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She tested herself by trying to think about David, but she couldn’t even conjure up his face. It was like pressing on an old bruise and discovering it didn’t hurt anymore.
When Philippe put his arm around her, she leaned into him.
All around them were groups of young people, shoulders bare, legs bronzed from the sun. The soft lap of the water against the banks was all but drowned out by the sounds of laughter and conversation. Someone near to them was quietly playing a guitar.
It occurred to Grace that she missed out on this part of being young.
She thought of her life in two parts—before the death of her parents, and after. Neither part had featured picnics on riverbanks with nothing to think about but the perfection of the moment.
And it was perfection.
When she turned to Philippe it was inevitable that he would kiss her. Or maybe she’d kissed him. She wasn’t sure.
When he stood up and tugged at her hand, she followed him, and they walked along the river toward his apartment.
It had been so hot that the first drops of rain took them by surprise. The few damp spots turned into a steady patter and then a downpour that soaked the sunbaked streets. He tightened his grip on her hand, laughing as they sprinted the short distance to his apartment.
Breathless, they tumbled through the door.
Her hair was plastered to her head and her dress was soaked.
His white dress shirt clung damply to his chest and shoulders and his dark lashes were clumped together by rain.
Her stomach felt hollow. She thought it wasn’t possible to want him more than she already did.
And then he smiled. “Paris needed cooling down.”
She’d needed cooling down, too, but nothing seemed to be working.
She stroked her damp hair away from her face. “We’re dripping on your floor. Do you have a towel?”
“Of course. More importantly I have champagne in th
e fridge.”
Champagne.
The first and last time Grace drank champagne had been with this man.
And now here she was doing it again.
He vanished and returned a few minutes later with a bottle and two glasses. “The towel can wait.”
He handed her a glass, and she watched as the bubbles rose. She took a sip and closed her eyes. It was cool, dry and utterly delicious.
His apartment was impressive, with large shuttered windows and polished wood floors. The walls were lined with books and impressive artwork, but the main focus of the living room was the grand piano.
It stood in polished grandeur, and she was left with the feeling that the apartment had been chosen especially for this one single piece.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Ten years.” He flung open the doors to a terrace to let in the cooler air. Rain splashed the tiles and the wrought-iron table. It clung to leaves and soaked parched plants.
She heard the distant rumble of thunder and rubbed her damp arms. “It’s fabulous.”
He glanced around, as if verifying her statement. “I spend less than a hundred nights a year in this apartment. I’d lived here for eighteen months before I even unpacked the boxes.”
She tried to imagine a life where you spent more time in hotels than your own place.
