Page 49 of The Stranger

She drops her elbow to the marble countertop and her chin to her fist. “Aren’t you worried you might sleepwalk, trip on the rug, and fall into his room late at night?”

“Weirdo,” I scoff. Like the house in Paris, my room is next to the kids. Unlike my room in Paris, so is his. Our doors almost face each other. I can’t say I love that.

“Dang. So much for the power of suggestion,” she says, straightening again.

“If you’re so concerned for improving his mood, you “sleepwalk”.” I make air quotes around the word. But then find myself wondering if this is her way of sniffing out if I’m into him, maybe because she is.

“You’re the one sleeping under the same roof,” she retorts. “And maybe I have a boyfriend back home.”

“Maybe I do too.”

“Nope, Miss Primrose, you do not. According to your bestie, you are eternally single.”

Ouch.

“She says you’re too busy trying to save the world, one old person at a time.”

“Emmy said that?” That’s sort of sweet.

“She also said that you’re too busy to date, what with study and your career. She kind of also might’ve implied you’re above such things.”

“I’m not,” I say awkwardly. “I mean, I have been busy, but I do date. Sometimes.” I feel my expression twist but rush on. “But for the record, sleeping proximity or not, hard pass on taking one for the team.”

“Really?”

“Let me put it this way, if Luc du Beaumont was the last man on the planet, I’d happily be its sole survivor.” And with that, I throw an olive into the air, open my mouth, and tip back my head ready to catch it.

“Wouldn’t that go against your Hippocratic oath?”

As the olive travels upward in slow motion, I find myself wondering why Zoe’s voice suddenly sounds so deep. Why her face is suddenly so pale. And why she’s looking behind me.

My brothers would be impressed as the olive finds its goal. I close my lips over it when the realization of what’s happening hit me belatedly.

Oh no.

I spin and, presumably because the moment isn’t horrifying enough, I begin to loudly choke.

14

LUC

“Papa, maybe you can become a doctor like Primrose now.” From across the table, my daughter beams at me.

“I’m not sure that’s how it works, mon chou. Besides, I’m a little too old for changing careers.”

“You are not old!” she protests, her attention swinging Primrose’s way. “Papa is not old, is he, Primrose?” My guess is she’d rather choke properly than answer, which is saying something given how brutal the earlier episode was.

“No, he’s not old,” she agrees hoarsely. Eventually. And without looking at me.

“My papa is the best. He’s clever and kind and handsome and so brave, isn’t he?”

Primrose looks like she swallowed a pineapple and not an olive.

“And he saved your life, didn’t he?” Sylvie glances expectantly at the nanny.

Primrose clears her throat, then reaches for her napkin. “Yes, Sylvie. I suppose he did.”

“Have you saved any lives?” My daughter tilts her head like a terrier.