swimming in the Solent after another day sailing on his yacht, Sirocco, she’d watched him dive from the rail. When he’d emerged from the water deliberately close to her, her initial frown that had spoken of some deep internal turmoil had transformed into a gentle smile and she’d softly said, ‘I think I’m ready for that drink.’

  He’d trod the cold English Channel water, grinning widely, not caring that everyone else in the party could see his delight. He’d wanted to stay there for ever, staring into Hannah’s soulful brown eyes, his heart beating wildly in delight and anticipation that had been more than about the desire to tug her gorgeous bikini-clad body towards him.

  Now he led her up the main marble staircase of the château to the second floor where, at the end of the corridor, he opened the door to her bedroom. Hannah walked inside, her gaze widening as she took in the antique jade hand-painted wallpaper, the Louis XV furniture.

  He stayed at the doorway. They had dated for over ten months. The chemistry and intense attraction never waning, escalating in fact. But as they’d grown closer, as his heart had begun to need her, panic had set in. Laurent didn’t believe in love and commitment. When he’d been twelve, François ten, his father had left the family home to conduct an affair. The following year his mother had done the same. And in the years that had followed his father had disappeared from the family home at least once a year to continue his affairs. The affairs, the hurt they had inflicted on everyone around them, had poisoned Laurent for ever against any thought of commitment in his own life.

  His panic had soared when he’d visited Hannah’s family one weekend and seen their love and devotion to one another. How could he ever bring her into the toxic mix of his own family, which was so full of unspoken anger and accusations? And his panic had soared even more when Hannah had told him of her plans to become a wedding celebrant. At first he’d laughed, thinking she was joking. But she’d been serious. The woman he’d thought of as being as career-minded and as focused on success as he was, who had never given any indication that she was looking for commitment, wanted to be the officiator of the institution he’d no regard for—marriage.

  Increasingly he’d realised just how incompatible they were despite their attraction and laughter and warmth for one another. And then he’d learnt of his father’s stroke and his need to return to Cognac to head up the family business. For years he’d waited on the sidelines to be given the role of CEO, beyond frustrated at the decline in the Cognac House’s market share under his father’s neglectful leadership. Bonneval Cognac had been in existence since the seventeenth century. It was Laurent’s legacy and one he was determined to restore to its rightful place as the most exclusive cognac house in the world. It was a promise he’d made to his beloved grandfather before he died, a man who had despaired at his own son’s disloyalty and irresponsibility, not only with the business, but with his own family.

  Knowing that there was no future for him and Hannah, Laurent had ended their relationship when he’d returned to France. It had been a gut-wrenching conversation, and he’d seen the pain and confusion in her eyes, but it was not a conversation he regretted. Hannah deserved someone who actually believed in love and commitment. Someone who reflected the love and devotion and stability of her own background.

  This weekend would be awkward. But they needed to somehow build a new relationship as their paths would cross time and time again in the future. Maybe having to spend time together this evening was an opportune time to begin that process. He was the one who had messed up by allowing their relationship to become too intense—the least he could do was ensure that the next few days were as painless as possible. For both of their sakes.

  ‘I had planned on eating out tonight—I need to go and check on my wedding present to François and Lara first, but there’s a restaurant nearby. Will you join me?’

  CHAPTER TWO

  HANNAH STUDIED LAURENT and marvelled at his ability to forget the past. It hurt her, angered her, but part of her envied him for it. Wasn’t it what she was striving to achieve herself, after all? For a moment she was about to say no to his invite. The last thing she wanted to do was spend time alone with him.

  Standing in the doorway, a shoulder propped against the frame, his arms crossed on his chest, his expression untroubled, he waited for her response. He was still the best-looking man she’d ever met. And damn it, she was still attracted to him. As her mum would say, figgity, figgity, fig. Well, if he could shrug off the past then so could she. She popped her suitcase on the luggage rack. Flipped the lid open, pulled out her laptop and placed it on the desk by the window, determined to have some control.

  Opening up the laptop, she asked him for the Wi-Fi password and, logging in, she said, ‘I’m doing an online thirty-day yoga challenge and I want to do today’s session now. I’ll need a shower afterwards.’ She glanced behind her in his direction. ‘I won’t be ready for at least an hour so don’t wait for me if that doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘I didn’t know you practised yoga.’

  She shrugged. ‘It helps me to let go of all those small things that irritate me in life.’

  He made a grunting sound low in his throat before saying, ‘I’ll see you downstairs in an hour,’ and then walked away.

  She closed the door and leant heavily against it. This room, the entire château, was beyond incredible. She’d stolen glances into the endless rooms they had passed downstairs, her breath catching at their delicate elegance.

