Maybe she didn’t want him in her home because that was part of her real life and he wasn’t. This was just a few days of… he didn’t even know what to call it. More than a holiday but less than something that was significant enough to last. A fling?
Something that was happening in Provence and would be left in Provence as far as he was concerned. They would never see each other again.
That was the agreement between them. So why could he feel a faint pang of loss already?
‘Let’s see if Michel can find a space for us to have dinner,’ Tilly said.
The restaurant beneath the chestnut tree was humming with conversation and laughter and the clink of chinaware and glass. There was a man in a top hat and waistcoat wandering amongst the tables playing the piano accordion. Angus couldn’t see any free spaces but the restaurant owner who greeted Tilly by name pointed to one that a waiter was just clearing as diners left. She blew him a kiss as they headed towards the table for two right beside the trunk of the tree.
Angus did, briefly, consider ordering something different to steak frites but the only change he made was to not order mushroom sauce. Or any sauce. He would leave it up to the chef. It turned out to be a pepper sauce, which he would never have thought to choose, and the heat was noticeable enough to make him pause.
Tilly was watching him.
‘Good?’
‘Very good. Yours?’
In response, Tilly cut into one of the cushions of pasta stuffed with beef on her plate, covered the morsel with the sauce andoffered him her fork. Angus could have taken the cutlery with his hand but, instead, he wrapped his fingers around Tilly’s wrist and lifted the fork high enough to put the food into his mouth. She licked her lips as she watched him taste the meal she had chosen, the way she had during their very first dinner together and…
…and how could something as simple as sharing a meal feel like some kind of foreplay?
‘Good?’ she asked again.
‘Waybetter than good,’ he said, very softly, holding her gaze. Would she pick up that he wasn’t referring simply to the food?
The way she dropped her gaze and reached for her glass of wine suggested that she had. Angus had insisted on it being the best champagne available this evening and the look on her face as she took her first sip gave him as much of a glow of pleasure as tasting something delicious himself could have provided.
The fairy lights shone more and more brightly as the daylight finally made its exit. Their plates were taken away and the waiter asked if they wanted dessert.
Angus shook his head. ‘I don’t do desserts,’ he reminded Tilly.
‘You liked the flan,’ she reminded him. ‘And the tiramisu here is a house speciality. It’s to die for.’
But Angus shook his head again and the waiter returned with only one plate that held a square shape heavily dusted with cocoa powder. He also had two shot glasses that were cold and frosty and full to the brim with a yellow liquid.
‘Limoncello,’ Tilly said. ‘It’s apparently good for the digestion.’
Angus picked up the glass but put it down before tasting the drink when the restaurant owner approached their table carrying a large brick-red ceramic dish. He put it down in front of Angus, who blinked in bewilderment.
The dish was empty, apart from remnants of what had been scooped out of it. Tiramisu? When two spoons were placed on the table he stared at Tilly. One dessert with two spoons? This wasspecificallysomething he had warned her that he didn’t want. And this wasn’t even a dessert, it was an almost empty dish. If this was a joke, it was not funny. Angus could feel his eyes narrowing as he frowned.
But Tilly was shaking her head. Smiling.
‘It’s not what you think,’ she said. ‘It’s the tradition here. When someone orders the last serving from the dish, it’s brought to the table with spoons for everyone to taste what’s left. The last time, I was with my mother and Monique and so we got three spoons. This is no more romantic than that was.’
‘Hmm…’ He could have argued that point but Angus could feel the tension in his face subsiding. Did it matter, anyway?
‘You might as well taste it,’ Tilly said. ‘You might like it even more than the flan. It’s like a coffee-flavoured cloud.’
It was.
And he did like it.
* * *
It was completely dark by the time the hotel shuttle took them back up the hill and they followed the path to their villa.
And it was still very warm. The temperature hadn’t dropped much below thirty degrees Celsius all evening.
