Lucian let out a slow breath, as though pained. “Seven years ago, he was struck by a car when crossing the street in Paris.” He swallowed thickly. “Jean Philipe survived, but his brain sustained a fair bit of damage. He wasn’t the same man—confused me for my dad, lost words, memories, certain motor functions. He got worse over time. Amalie took care of him. Three years ago, he died of pneumonia.”
“Oh, Lucian. I’m so sorry.” I wanted to hug him so badly my hands shifted forward on the table, but every taut line of his body told me to back off.
“I am too.” He blinked down at the marble countertop, spreading his big hands wide upon it. “I don’t know if it was bad luck on my part or what, but I started getting concussions. Amalie was terrified. I placated her with assurances. Physical injuries were part of the life I led. But that last time, I lost consciousness. My brain became a liability. There are things about that time that I can’t remember. Things that are fuzzy around the edges. But the horror of knowing that I could, if I wasn’t careful, end up like my great-grandfather was crystal clear.”
“So you quit.”
“So I quit,” he repeated before breathing out a humorless laugh. “I might not have. I didn’t want to listen. It had taken waking up with Amalie, Ant, and Tina at my side and not knowing who they were for five minutes. It had been the fact that I kept asking them over and over again what had happened to me and not remembering that they’d answered me every time.”
“Luc—”
“When my brain had calmed down enough to think more clearly,” he pushed on, as though he had to get it all out in one swoop, “I hadn’t been able to deny my family when they begged me to consider my health. Faced with the terror of losing myself certainly helped make the decision to retire a bit easier. But I resent it every day.”
I saw that knowledge ripple over his big body and tighten it, as though he were internally hunkering down.
I didn’t know what to say to ease that pain. Perhaps nothing would. Some things a person had to get past on their own. But I couldn’t leave him alone in the dark with his thoughts; I feared everyone else had been doing just that—giving him space they thought he needed, while unknowingly abandoning him.
“What was his favorite dessert?”
Lucian blinked, as though coming out of a fog. His dark brows quirked over those icy eyes, and for a moment, I thought he might not answer, but he finally spoke, his voice a little rougher. “He was known for his innovation, but his favorite was always the classic: gâteau Saint-Honoré.”
“Will you make it for me?”
He knew what I was doing. But he simply gave me a sly look. “You’re constantly trying to taste my creams, aren’t you, Emma?”
He was teasing, clearly wanting to make me blush and stammer. But I couldn’t erase the image of licking cream off every delectable inch of him. God, I wanted that. So much so my mouth was in danger of watering.
I returned his look with equal measure. “Careful there, honey pie. One day, I just might call your bluff on all your thinly veiled cream innuendos.”
To my surprise, he flushed a dusky pink across the high crests of his cheeks. But he held my gaze. “Maybe that’s what I’m aiming for.”
Those well-placed words hit me with a hot kick to the belly. But my response was lost among the sudden intrusion of Ant, Tina, Brommy, and Sal, all of whom invaded the kitchen looking for snacks, much to Lucian’s irritation. He tried to chase them off, but they weren’t having it, and we ended up sitting around the farmhouse table as a scowling, but not really pissed, Lucian whipped up a batch of madeleines just to “shut you all up.”
They were delicious. But the quick, piercing looks he snuck my way every few minutes were what I craved more. Problem was whether I wanted to admit it to myself or not, Greg had knocked a huge dent in my confidence. I’d thought what we had was real, only to realize in the rudest of awakenings that I had been building castles in my head once more. I wanted something real, someone I could trust, and for all that I liked Lucian, I didn’t know if he was the one to give me that.
Lucian
Brommy volunteered to help me install the new kitchenette cabinets in one of the small guesthouses. We’d been at it for a while when Emma tracked us down, breezing into the space like a summer sky. I drank in the sight of her.
Since finding me out, Emma had decided to park her cute butt in my kitchen and watch me cook or bake. Every day. While others would have been summarily chased out, I looked forward to her presence. Some days, I went as far as enlisting her to be my sous-chef. But Emma had terrible concentration and preferred chatting to proper measuring. The woman was destined to eat my creations, not help me make them.
Which was fine with me. I would never get tired of watching her taste my sweets. Tempted as I was to taste her in return, I’d managed to keep my hands to myself—barely. Apparently, I was a bit of a masochist when it came to Emma.
“I knew it,” she said, smiling up at Brommy and me as we balanced a heavy upper cabinet between us. “I just had to follow the sounds of banging, and I’d find you men.”
Brommy choked on a laugh. “The sounds of hammering, if you please, Miss Emma. Walking in on banging is an entirely different matter.”
“Why . . . ?” A little wrinkle worked between her brow for a second, then cleared with a deep flush. “Ah, yes, I can see how that would . . .” She gave up and laughed, her full-out-husky laugh that got to me every time.
It got to Brommy, too, who gaped at her with something akin to awe. But then he blinked, and the ends of his ears went red. Honestly, I’d never seen him reduced to a blushing bumbler by a woman before. It was impressive. Then again, so was Emma.
“Technically,” I said, before Brommy could fall totally under her spell, “we’re screwing.” I held up my drill as evidence.
Her smile went wide. “You’re terrible.”
My arms were starting to tire, and I turned to secure the cabinet with the drill, then hopped down and grabbed a towel to wipe the dust from my brow. “You need something, Em?”
Her gaze darted to Brommy but then found mine again. Either I imagined it, or Emma Maron was nervous. “I wanted to talk to you, if you have a minute.”
Brommy caught on quickly and hopped down as well. “I’m going to grab some more drinks.” He took the cooler we had and then tipped an imaginary hat toward Emma. “Miss Emma.”
A small smile tilted her lush mouth. “You can call me Princess, Brommy. I know you want to.”
He grinned, and I scowled. Not that they noticed.
“See you in a bit, Princess.”
“Brommy.”
They nodded to each other like regal friends, and then he left, whistling a happy tune. Emma watched him walk away for a second, then swung her gaze back and caught me scowling. But her smile only grew. Right then, I would have given anything to know if she thought of that night in the pool, if she regretted how it ended. We’d never talked of it. But I hadn’t forgotten. If anything, the memory was starting to take on painfully sharp edges.
Focus, Oz.
She wandered farther into the room, looking around at this and that. “I haven’t said before, but you do good work.”