The great, underlying grief of his position as patriarch was that it was probably going to be in his lifetime, actually, if he lived to be as old as his grandfather.
His grandfather stopped beside him. Matt waited for some comment on the need to not let a rock star get a chunk of their valley.
But his grandfather was quiet.
Il me dit des mots d’amour, Layla sang on stage, that beautiful, rose and burlap voice of hers caught by the microphone and carried out to the whole crowd. He speaks words of love to me.
Rose and burlap. That’s what her voice sounded like. The rough and the silk. The sweet and the tough.
His grandfather gave a soft sigh.
Matt slid a glance at him, braced.
“I remember,” Pépé said softly. “Hiding in the shadows with Colette, listening to that song.”
After all these years, Matt knew the rare, precious tone of a war memory. He went quiet, focusing, one ear for Layla, one for his grandfather.
“She had a song order that would let us know if she had information she needed to pass on. And if she did, she’d take her break after this song. The Germans loved her so much she could get away with anything. A couple of times, she’d give a concert just to keep them occupied on a certain evening and less likely to notice what we were up to.”
“Edith Piaf?” Matt guessed.
“Of course,” his grandfather said. “This was her home, too.”
Matt nodded. His grandfather, and others, had shared memories of Edith Piaf with him many times before this. But still, it was always something of a wonder to Matt to hear some of these stories.
“You can tell a lot about a woman by the way she sings,” Pépé said quietly. Hands crossed behind his back, he walked that aged but still straight walk of his over to one of the tables set up under the trees at the edge of the esplanade. Tante Colette sat there watching the performance.
Pépé sat down in the shade across from her and leaned back in his chair, not speaking, as far as Matt could tell from here.
They rarely spoke to each other these days except to bicker. But there were other tables Pépé could have sat at.
Matt looked back at Layla.
She looked quite radiant, completely in her element.
Funny how well she and he fit together, when she was so different from him. There was no way in hell anyone would get him up on a stage like that, in front of this mass of people, half of whom already liked to remind him of seeing him in diapers.
“Damn, she’s good,” Raoul said, stopping beside him with Damien.
Matt grinned. “I know.”
“Her tour schedule is going to be a bitch, though. How are you two going to handle that?”
Matt slowly loosened his arms from his chest and shoved his hands into his pockets. He took a long breath, and that breath felt…just right. Big enough. “I thought I’d ask you.”
Raoul stilled. For a long moment, he didn’t look at Matt at all. Then he turned his head at just enough of an angle to see Matt’s face. “How to handle it?”
Matt cleared his throat. “To help. With the land.” He flexed his fingers in his pockets, keeping hold of the denim so he didn’t cross his arms back over his chest. Tristan had turned and was looking at him, too, alert and astonished. Damien, past Raoul, took a step forward so he could see Matt, too. Matt cleared his throat again. “I’m not in any rush about this, but I wonder sometimes if, eventually, we should set it up as a trust. So that, you know, we can all have it, and…none of us can lose it.”
There was a dead silence. All his cousins were staring at him.
“A trust with me in charge of it, of course,” he said firmly.
A sharp, wry grin from Raoul. “We guessed that part.”
“Hell, Matt,” Tristan said low, wonderingly. And then, “You really like her, don’t you?”
Matt flushed hot. That was just rude, to point that out like that. He glared at Tristan.
Tristan grinned and punched him in the shoulder.
“This one’s a new one,” Layla said up on stage. “My producers haven’t got hold of it yet, so I’m testing it out on you all.”
The crowd cheered excitedly.
“I wrote it for somebody here,” Layla said, and Matt got caught by curiosity, focusing on her again.
She was grinning down at him. “Matt, can you come up here?”
Wait, what?
What the hell?
Layla beckoned coaxingly. Her crowd cheered, everyone craning to try to see the man she was talking to.
Hell, no. He took a step back, and firm hands gripped his arms.
“No!” he growled. “Tristan. Raoul. Let the hell go of me. Don’t you dare.”
Damien ducked behind him and shoved him hard between the shoulders as Tristan and Raoul dragged him forward.
“Damn it! You bastards! I’m going to—”
He tripped over the first step as they shoved him up it. The crowd was cheering more and more as they spotted him, and Layla beamed down at him.
Oh, hell. Now what was he supposed to do? Disappoint that face?
He came on up the stairs.
Below the stage, his cousins were grinning, Allegra and Léa had appeared and were clapping and cheering, and pretty much the entire half of the audience who knew him personally were staring at him with their mouths open.
“Layla,” he tried to hiss, but her mic was on, and he didn’t know how much of his voice it could pick up, so he had to bite back the protest.
She wrapped her arm around him, her guitar bumping against his ribs, and turned toward the crowd. “See?” she said, and everyone cheered again. “Wouldn’t you write a song for this man?”
Oh, hell. He felt like he was on fire. He started to glare at all his relatives in the crowd and then remembered that a glare probably wasn’t the best look on stage.
“He’s pretty cute, isn’t he?” Layla said to the crowd, squeezing his waist affectionately. “I’ll tell you a secret—he’s pretty sweet, too.”
