Page 22 of The Magic of Provence (A Year in France #3)

Fi woke to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee the next morning.

She dressed in the jeans and top she’d thrown into her bag yesterday and went into the apartment’s living area.

Heidi was by her side in an instant, her tail waving. Christophe’s smile was just as welcoming but, my goodness, he looked as if he hadn’t slept at all. He was also wearing jeans, with sneakers and a black tee shirt, but his hair was rumpled and the lines around his eyes were far deeper than usual.

He looked absolutely gorgeous and that disconcerting flash of sensation that happened deep in her belly reminded Fi all too clearly of what it had been like to have Christophe looking at her as if he was her lover. And of what had happened in the garden last night.

That… kiss …

She could feel colour beginning to creep into her cheeks as she had to fight the urge to touch her lips with a fingertip, as she’d done when she’d been alone in her bed, as if she wanted to do more than remember that kiss. As if she wanted to feel it again.

The start of it, anyway. Not the end. That had kept her awake for too long, afraid of the nightmares that could well be circling, like vultures just waiting for the opportunity to swoop.

Finally, when she couldn’t fight her exhaustion any longer, she’d understood what that look that Christophe had given her straight after that kiss was all about.

He knew she’d been afraid.

He’d known exactly how to back off.

How to protect her.

Had she slept so surprisingly well because she still felt safe?

Fi hid her red cheeks by leaning down to cuddle Heidi, letting her hair screen her face. It gave her a chance to take a breath as well and try and stop the endless questions that had been popping into her head from the moment she’d woken up.

Would it be awkward between them this morning?

Had it ruined the bond that had been forming?

Were they going to talk about it?

Or were they going to keep pretending that that kiss had not happened, like they had during dinner last night?

That last option felt like the best one and it seemed like Christophe had already chosen to tick that box from any list he might have devised.

‘Coffee?’ he offered, his tone cheerful. ‘I’m onto my second already.’

‘Please. It smells wonderful.’

‘I have pastries too.’ He waved at paper bags on the dining table. ‘And bread. I took Heidi for an early walk and we went past a boulangerie that is also a patisserie, so I got some favourite treats to take in for Mamma and Nonna. Sweet things, like aragostine and cannoli.’

‘I only need coffee,’ Fi said. ‘With milk, please.’ She took the mug he handed her and took a sip. ‘What is Nonna’s favourite treat?’ she asked.

‘A chocolate and hazelnut aragostine. But she also loves a cannolo siciliani.’

‘I don’t know what either of those things are. They sound very Italian.’

‘They are. But so is Menton. You can walk along the coast to the Italian border from here in about thirty minutes. Menton is a perfect blend of France and Italy.’ Christophe’s smile was cheeky. ‘Like me.’

Aye… this was how it was going to be.

And, if Fi had been given the choice of exactly how she wanted it to be between them now, this would be it.

Playful – which implied both understanding of the significance and a promise of trust. Nothing bad was going to happen. Perhaps something even better was waiting in the wings.

The reset button had been pushed but the growing friendship had a totally new dimension.

Yesterday, Fi had learned just how much Christophe loved his family as she’d shared the fear he’d faced of losing his grandmother.

She knew that he had learned she had a fear of intimacy.

That was enough to have deepened their friendship, but there was so much more to it than that.

The notes of that kiss were still hanging in the air, like dust motes caught in a sunbeam. Maybe they were the opening notes of a symphony that might have ended in a discordant jangle, but they’d been enough, in those first seconds, to cast a spell strong enough to stop time.

Something magic.

Fi might never hear – or feel – them again but she was never going to forget them.

They were the sound of hope. That, one day, Fi would be able to get past the walls she had built around herself.

That she would be able to stop running because she would find the courage to face what was hiding behind those walls.

That the path was still there and she hadn’t lost the first big step she had taken.

So it was perfect that Christophe was still smiling at her as if he, too, was aware of the change but was not going to let it break anything.

Making a joke was all the reassurance she needed that nothing had been broken.

That she was still safe with him, although it felt like a completely different kind of safety now.

It was enough to make her laugh but she still needed to hide her face again – this time, by peeping into the bags.

