Page 14 of The Last Kiss

Those eyebrows pull together, but a smile flickers. “The view is a haze of purple heather and wildflowers, the wine good.” He sniffs his shirt and I snort a laugh, holding up my hands in surrender. “The food is easy, simple, the people relaxed and full of sunshine and vitamin D.”

“Sounds like heaven. Vitamin D is in short supply this side of the channel.” I side eye the miserable grey sky outside and he chuckles.

“Of course, now it’s January, so it’s freezing pipes and barren landscapes.”

I smile up at him, warmth spreading from my chest down my limbs until I’m all floaty and golden.

“I prefer your original description.”

“Moi aussi, ma petite, me too.”

The waitress cuts in, angling her hip so she’s directly facing the Frenchman across the table. “Are you ready to order?”

He peeps around her waist, eyes dancing. “My date would like chips, and she doesn’t like to share.”

My cheeks flame, but I can’t help a smile.

“And steak frites for me and a bottle of the 2020 Beaujolais. Mystery woman, would you like anything else?” he asks me and silently I shake my head. I might not manage to eat one chip the way my stomach has tied into knots.

“Eh?” she asks.

“Steak and chips.” For the record it sounds soooo much better in French. I’d roll in the words if I could.

“Date?” I ask once she’s moved away, after throwing a smouldering pout in his direction and glancing over me as if wondering how I became the mystery date woman?

Lady, I don’t know. One minute I was sitting by the Thames considering the end of all things and now I’m staring at that masterpiece in navy.

“Well, it’s dinner. We have wine.”

“Beaujolais?” I roll the letters around my mouth. “I’m more of a Shiraz girl.”

He groans, dropping his head into his hands, fingers pushing through the thick dark waves. “New world grapes? I’m guessing, average five pounds a bottle?” He shudders and glances around the restaurant through his fingers. “I might have to pick a different date after all.”

“Hey!”

Laughing, he straightens up and catches my hand in his meaty paw, turning it and examining my palm. My breath hitches and his dark gaze flicks to my face. “Wine is all about the grape, the age of the vine, the water it drinks, the soil it sits in, the amount of sunshine it absorbs.” His gaze zeroes in on my mouth and I shift on my seat like I’m sitting on hot coals. “A Beaujolais is a Gamay grape, young and ripe. It’s picked and processed and then bottled all within the year. It’s a race by vineyards to see who can get their bottle on the shelves first. You never want to drink a bottle that’s older than the year before, otherwise that’s just a bottle of Gamay with a fancy label.” Fancee labbell.

“I’ll try to remember.” God, I sound breathless.

“Then this dinner will have served a purpose.”

I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. He really has no idea. “Believe me, it already has.”

4

One Night

“This has been lovely.”

It really has. So lovely. Let’s be realistic here, I could stare at his face and sit in silence and it would have been lovely. But beneath the stormy eyes, those talking eyebrows, and fuck-me-kissable lips, the man has a brain.

It’s done odd things to my thighs.

I’ve been rubbing them under the table. I hope he hasn’t noticed.

“Definitely a perk to London.” He smiles over his wine glass. I’m jealous of the glass, the way his lips just skim it.

I’m also utterly deranged right now.