He was going to kill her. It was official. In the crowd, his cousins were laughing their heads off and cheering her louder than anyone. He clenched his fist as tightly as he could to stop himself from at least giving them a little doigt d’honneur.
“I am not sweet,” he said to her between his teeth. Shit, that seemed to have gotten picked up by the nearest microphone, because the crowd cheered again. He was going to kill the festival sound crew, too, while he was at it. Wasn’t one of his Delange cousins on that crew?
“Here we go,” Layla called to the crowd, stepping away from him to free up her arms to play. And to Matt: “This one’s for you.”
Her first chords were quiet, brooding, this sweet, wistful call:
Lonely
Lost looking and lonely
Doing everything solely
Cause I hadn’t found you
His heart felt so vulnerable and funny, and he wished to hell she wasn’t telling him this in front of the crowd. But…that was so…sweet. And, and…well, she was wide open, too, wasn’t she? Just laying herself out there, the way she always did.
Lonely
Wandering lonely
Footsore and only
Wishing for you
Aww. Damn it. She was killing him. Bouclettes, no wonder you need to hide in my valley, when you’re always sticking your heart out like this in front of a crowd.
And, Really? You really feel that?
Her chords grew stronger, braver, truer with each verse, like the energy that surged through a weary traveler when she spotted the light of home.
Lonely
Always everywhere lonely
Seeking everywhere only
In hopes of you.
His hand reached for her. Bouclettes. Me, too.
Her chords softened again, growing quiet, sure, true. This profound simplicity to them.
Lonely
No longer lonely
No longer only
Because my
wish came true.
Aww, hell. His eyes felt damp. This was terrible.
And everybody was cheering, and she was gazing up at him with this soft look in her eyes like he was amazing, like he was…her wish come true, and, and…
“I love you,” she said, with her mic still on so that the whole freaking world could hear. The audience went crazy.
And she didn’t even seem to notice them. She was all focused on him, like her hero, and—
“You make me happy,” she said softly.
Damn it. “Me, too,” he said gruffly, and he could hear his own voice echoing out over the crowd. The damn sound crew must have turned on the main mic right beside him. But what the hell else was he supposed to do? Leave her hanging out there on her own? “I love you, too,” he said simply.
While the crowd cheered, he bent to her ear. “And don’t you ever do this to me again,” he growled.
She turned her head and kissed him.
Something hit him on the shoulder softly, then several somethings. People were pelting them with…no, not rotten tomatoes. Roses. People were throwing the roses that had been handed out during the festival.
He took a step back and then another, eyeing his escape route. Petals fluttered around his face. He could leap over the edge there, shove through his cousins like their old rugby games, duck behind that post—“Hey.” He turned suddenly as he thought of something and glowered at Layla. “You’d damn well better marry me after all this.”
She grinned. “That is so sweet of you to ask.”
Shit, had he just said that for the whole world to hear? He didn’t fold his arms across his chest, though. He put his hands on his hips and gave her his bossiest glare. You’d better do what I said.
“Okay,” she said and picked up one of the thrown roses to kiss it. “I will.”
Oh, thank God.
He leapt off the stage, going for the rugby shove-dive through his cousins, and—they’d caught him, damn it. And they were…
…hugging him.
Pounding him on the back. Hugging him again in congratulations. More distant relatives and friends were pressing in beyond them, trying to join in the celebration.
“I’ve got it all on video!” Allegra was exclaiming cheerfully as she tried to force her way in to hug him, too. “This one’s going to go down in family history! It might even beat the alien photo!”
“Well,” Layla said with a deep breath through her mic. Over his cousins’ shoulders, he saw her standing there with her cheeks all flushed, too, and her eyes starry, and her hand pressed to her chest, over her heart. “Isn’t he a prince? What do you want me to play after that?”
And he finally relaxed into his cousins’ embrace, grinning and flushing at the congratulations and teasing that poured in and watching his happiness up on stage as she played.
She’d come back to him in a little while, and they would be able to take this somewhere quiet and private, the quiet and private she needed, too. It fit together, those two needs.
He was her roots. And she was his wings.
***
FIN
Thank You!
Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed Matt and Layla’s story, the first in the Vie en Roses series. Click here to leave a review. And don’t miss Tristan’s story, coming next in this series.
Before Tristan, though, I’ve got some other stories coming. Next up, for those of you who love the Amour et Chocolat series, is Once a Hero, a novel that takes us back to Dom Richard’s chocolate shop in Paris for the story of his chocolatier Célie and her older brother’s best friend, home from the Foreign Legion. Keep reading for a glimpse.
And I’m working on a (free) short story that involves Dom and sandcastles and the night before his wedding, but alas, I can’t share it with you until after Once Upon a Hero is out for chronological reasons. But sign up here to be emailed your copy when it’s ready, as well as to be alerted when these other books are released.