  It was hard to comprehend that Laurent lived here. All alone. She knew from Lara that his parents had moved to a lodge on the thousand-acre estate after he’d returned from England to take up the role of CEO. She’d heard Lara’s description of this magnificent château, had known of the world-famous cognac brand, but until now she hadn’t fully gras
ped his family’s wealth and standing.

  This was not her world. It brought out all the inadequacies she so desperately tried to keep hidden.

  Now, more than ever, she was glad that she’d never told Laurent about her early childhood. How could someone who came from this background ever understand her? Not believe she was tainted by it?

  She was even more grateful that she’d never fully opened her heart to him, dared to tell him she loved him. She’d felt too vulnerable, too unsure of what his response would be—which should have told her everything she needed to know about their relationship. Though deeply charismatic, Laurent somehow managed to never fully reveal himself or show any vulnerability. For most of their whirlwind relationship she’d been blind to that, too excited by the fact that this gorgeous man wanted her in his life. He’d been attentive and fun with a determined and self-possessed streak she’d found utterly compelling. But he’d never really answered her questions about his background, what he wanted in the future. And in their last conversation he’d told her that he couldn’t give her commitment, a permanent relationship.

  Thankfully she’d managed to stop herself from pleading that she was happy to keep things casual, knowing that in truth she only wanted to buy more time to persuade him that he could commit. At least she hadn’t followed that particular deluded path of trying to change another person.

  After her yoga and shower, she changed into a knee-length white shift dress, a narrow gold belt cinching in the waist. Brushing out her hair, she let it hang loose and applied some make-up. About to leave, she paused to stare out of one of the four windows in the room. Below her room, set amidst a wide purple border of lavender, sat a huge swimming pool. Beyond the pool an immaculate lawn ran down to a tree-lined river. Laurent used to talk about that river, the Charente, when he spoke about home, which admittedly was a rare occurrence. In London, his whole focus had seemed to be on his career as a fund manager and the busy social life he’d created in his adopted city. He’d lived life with abandon, hungry to experience new places, new things—she’d travelled more in her short time with him than she’d ever previously done.

  Downstairs she busied herself with staring at the landscape paintings of country scenes hanging in abundance in the hallway as she waited for him, and when his footsteps tapped, tapped, tapped on the marble stairs as he jogged downwards, she realised how much she missed his endless energy and enthusiasm for life. She gave him the briefest of smiles when he came alongside her, tried to ignore how good he looked with his damp hair, his pale blue shirt open at the neck worn over lightweight navy trousers, tried to ignore how his freshly applied aftershave flipped her heart with the memory of waking to find him crouched beside her, dressed for work, a cup of tea in one hand, a plate with toast in the other, his brilliant smile turning her weak with happiness.

  ‘Ready to go?’

  She nodded to his question and followed him to the front door. As he was about to pull the ancient handle that opened one side of the heavy double oak doors she could not help but ask, ‘Will he be out there?’

  He turned, confused at first by her question, but then reached out as though to touch her forearm. Hannah jerked back, unable to bear the thought of him touching her. Afraid for how she would react. For the briefest of moments he looked thrown by her reaction before he dropped his hand. Opening the door, he answered, ‘No. Bleu knows to stay in his kennel when I send him there.’

  Tentatively she followed him out onto the gravelled driveway. ‘Did you inherit him from your parents?’

  He walked to the side of the château, past a parked four-by-four, and opened the doors of one of the five stone-crafted single-storey outbuildings that were set back from the château. Daylight flooded the building to reveal a silver sports car. Hannah swallowed the temptation to exclaim at its beauty.

  ‘I didn’t inherit Bleu but this car I did inherit. My father is an avid vintage-car collector. He moved most of his collection to an outbuilding at the lodge but left this car here as there wasn’t enough room for it. He wanted to sell it but my mother persuaded him to keep it within the family. I don’t get to use it as much as I’d like to...’ he paused and glanced out at the blue, cloudless evening sky ‘...but this evening is the perfect night to take it for a run.’

  Hannah watched him manually lower the soft top of the car, the pit of disappointment in her stomach at his answer having her eventually ask, ‘So where did you get Bleu?’

  In the initial days and weeks after Laurent had returned to France she’d held out vain hope that he might call, change his mind, her heart slowly splintering apart, but after a month of silence, her heart a void, she’d accepted that it was truly over between them. But somehow, the thought of Laurent choosing Bleu, knowing her fear of dogs, spoke more than a year of silence of him moving on from her.

