Second Chance with the Best Man

by Katrina Cudmore

  ‘We spent our summers with my grandparents in Paris.’

  She placed her elbow on the table and balanced her chin in the cup of her hand. ‘I thought Parisians left the city for the summer. Why didn’t they come here?’

  ‘My grandparents moved to Paris after my father took over the family business.’ He stopped with the intention of saying no more, but thanks to Hannah’s expectant silence he found himself eventually admitting, ‘There were arguments. My grandfather didn’t approve of how my father was running the business, so they moved away. When we were old enough I asked my grandfather if François and I could spend the summers with them in Paris.’

  ‘Did your parents not mind?’

  He couldn’t help but give a rueful laugh. ‘They were too busy to even notice we weren’t around.’

  She grimaced but then, ever the optimist, asked with excitement, ‘Did you like Paris?’

  ‘We both loved it. François even stayed and finished his final years of school there.’

  Her brows shot up. ‘Wow, I couldn’t see my parents agreeing to that—they even struggled when we left for university. Your parents obviously encouraged you to be independent.’

  She was reading the situation all wrong. Not surprising given her background. Once again this evening he felt torn between changing the subject and telling her about his family. Before, he’d never felt that compulsion. In London, he’d been able to block out his past, but being back in Cognac for the past year had stirred up all the memories and emotions of how betrayed he’d felt by his parents’ affairs.

  ‘Is everything okay? You seem upset.’

  He started at Hannah’s words. She’d always been so good at reading his moods.

  ‘Our family life was rather chaotic. I persuaded François he would do better in a calmer environment.’

  ‘Have you always been the protective older brother?’

  He grinned at the playfulness of her question. ‘Probably.’

  Hannah grinned back and then in a flash memories and attraction danced between them.

  His throat tightened.

  Hannah twisted her wine glass around and around. ‘It was a shame you couldn’t make Lara and François’s civil ceremony in London last week. I know François was disappointed but at least your father was well enough to travel with your mother.’

  ‘I was travelling in Asia—promoting the House.’

  She snorted, clearly not buying his answer. ‘I reckon, given your views on marriage, that you were simply avoiding the ceremony.’

  ‘That’s possibly true too.’ Seeing her smile of satisfaction that she’d called it right, he added, ‘But before you accuse me of disloyalty or not playing my part, can I point out that there is no tradition here in France of there being a best man at weddings? But as Lara is keen to have her sister as her bridesmaid, to keep some British traditions, I have agreed to be the best man.’

  She laughed at that. ‘You make it sound as though you have agreed to take a place on a battlefield.’

  Was marriage, commitment, trusting in others, so easy for her? ‘Did you mind being asked to be the wedding celebrant?’

  ‘I was honoured. What else did you expect?’

  He wanted to say that he thought she should have said no to François and Lara. But instead he said, ‘Are you actually enjoying the work? It can’t be easy combining it with your day job.’

  ‘You still don’t understand why I want to be a celebrant, do you?’

  ‘It’s not the career direction a young and successful finance director usually takes.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by one of the waiting staff arriving with their orders: salade au saumon et l’avocat for Hannah, double carpaccio de boeuf for himself.

  After they had eaten for a few minutes in silence, Hannah placed her cutlery on her plate and said, ‘I love being a wedding celebrant because I want to contribute something meaningful to people’s lives.’ She paused and looked at him with a determined pride. ‘I need something positive and uplifting in my life.’

  He lowered his own cutlery. ‘I’m sorry that I hurt you.’

  She sat back in her chair, folded her arms and stared towards the teenagers who were walking home through the meadow on the other side of the river. ‘It’s in the past.’

  ‘We’ll see each other in the future. I don’t want to cause you any further hurt.’ For reasons he didn’t understand he felt compelled to add, ‘Nothing has changed...there can be no future for us.’

  Her gaze flew back to him. Anger now sparked in her eyes. She stood. ‘It’s been a year. I’m over it... I’m over you, Laurent. I’ve moved on. Don’t overinflate your importance in my life.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, leaving his Sales and Marketing director to wrap up a meeting with the buyers from an international airline in the tasting room, Laurent rushed back to his office located in the recently opened modern extension he’d commissioned last year. Designed by world-renowned architect, Max Lovato, the acclaimed building was his signal to the world that Bonneval Cognac was about to retake its positon as the most exclusive cognac brand in the marketplace.

  A wide walkway joined the second floor of the old cognac warehouse to the executive floor of the new building. Max’s vision of the walkway resembling a floating garden had been realised thanks to an extensive and lush planting scheme of mature trees and plants that had produced an eye-watering bill.

  Laurent rolled his shoulders against the financial pressures that perched there permanently these days like an overloud and insistent chatterbox parrot. Only time would tell if his ambitious and costly expansion and marketing strategy would pay off. If they didn’t make the projected sales figures he’d forecast for this year, things could get very difficult. He would even have to seriously consider selling a share of the business. Which in his eyes would be nothing less than abject failure.

  His assistant, Mila, rose from her chair when he entered her outer office and gave him an apologetic smile. He shook his head as if to say that he understood why she’d called him out of his meeting—they both knew of old how obstinate his father was.

