Page 23 of Gideon (Finding Home #3)

Chapter

Nine

You and I both know that I don’t actually need you at all, unless we count perennial nagging, in which case you’re irreplaceable

Eli

I crane my neck out of the window as we approach Antibes. Our driver steers into the car park of a marina where seemingly hundreds of boats are moored, some of them huge yachts.

“That’s a lot of boats,” I say.

Gideon looks past me out of the window. “I think it’s one of the largest marinas in Europe. You’ll often see super yachts mooring here.” He sniffs in a huffy manner, and I grin at him.

“Not tempted to buy one? You wouldn’t need a big one with the size of your wardrobe.”

He laughs and shakes his head as we get out of the car. “I’ve holidayed on one before. I’ve never seen such a poky cabin. And you’re stuck in it for the entire trip. If I was paying that amount of money, I could buy a hotel and sleep in a different room every night.”

“I think that might be a rich person’s problem,” I murmur, starting to stroll along the path that runs beside the water and feeling him come next to me. “You could fit my entire flat on the deck of that yacht over there.”

“At least in your flat you’re not stuck out at sea with arseholes.”

“I’m not sure. Once when it snowed we were stuck in there for a week. By the third day it was a bit like Lord of the Flies .”

He laughs. “Frankie said that you have flatmates.”

I shoot a glance at him. “Was he reading it in the report from the private detective he set on me?”

He flushes and looks awkward. “I’m afraid that Frankie is rather overzealous, but then I’ve given him plenty of reasons over the years to never hire someone who might be talkative to the press.” He stops and grabs my arm. “I know you’re not like that.”

“How do you know?”

For a second it’s silent, the only noise the musical jingling from the rigging of the boats and the lonely cries of the seagulls. Then Gideon shrugs. “I think we’ve come to know each other very well during this trip.”

“I know,” I say softly because it’s true.

You can’t avoid getting to know someone when you’re in close quarters with them, but I’ve never had such long and intimate conversations with anyone in my life before him, and that includes past lovers.

Each night we’ve sat on the deck, lit by fairy lights and with our hair blown about by the wind, and we’ve talked for hours, moving from politics to religion to TV shows and music that we like.

I’ve cherished the time because he engages me and makes me laugh more than anyone I’ve ever met.

His mind is so quick and his humour dry, and I think I could sit forever with him listening to that wonderful voice of his.

We walk in silence for a bit, enjoying the morning sun on our faces and exchanging random observations about the boats. Or if you’re him, random sarcastic observations.

“There are a lot of people walking about,” I finally muse.

“It’s a walking town. A lot of the streets are pedestrianized and there’s a lot to be seen, like artist walks. You can rent bikes and go high above the town and see the old villas. They’re gorgeous.”

“But we’re not doing that,” I say, looking at him sternly. “It’d be far too much for you at the moment.”

“Oh, how dreadful that we’re not hiking in the heat. What a terrible tragedy. What will we do?” he says acerbically. Then he nudges me. “I know. Let’s go and sit in a bar and drink absinthe.”

“Let’s not,” I say and grin at his put-upon sigh. It really doesn’t work with me and he knows it. “We’ll have a gentle stroll,” I say. “With plenty of breaks.”

“Okay, you’re the boss.”

“You know it,” I say in a delighted voice.

We grin at each other a little bit too long, and the silence draws out as we stare at each other. I swallow hard and he echoes me, raising a hand and tugging at his shirt collar. “We’ll go into the old centre,” he finally says, his voice hoarse, and I turn and follow him obediently.

The old town is a maze of narrow cobblestoned streets lined with pretty shops and cafes with their brightly coloured awnings that send shady rectangles onto the hot pavements. “This is so pretty,” I marvel. “I’m sure I’ve seen this before, though.”

“You might have seen it in paintings. Loads of artists have stayed here over the years. Picasso stayed here for a while at the Chateau Grimaldi with his lover Francoise Gilot who was his muse. They seemed to have been very happy here. He painted a lot and left the paintings to the owner. It’s a museum now.

” He pauses. “I like to think of that. The two lovers coming here to a sleepy little seaside town and living in this golden creative bubble.”

He flushes slightly and I stare at him. It’s becoming very apparent to me that Gideon Ramsay of the sharp tongue and jaded view of life, is actually secretly a romantic.