  After he’d left she’d been numb, but eventually, when she’d grown exhausted by the emptiness inside herself, she’d insisted that her heart mend. She’d worked harder at fixing her heart than at anything she’d ever tackled before. She had thrown herself into her work and her training course to become a wedding celebrant. She’d filled every minute of every day with work and exercise and reading and meeting up with friends and family.

  Only once had she slipped up and shown just how deeply devastated she was. She’d taken her newly acquired wedding celebrant certificate to show to her parents on the day she graduated from her course. Her dad had been out at the weekly livestock market in their local town, but her mum had made a fuss of her achievement, even opening a celebratory bottle of champagne. In the comforting cocoon of her childhood home, once the euphoria of achieving the qualification had worn off, she’d realised how tired and lonely she really was. And when her mum, with her usual gentle perceptiveness, had asked how she was, the tears had come. Hannah had fought their spilling onto her cheek, not wanting to upset her mum. She’d just nodded instead at what her mum said in response to her hiccupped short explanation before quickly changing the subject to a much happier topic—her sister Cora’s pregnancy and the much-anticipated arrival of the first grandchild into the family.

  Later, back in London and alone in her apartment, she’d reflected on what her mum had said and taken some solace from her observation that at least she was risking her heart now and living life as she should be, with its invariable ups and downs, joy and disappointments. Hannah had been taken aback; she hadn’t realised that her mum saw through how much she was protecting herself. Which was silly really—her parents were the most empathetic people she knew. Of course they understood why she struggled so much to trust others.

  She’d met her parents when she was seven. She hadn’t wanted to be in their house; she hadn’t wanted their smiles, their kind voices. Their encouragement to eat her food, to play with their daughters, Cora and Emily. She had wanted to be back in her old house. With her birth parents. But the police had taken her away and now she had to live with new people. She’d been so scared. Above all else she’d hated change. Because it meant things might get even worse. She’d known how her birth parents operated, but not these strangers.

  Now opening the passenger door for her, Laurent moved to the other side of the car. It was only when they were both seated inside the car that he turned and answered her question. ‘I found Bleu one night when out running in the woods of the estate. I heard his whimpering first—the vet believes he ate some poison a local farmer may have put down. He was already an undernourished stray. We didn’t think he’d pull through. But he did. He’s a gentle giant. But I’ll make sure he’s locked away while you’re here.’

  Hannah swallowed at the tenderness of his tone, at the emotion in his eyes. Torn between her deep fear of dogs and the guilt of locking away this poor animal who had been through so much already, she answered, ‘No, don’t, that’s not fair on him. I’ll keep out of his way.’

  Turning on the engine, which started with a low throb, h
e turned and regarded her. ‘I can introduce him to you if you want.’

  She jerked in her seat, instantly terrified. ‘No, don’t.’

  He gave her a concerned look before backing the car out of the garage. When he’d turned it in the direction of the drive he said, ‘You never really explained to me why you’re so scared of dogs.’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ve always been petrified of them, it’s just one of those things.’ Which wasn’t true. She could remember a time when she wasn’t scared. But like so much of her early childhood, the story of why she feared dogs was one she’d locked away inside herself years ago.

  Laurent’s gaze narrowed. For a moment he looked as though he was going to probe further but then, putting the car in gear, he sped off down the drive and out onto the narrow lanes of the Cognac countryside.

  The wind whipped against her hair. She tied it back with an elastic band from her handbag. Despite her anxiousness about the entire weekend, for a moment she felt exhilarated as they zipped along and she smiled to herself as the force of the warm air blasted against her skin. The car was small. Laurent’s thigh was only inches away from hers. She tried to focus on the low hedges they sped by, the endless bright fields of smiling sunflowers, the gorgeous order of vineyards with their row upon row of vines, and not the way Laurent’s large hands clasped the wheel, the assured way he handled the car. They slowed behind a tractor. Hannah felt a jolt of nostalgia for her Shropshire childhood. The rides with her dad out on his tractor. The carefree days filled with her dad’s laughter, the late evenings of drawing in bales of hay. But even then a part of her could not help wonder how she’d managed to escape from what came before, wondering if one day she’d have to go back to it.

  Laurent slowed as they approached a village. The road narrowed even further to wind its way past pale stone houses with light blue shutters, then a boulangerie shut for the evening, a bar with some locals sitting outside who waved to Laurent as he passed by. At the other end of the village he pulled into a narrow driveway, a plaque with the name Villa Marchand on the entrance pillar, the viburnum hedging dense with white delicate flowers brushing lightly against the sides of the car. And then a two-storey house appeared, its blue shutters tied back. Jasmine and wild roses threaded their way up the outer walls, curling around the Juliet balconies on the upper floor. To the side of the house stood an ancient weeping willow tree on the banks of a river.