Page 13 of The Last Kiss

“Brie?”

He laughs and it’s rolling hills of sheer pleasure, all green and covered in morning dew. “A little more compleecated than that.”

I nod. I know all about cheese. And the port that goes with it at Christmas. “Roquefort then?”

That brow quirks again. “You know about Roquefort?”

“Well, I read an article about it once.” Okay, I skimmed an article about it once. “And it tastes really good on a poppy seed cracker.”

He booms another laugh, making people turn to stare, not that he seems to notice. If he does, his concern is right down on the couldn’t-give-a-shit level. He stares out of the window for a brief moment, while I take the opportunity to stare at his profile.

“It’s a family business.” His words are said with a shrug that I think is meant to say more. “It’s a unique process. It costs money, no? But then how do you make money when it costs so much? So, things change.”

I nod. I understand this.

He turns back, smile bright and enigmatic. “And what do you do? Apart from sit on stools at bars oblivious while the bartender flirts with you.”

Cheeks warm, probably staining a dark pink, I choose to ignore half of his question. “I work for a newspaper.” I nod at the carefully folded broadsheet.

“The Times?” The eyebrow does some serious talking.

“Ha! No. A very small press. It’s a satirical paper… On Fleet Street.” I trail off. I hadn’t thought about work after the devastating news bomb this morning. What would I tell Rebecca? Were you meant to hand your notice in? I really knew nothing about this dying business.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh. Uh.” My chest is tight again, my heart pounding unevenly. I grasp the buttons on my black blouse. “Nothing.”

Man Mountain watches me carefully. “You look like the person who loves to have fun but isn’t right now.”

My throat tightens and I incline my head, although I wished his character assessment was halfway true. “No offense to the current company.”

“None taken.”

“How often do you come to London on cheese business?”

Another enigmatic shrug. “Once a month if I can.”

“That’s a lot of Eurostar.”

Shrug.

“Where in France do you come from?”

A wistful smile tilts his lips. “The Pyrenees, a town called Perpignan.”

“Down in the south, right?”

“Have you been?”

“No.” A tug pulls at my chest. How incredibly pathetic that I haven’t even visited the country right next door, not even for the day, or to stock up on wine on a booze cruise. Although saying that, I haven’t been to Wales either, or Ireland. Scotland was only for two nights.

Funny that life is always in such a rush to never really do very much.

Maybe it’s time for a bucket list.

“It’s beautiful. The air is warm, buzzing with bees, and smelling of honey.”

“Not cheese?”