The thought charms me but I say nothing and walk happily along beside him as he cuts his way through narrow streets, obviously knowing where he’s going.

The town is fairly quiet at the moment as it’s still early, but the streets are coming to life in the way that seaside towns do. Shop owners open their doors and call to each other, speaking in voluble French as the multicoloured bunting flutters in the sea breeze.

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” I ask him as he cuts down a side street and then another.

He nods. “Many times. The Canvis gala is held here every year.”

“There’s posh, then,” I muse and he grins.

“And fucking boring. The last few times I came, I ended up ditching the party after I’d donated and wandered the town instead. There’s a lot of history here.”

“You ditched the Canvis party?” I ask, amused because it’s a huge annual charity event attended by loads of celebrities. Some of my old patients would have given their teeth to attend it.

He looks awkward. “I can’t see the point of spending all that money on food and drink and clothes. Donate all of that to the cause instead. Ask me for the money and I’ll happily give it without having to wear a dinner jacket and talk to people I don’t want to know.”

“You’ve just downgraded the event of the year to a children’s party.”

“At least children get jelly and ice cream,” he says sulkily.

We pass through a bustling market where the air is sharp with the scent of fresh cheeses and meats.

Gideon buys us a paper bag full of peaches and I bite into mine, feeling the juices run sweet down my throat.

I watch him as he gives the vendor the money, exchanging some remark in quick French at which the vendor laughs.

“You fit here,” I say, finishing my peach and licking my fingers.

He looks handsome and urbane in navy shorts and Vans and a short-sleeved navy shirt that’s open at the neck to show his tanned chest. His distinctive features are shaded by sunglasses and a straw Panama hat.

I’ve seen appreciative glances thrown at him, but it’s not to do with who he is because that’s not obvious.

It’s more him. He stands out even when he’s not trying.

“Do I?” He looks puzzled. “I don’t think I’ve ever fitted in anywhere.” He immediately looks profoundly uncomfortable, as I’ve found he tends to do when he’s admitted anything personal.

I take pity on him and pull him into a bakery. “I’m still starving,” I say. “Shall we get something?”

“When aren’t you hungry?” he muses. “You’re like a bottomless pit.”

It’s true, but I do have an ulterior motive. He’s still too thin and genuinely doesn’t spare much thought to food beyond a need to fuel. I’ve found, though, that if I say I’m hungry he’s too well-mannered to let me eat alone.

“I need more than peaches,” I say in a sad voice and he immediately capitulates, digging in his pockets.

“Of course. Let me get some change.”

I grab his arm, and we both still as a charge runs between us. I breathe in, hopefully unobtrusively. “No, it’s my treat.”

He hesitates before gracefully complying, and I order us both an almond croissant to take away as well as a couple of milky coffees.

“I don’t take sugar,” Gideon says, wrinkling his nose.

“You do until you’ve fattened up a bit.”

“Lovely. That’ll get me lots of jobs.”

“Are you worried by your weight?” I ask, astonished.

He shakes his head immediately. “No, that’s the last thing I’m bothered about. I usually do an intensive gym course for a month or so before a film, but apart from that I can usually eat what I want and not gain weight.”

We leave the bakery and meander past colourful shop windows.

Flowers are everywhere, glowing in terracotta pots and hanging from the walls, making the air heavy with the scent of flowers and the sea.

He throws out observations, and it intrigues me to see the workings of his mind and watch those clever eyes of his.

For a supposed hellraiser, he notices the smallest, most charming things.

I don’t know how to do this. I’m so attracted to him that it makes my stomach hurt, but it’s more than that.

I just want to be with him. Just talking and wandering like this makes me as happy as I’ve ever been.

I’ve never felt like this about another man before, and it’s so fucking typical that it’s the one man I can’t have.

We finally make our way to a beach, and as if by mutual accord we settle down on a bench to eat our croissants.

He finishes first, tossing the last of the pastry to a waiting bird who sits with his head cocked to one side appraising us curiously.

I look at his long, slender fingers and imagine them round my cock and immediately launch into speech.

“Can I ask you something?”

He smiles and looks at me. “I’m sure you will.”

“What was home like?” He stills and I look at him. “You said you never fit in anywhere. Was that the same for home?” I stop. “I’m so sorry,” I burst out. “That was bloody rude.”

I just want to know everything about him and the time is seeping away for me to find it out.