‘The long tubes are cannoli, which is a fried pastry that is stuffed with sweet ricotta cheese and flavours like pistachio or lemon. The ones that look like lobsters’ tails are aragostine – that is a baked pastry filled with cream.

’ He shook his head. ‘I’m quite sure that Nonna’s cardiologist will not be happy with her eating them but…

just a taste wouldn’t hurt, would it? They are her favourites.

’ He shrugged. ‘And I want to make her happy because I love her.’

* * *

Seeing Christophe was quite clearly more than enough to make Flora Romano happy.

Propped up against her pillows, she was beaming as she held out her arms to enfold her grandson as he sat on the edge of her bed. Then it was Fi who had to be hugged, by both Flora and Maria, as the babble of Italian words flowed around her.

When the smile suddenly vanished from Flora’s face, Christophe patted her hand and said something more.

‘She’s disappointed that I’m going to take you home after this visit,’ he explained. ‘But I’ve said that you’ll come back soon.’

‘You must,’ Maria put in. ‘You haven’t seen anything of our lovely city yet, have you?’

‘Not yet,’ Fi agreed. ‘But what I saw this morning on the way here is so beautiful. The colours of the buildings are gorgeous. All the shades of pink and orange and yellow, like a pastel rainbow – I’ve never seen anything like it.’

Maria nodded. ‘We are famous for the beautiful colours of our old buildings. And lemons, of course. You’ve missed our festival of lemons this year but you’ll have to come back next year. In February.’

Fi just smiled and nodded. Who knew where in the world she would be by the beginning of next year?

‘We are the world capital for lemons,’ Christophe added.

‘You can forget California or India. There’s a legend that when Eve fled from the Garden of Eden, she took a lemon with her and she planted it here, in Menton.

Or threw it away, because Adam was afraid of God’s wrath.

Whatever…’ His smile matched his shrug. ‘Our Fête du Citron is famous. We will have to go to the next one.’

‘I’d love to,’ Fi said. It didn’t matter if this was still part of the pretence for Nonna. It was true. She would love to go to that festival.

Flora’s eyes lit up as she saw what was inside the paper bags and she spoke with great animation to Maria, who shook her head but then smiled fondly at her mother.

‘Mamma wants coffee to go with her cake,’ Maria translated for Fi. ‘Coffee for all of us. Could you come with me to the cafeteria and help me carry everything?’ She lowered her voice. ‘I think Christophe would like a moment alone with his nonna.’

‘Of course.’

Fi was happy to follow Maria through the hospital corridors, bustling with staff members and visitors at this time of day having to dodge trolleys and wheelchairs and beds. There was a queue in the café as well, and it was when they were standing still, side by side, that Maria caught Fi’s gaze.

‘Christophe has made his nonna so happy,’ she said. ‘We are blessed that you came with him.’

‘He loves his nonna.’ Fi had to swallow a sudden lump in her throat. ‘And you.’

Maria’s gaze was warm but something in her face changed in a very subtle way that made that lump in Fi’s throat feel sharper.

‘He was such a sad little boy after his papa died. He had no brothers or sisters – only our adored little dog, Biscotti. He was just as sad when Biscotti got too old and he died.’

Fi’s heart broke for a young Christophe who’d had to say goodbye to a beloved companion. ‘How old was he then?’

‘About fifteen. Too old to let anyone see how sad he was but… a mother knows, you know?’ Maria’s gaze was unwavering. ‘He tried to tell me that it is not something special between you, but…’

Had Christophe’s mother learned to do that eloquent shrug from her French husband or was it an ability that Italians were also born with? She didn’t need to say anything else. As far as she was concerned, the truth of that statement had been roundly dismissed. And a mother knew.

Fi should have been getting more used to that curl of sensation that was like a fuse being lit in her body and sending sparks in all directions, but she wasn’t. It took her completely by surprise every time. Even more so, this time. Because it was getting stronger?

Could Christophe’s mother see something that neither she nor Christophe was consciously aware of? Fi thought about that as Maria gave the order for their coffees. She collected a ticket and they moved to one side to wait.

‘We thought it would never happen,’ Maria said quietly. ‘Me and my mamma. We thought that his heart had been so badly broken by Marcella that he would never find the woman he could trust enough to finally get his dream of a big family.’