  When he entered his office he gritted his teeth at the sight that welcomed him—his father sitting behind his desk flicking through his paperwork. When was he going to accept his retirement, that Laurent and not he was now the CEO of Bonneval Cognac?

  ‘Ah, Laurent.’ His father gave him a smile, the left side of his mouth not rising quite as high as the right. Laurent felt his frustration ease at this reminder of his father’s stroke, but it flourished again when his father added, ‘You took your time.’

  Laurent breathed down his irritation. ‘I was meeting with AML Airlines. We’re trying to persuade them to carry our XO Exclusif in their first-class cabins.’ Seeing his father’s sceptical expression, he added, ‘Unfortunately we have a lot of ground to make up for the way their contract was managed in the past.’

  ‘It was not our fault that our competitors undercut us.’

  He bit back the temptation to laugh bitterly at his father’s poor defence and said instead, ‘We didn’t negotiate the contract renewal properly. We backed them into a corner where they had no choice but to go with the competition.’ He paused, about to say that living off past glories and perceived status had no place in today’s business world.

  For long seconds he and his father glared at one another. But then a discreet cough from behind him had him spin around to find Hannah.

  He nodded in acknowledgement of her presence and received a lukewarm smile in response. She was still angry with him for reiterating last night that they had no future together. But he’d needed to say it, for his sake as much as hers—there was too much lingering physical attraction between them, which, thrown into the mix of the crazy emotions that came with a wedding and their forced proximity over the weekend, could lead the
m to doing something that they both regretted. After their dinner last night they had travelled back to the château in silence and he’d left for work this morning before dawn, leaving a note to say that he’d taken Bleu to stay with his friend Phillippe for the duration of her visit.

  ‘This morning I gave Hannah a tour of the House.’ Laurent turned his attention to his father, who added, ‘Hannah was all alone in the château when your mother and I returned from Bordeaux. François and Lara were delayed in the city.’ His father shook his head in reprimand. ‘We can’t have our house guests not entertained, Laurent. It’s your duty as a host to ensure they’re well cared for. I had planned on taking Hannah to lunch now but your mother is insistent that I return to the château—she’s getting much too stressed about this wedding. I want you to take Hannah to lunch instead.’

  Laurent was about to say no. He’d a string of meetings this afternoon he’d yet to prepare for. But he could tell his father was waiting for him to object. His father relished arguing with him. And he certainly wasn’t going to embarrass Hannah by having an argument over who would take her to lunch.

  Before he could say anything, though, Hannah stood. ‘Antoine, I’ll drive you home.’ She gestured to his paper-strewn desk. ‘I’m sure Laurent is busy.’ Giving him a brief smile, she turned towards the door.

  His father walked after her. ‘I don’t need you to drive me. I called François and told him to collect me on his way back from Bordeaux. He and Lara are downstairs waiting for me. You should see more of the town. You can accompany me downstairs on the way. I need to rush, though—apparently François and Lara are late for a meeting with their wedding planner.’

  Hannah looked at him helplessly. Obviously waiting for him to argue against taking her. His father, meanwhile, looked all set to have an argument with him. ‘It’d be my pleasure to take you to lunch.’

  Hannah regarded him curiously. ‘You never liked to take lunch in London.’

  She was right. In London he’d worked at a furious pace; he still did so here, but he somehow also managed to fit in lunch and regular runs. He regarded Hannah, only now realising how well his new life suited him despite the pressures of his role. Aware of his father’s keen gaze on them both, Laurent shrugged. ‘I guess Cognac and the way of life here has changed me.’

  For a moment he thought Hannah was going to ask what he meant but instead she held out her arm for his father to take.

  Laurent grimaced and waited for his father to bat Hannah’s arm away, as he did any other offer of help—he’d even thrown the walking stick his physio had given him out of one of the château’s windows one day, and had grumbled like crazy when Bleu had gone and fetched it back.

  But instead of rejecting Hannah’s offer of assistance, his father placed his hand on her arm and Laurent followed them as they moved in the direction of the elevator, his father’s limp slowing their progress.

  Downstairs, his father chuckled when they walked outside to find François and Lara propped against the fountain in the entrance courtyard, arms wrapped around one another, Lara giggling as François whispered into her ear.

  ‘Le jeune amour est si puissant...young love is so powerful,’ his father said quietly.

  Laurent rolled his eyes. His father certainly knew about love, or, in his case, lust and ego. Had he ever loved all those other women? In his teenage years, Laurent had been certain that his parents didn’t love one another. How could they when they’d had those affairs? Yet they’d kept coming back to one another. And now, since his father’s stroke, they were closer than ever. His head ached from trying to understand them. Young love—his gaze shifted to Hannah. She was the only woman he’d ever come close to loving.

  His jaw tightened to see how she was watching Lara and François’s playful flirting.

