Page 41 of Catching Trouble

“Okay. What’s the theme?”

“The Power of Words. It’s about how language shapes the way we see the world.”

I blinked. She was twelve. At her age, I still played with Barbies.

“Okay,” I said, running my gaze over her notes. Most were definitely in English. I recognised a lot of the simpler words—yay for my elephant memory—but some were in French.

I swallowed. “And you want to get started right now? At this very moment?” I was fishing for a stay of execution—a pause in what would undoubtedly be my humiliation.

Risking exposure wasn’t the only reason for my question. I had Sophie’s attention. She’d only shown a light interest in me the entire time I’d been here. We had at least two weeks to work on her essay. Surely, we could spare one afternoon of fun to cement our new alliance?

“My mother wants me to get started.”

Damnit. Why did she have to be so conscientious?

“But she’d want you to enjoy your holiday, too, right?”

Sophie mulled over my words, twirling her pen between her fingers. “I suppose.”

I grinned, claiming the win. “Then I’ve got just the idea.”

I stood up, dislodging Bean. He’d dropped off to sleep somewhere around the mention of punting.

“I’ll be right back. You don’t mind glitter, do you?”

13

MAXIME

Itrudged up the cliff steps back to the house. The glow of the setting sun bounced off the white stone, searing my retinas.

I’d left at dawn this morning under the pretence of needing to be on the water when the fish woke up. But I knew full well the tide wouldn’t turn until late morning. By then, the fish would be halfway through their elevenses.

I’d watched the sunrise alone, sitting on the cold pebbles. The colours of the emerging day were beautiful. But all I could think about was Chloe, asleep in her bed, red curls spread out on her pillow and her lips slightly parted as she dreamed.

When I finally made it onto the water, I’d caught some fish and even found a couple of octopuses lurking in the rocks. But every time I cast my net; my mind drifted back to Chloe.

Back to the beads of water trailing down her skin when she stepped out of the pool. Back to the way she’d asked me to show her how to tie a knot. And back to the moment she offered me her wrist.

I dragged my teeth over my bottom lip. I’d barely sleptsince. The image of her standing in the gentle light, attention locked on me, looped through my mind nonstop.

Outside of fishing, I wasn’t into anything that involved tying. But Chloe’s request had left me with a knot in my gut. And I suspectedshe enjoyed what I’d done.

I’d stayed away from her as much as possible since. I didn’t need the distraction. But she’d been at the club with Sophie the last few mornings. The number of customers ready and happy to line up for her coffee art grew every day. Fifi said someone had posted some pictures on social media. I hadn’t seen them myself. But the result? The number of morning customers we served was a record high.

I approached the top of the steps, half expecting to see the little black kitten waiting for me. He had a sixth sense, always being there when I arrived. Probably because of the fish scraps I brought him.

Only it wasn’t his usual little squeak that greeted me. Instead, muffled music with a pounding beat hit my ears. Then a shriek of laughter. Then another, followed by an unbridled “whoop,” that echoed around the pool.

My skin prickled. It couldn’t be Sophie. She was far more contained than I liked to admit—solemn and living her “don’t touch my space” best life. The noise had to be from Chloe.

I scowled and inched around the tiles, hugging the villa wall. As the kitchen came into view through the open doors, a strange weight settled in my chest.

Sophie and Chloe had their backs to me. They were dancing to pounding pop music from a mini-speaker, and Chloe’s phone lay on the countertop.

They moved wildly, flinging their arms like they were on some kind of octopus talent show, wiggling to the beat. They giggled—hard—and sang, waving wooden spoons around like microphones. Both had piled their hair on the top of theirheads, and behind them sat an empty mixing bowl and a dusting of flour.

Batter caked Sophie’s spoon. When she took a lick, I smiled. I used to do the same as a kid. Licking the baking spoon was one of life’s petty pleasures.