Meanwhile, make sure to catch the books that first introduce us to the world of the Roses series. You’ll find Gabriel and Jolie’s story in The Chocolate Rose, a prequel to the Vie en Roses series that bridges with the Amour et Chocolat stories. Daniel and Léa’s story is in the novella Turning Up the Heat, and Raoul and Allegra’s in the anthology No Place Like Home. Keep reading for a glimpse of The Chocolate Rose as well as a complete book list.
Thank you so much for sharing in this new world with me! For some behind-the-scenes glimpses of the research in the south of France, check out my website and Facebook page. I hope to meet up with you there!
Thank you and all the best,
Laura Florand
Website | Twitter | Facebook | Newsletter
Other Books by Laura Florand
Amour et Chocolat Series
All’s Fair in Love and Chocolate, a novella in Kiss the Bride
The Chocolate Thief
The Chocolate Kiss
The Chocolate Rose (also a prequel to La Vie en Roses series)
The Chocolate Touch
The Chocolate Heart
The Chocolate Temptation
Sun-Kissed (also a sequel to Snow-Kissed)
Shadowed Heart (a sequel to The Chocolate Heart)
La Vie en Roses Series
Turning Up the Heat (a novella prequel)
The Chocolate Rose (also part of the Amour et Chocolat series)
A Rose in Winter, a novella in No Place Like Home
Once Upon a Rose
Snow Queen Duology
Snow-Kissed (a novella)
Sun-Kissed (also part of the Amour et Chocolat series)
Memoir
Blame It on Paris
ONCE A HERO, excerpt
An Amour et Chocolat novel
He left her for the Foreign Legion. And now he’s back.
Oh, hell. Célie tried to pull herself together. “Joss. What are you doing here?”
He just looked up at her with those hazel green eyes and that stillness he had, emphasized even more by five years of military discipline. “Would you rather I wait outside?”
It was all she could do not to just shove that little table aside and climb into his lap, bury her head in his chest and hold on tight. Why did you leave me, you bastard? Oh, thank God you’re home.
Yeah, and that would be insane.
Plus she’d already done it once.
“Joss, you know I love you—”
A little jerk ran through his body. And hers, as the echo of her own words ran through her.
“Like a brother,” she hastened to add.
“Fuck, Célie.” He turned his head away, his jaw setting. “Like Ludo?”
Okay, well, maybe not like her actual brother. Or like any other male she’d ever known either. But, but… “But I’m not your person to come home to here.” Oh, hell, had she just said that? Yes, I am. Yes, I am. “I’ve moved on.”
“Moved on from what?” Joss asked.
She stared at him.
“We never dated, Célie. I wasn’t Sophie’s boyfriend, but I was never your boyfriend either. I was saving you for later.”
Her jaw dropped. Fury sizzled once deep in her stomach and then just flared all through her. “You son of a bitch.”
“For when you were older.” He tried to regroup. “And I deserved you.”
“I’m going to kill you!” Célie pressed her hands into his table and her weight into them as she leaned her body over his.
“Okay,” Joss said, and just lifted the table to the side to expose his body to her, shifting the table as if neither it nor her pressure on it weighed anything. “You can do that.”
Once a Hero, coming 2015! Sign up here to be notified of its release.
THE CHOCOLATE ROSE, excerpt
Gabriel straightened and moved to the wall of the terrace, almost positive he heard a frustrated puff of breath behind him. Looking down over the fountain Sainte-Mère had built in his honor when the town’s tourism economy quint
upled after he got his third star, he took a moment to stretch. Hands locked high over his head, he arched his back into it, rolling his neck, his shoulders. What started as a deliberate calculation was such a relief after the past seven hours without a break that he sank into it, taking his time, muscles easing. Putain, but that felt good. It would feel even better if slim little hands added their pressure.
He glanced back at Jolie Manon, who had her knees pulled up so he couldn’t even see her chest, staring at him. Her fingers rubbed slowly back and forth over her jeans-clad knees, as if she needed texture.
Don’t hold back, chaton. I’m happy to be your texture.
He sat on the edge of the terrace wall, stretching out his legs, bracing his hands against its edge so that his torso was long, lean, fully exposed, the muscles of his arms and shoulders flexing a little.
Merde, but he liked it, when she had to bite on her lower lip.
He had so many things he could do with that mouth of hers. Make her lose not only her worries but her entire mind, tangling with him desperately in a—
A beast, though.
A beast. Was he really that bad?
Would one of those civilized men who paid a fortune to eat at his tables sit here in front of that slim, vulnerable, adorably delicious little body, those eyes so wide and dark on him, and not do anything about it?
And just because some men were des putains d’idiots, did that mean he had to be? In order to live up to their standards? Something was screwed up, there.
“About that other idea,” he said firmly, because, well—he would like to be a prince. If it was remotely possible and didn’t require him to ignore her screaming body language indefinitely. “I think you should give me fifteen percent of the royalties. Since fifteen percent of the recipes are mine. Of your father’s royalties,” he added, as he saw her eyes flicker in calculation.
She bit her lip. Wait, had that not been a princely thing to say? Damn it.
“Not yours. You did the same amount of writing, whether you knew you were writing up my work or not.”
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