Page 71 of Counting Down To You

“Salut, mes amis.” He strides toward us, takes my hands in his, and kisses me lightly on both cheeks. Not quite the greeting I was expecting, given I was prepared for the stereotype of the moody chef, shouting at everyone in passionate French.

I grin back at him—he has an infectious smile. Leo, however, clears his throat loudly.

Gabriel drops my hands and cocks his head at Leo. “Are you Elodie?” And, okay, that accent is really sexy.

“I’m Leo,” Leo says, frowning.

Gabriel nods thoughtfully. “You are here to help serve, yes?”

I press my lips together to stop the laugh. Leo blinks at Gabriel, then shrugs. “Well, yes. I guess I am.”

“Do you need any help, Gabriel?” I ask.

“Non, non, merci. I have it under control. Something simple Lucie said, yes?”

“Simple is great,” I agree. Who am I to argue, when Gabriel is doing us a favor on such short notice?

Gabriel moves back to the oven, opening it to check something and letting out the scent of something delicious. “I will inform you when the first course is ready,” Gabriel says. “D’accord?”

“Right, absolutely,” I say, already backing out of the kitchen. I glance at Leo. “Should we make everyone a drink?”

“Yes. I’ll do that if you want to get changed or something? We can tag team?”

I take him up on the offer, feeling the need to get out of my ski clothes. We arranged for all our bags to be taken here earlier that day, so I grab mine from inside the front door and head upstairs. I find the one bedroom not yet claimed, down the end of the corridor, away from the other three rooms. It’s the smallest—of course it is—with a single double bed taking up the majority of the space. The wooden floorboards are silent as I step on them, turning a circle to take in the oak-paneled wardrobe and small chest of drawers, a single bedside table with a small lamp on one side of the bed, the white bedspread with a faux fur blanket folded down over the bottom half. It may be small, but it’s gorgeous.

Behind the curtains there is a sliding glass door in place of windows, opening right up onto the balcony, where a table and two chairs sit, a basket with blankets just inside the door. Not that I have time to try that out right now. Or to wonder who will win the coin toss and get this room—and who will end up on the sofa, having to stay up until all the guests have gone to bed. Unless we’re supposed to keep up the dating charade and share? I think of my lacy vest top, packed at the bottom of my bag.

Don’t go there, Ali.

I quickly shower and change into the long-sleeved dark blue dress I brought. I didn’t have a lot to choose from, what with not having my full wardrobe here, but I think this walks the line between formal and casual. Plus, it works on my figure and brings out the blue in my eyes—Robyn told me that when she made me buy it. I apply basic makeup, the need to get down and check everyone is okay at war with the need to make myself look as good as I can.

When I get back downstairs, the fire has been lit in the living room, and the small group of four have made themselves at home on the sofas, sipping aperitifs. Leo, it turns out, has found a fancy drinks trolley, and has been trying his hand at barman. I don’t miss the way his gaze snaps to me the moment I walk into the room. Or how it travels, ever so quickly, down the length of my body. Okay, then. So the dress is a hit. He busies himself with the drinks trolley as I walk across the room and offers me a margarita when I reach him.

“Aren’t we working?” I whisper, over the sound of Louisa laughing at something Mark said.

“Oh, don’t be a bore,” says Betty loudly. “Have a drink with us, Ali darling.” So much for whispering.

I take the margarita and sip. I taste the tart citrus, the kick of tequila with a subtle bitter aftertaste. “Not your first time making these, I’m guessing,” I say to Leo.

He grins. “I may have had some practice. You okay to hold the fort for a bit?”

While Leo is changing, Gabriel summons me to the kitchen, instructing me on how to successfully carry a soufflé to the dining room table in the adjoining room.

“The moment I open the oven door, the deflation process will start,” he is saying. “So we must be quick, ça va?”

I nod, glancing over my shoulder at the sound of footsteps on the stone floor behind us. Leo has showered too, his hair damp, jaw clean-shaven. I can’t decide if I like him better with the stubble or without.

“They’re all ready through there,” Leo says, with a nod toward the dining room.

“Two at a time, then,” Gabriel says, handing each of us a serving cloth.

Please don’t drop them, I tell myself as Gabriel opens the oven door.

I follow Leo through the door to the dining room, which Gabriel holds open for us—and I feel like whooping when I successfully set the plates down in front of Betty and Louisa without either of the soufflés collapsing.

Gabriel brings out mine and Leo’s soufflés himself, then claps his hands to command the attention of the table. Everyone looks over, while I do a quick glance around to check everyone’s drinks are filled. I take a seat at one end of the table, Leo taking the only other free space on my left.

“A twice-baked cheese soufflé to start,” Gabriel says, “with a saffron heritage”—he drops the “h” in the classic French way—“tomato filling.” He throws his tea towel over one shoulder with a flourish that has got to be practiced. “Bon appetit!” And with that he heads back through the door to the kitchen.