  With a shriek, Lara broke away from François and ran to Hannah. The two women embraced, laughing and chatting over one another. Laurent looked away from the delight shining in Hannah’s eyes, at the relief lightening her whole expression. It was as though in Lara she’d found a safe and secure harbour. Had she ever reacted like that with him? On occasion, but now, with the distance of time, he could see that even in the depths of their relationship Hannah had held herself back, as though uncertain of him. Why was that? Had she rightly sensed in him a man damaged by his past, a man who would bring her no happiness?

  * * *

  The Bonneval Cognac House was located on the outskirts of the town, its high greystone perimeter wall surrounded by pretty tree-lined roads and the Charente River to the south. When Hannah had driven the ten miles from the château to the House with Laurent’s father, Antoine, this morning, for the first time since arriving in France she’d managed to relax, thanks to Antoine’s easy company.

  He’d surprised her by his quietness. When he and Laurent’s mother, Mélissa, had arrived at the château he’d been like a whirlwind of charm and activity. But in the car after five minutes of idle chatter, he’d closed his eyes. She’d assumed he’d fallen asleep but as she’d slowed for a red traffic light as they’d neared the town, he’d said with his eyes still closed, ‘I’m sorry for being such poor company. I get so tired at times.’

  Hannah had been tempted to reach out and touch him, to respond to the bewilderment in his voice.

  ‘It’s okay. I enjoy silence, having time to think,’ she’d said instead.

  It was a while before he’d responded, ‘You’re sad.’

  Hannah hadn’t known how to answer, feeling completely undone by the simplicity of his statement. ‘I was before.’

  He’d opened his eyes at that, the intensity of the Bonneval blue-eyed gaze faded with him, but still more than capable of seeing through her pretence.

  His quiet calm in the car, his attentiveness as he’d guided her around the distillery and the visitor centre had been so in contrast to his combative encounter with Laurent just now that she’d been thrown by the unexpectedness of it all.

  Now as she watched Laurent open the rear door of François’s car and his father’s refusal to accept his offer of assistance to sit into the low seat, she wondered at their relationship.

  Then, having waved the others off, Laurent asked her to wait a moment before he disappeared down a cobbled laneway at the side of the reception area.

  A few minutes later he was back, now riding a sleek black Italian scooter. He handed her a white helmet to wear and then pulled on a black one himself. ‘I have a meeting at two. Travelling by bike will save us from having to look for parking and we’ll also be able to bypass the summer tourist traffic.’

  This was not how she’d planned for this weekend to work out. At worst she’d thought she’d have to observe Laurent from a distance; now she was about to ride on a scooter with him. She yanked on her helmet, trying not to stare as he pulled off his silver tie and bunched it into his trouser pocket, releasing the top buttons of his white shirt, before pulling on a pair of mirrored aviators. Did he seriously have to look so hot all of the time? Did this man have any down days? Maybe this could be a form of aversion therapy? By spending all this time with him and how it reminded her of her previous heartache, then maybe she would develop an aversion to him.

  She swung her leg over the scooter seat, glad she’d opted to wear her navy Bermuda shorts instead of the new white and blue summer dress she’d bought for the weekend. For the past month as the wedding weekend had loomed ever closer she’d found herself constantly drawn to the boutiques near her work at lunchtime. She’d go out with the intention of picking up a sandwich from her local favourite deli, only to find herself in a changing room trying to convince herself that she was only there to buy new things because her existing wardrobe was dated. When in truth this weekend had been the real reason. Her trips to the beautician and hairdresser had also ostensibly been about looking professional for the wedding, but whenever she looked into the mirror, she’d wondered what Laurent wo
uld think.

  She edged herself back in the seat. As far away from him as possible, with the intention of holding on to the side of the seat, but Laurent’s sharp right turn as they exited out onto the street soon had her clinging to his waist.

  From the low-rise modern outskirts of the town they soon entered the old town, Laurent buzzing down narrow cobbled streets, past imposing centuries-old sandstone houses, many with ornate carvings around their doorways, past outside diners sheltering beneath sun umbrellas. They passed tourists staring into the windows of the specialist Cognac and Bordeaux wine sellers and elegantly dressed locals walking with purpose towards lunch dates.

  Laurent came to a stop at a fromagerie.

  From outside she watched him purchase some items while talking animatedly with the young blonde woman who served him. She looked away when the young woman waved out to her, annoyed with herself for feeling jealous.

  Afterwards they drove along a maze of deserted alleyways, the restaurants and shops giving way to old stone warehouses, ancient pulley systems hinting at their previous use.

  They came to a stop on a grassy bank by the river. Under the shade of a lime tree, he spread out their lunch of cheese, crackers, quince and a bottle of sparkling water each. She smiled and sat a distance away from him, trying not to show how thrown she felt that he’d chosen a picnic for them to share.

  Laurent broke off a piece of reblochon, placed it on a cracker and handed it to her. At first they ate in silence, the only sound the roll of the river and birdsong from the trees lining the riverbank.

  ‘It’s so pretty here.’

  Laurent grinned. ‘Given your love of picnics, I thought you’d appreciate it.’

  She bit into the cheese, trying to focus on the creamy texture and the nutty taste and not how her heart was melting at his warm smile, at the fondness in his voice. For want of a distraction she tentatively prodded the parchment paper of the other cheeses.