I couldn’t say if my bow or Jean-Luc’s whistle came first, but I was quite pleased with myself and grinned at him as I headed off down the trail. He jogged to catch up to me.
“You are quite the talent,” he said. I took it as a straight-up compliment.
“Thank you. I know.” He laughed, and we fell into step together.
As we approached the valley floor some time later, we came to a paddock of cows—those extremely beautiful Swiss dairy cows. One of them had her head between the wires of the fence, eating some tall grass on the other side. I stopped and approached her slowly. Those big brown eyes looked at me, but she didn’t stop chewing. I pulled up some grass and held it out to her. She took it gently from my hand and chewed slowly, all the while watching me. I reached out and stroked her nose and she let me.
“Look at her eyes,” I said over my shoulder.
Jean-Luc stood a little way away watching me with a smile. “They are very beautiful.”
“Hello, girl,” I said as I pulled her some more grass. Other cows started to make their way over. Very friendly, Swiss cows. I got a few more pats in and left them to eat their Swiss-green grass and the occasional wildflower.
“I might have to become a vegetarian,” I said as we got back on the trail. We could see the town not too far ahead.
“Those are dairy cows,” he said.
“I know, but still … I mean, I try not to think about it, where meat comes from. I go to the shop and buy it on a tray. If I spend any time thinking about the actual animal, I don’t want … ugh, maybe I’m a closet vegetarian. Maybe it’s right there below the surface. You’ve never been a vegetarian, have you?”
“Mon dieu, non.”
“As you know, Dad raised us as total carnivores. I still eat everything, beef, lamb—oh, God, I love lamb.”
“I remember the barbecues at your house.”
“Oh, I miss those. And right before I moved to London, Dad learnt how to make his own sausages. They were unbelievable.”
“You could learn.”
“Probably not. I am rather hopeless in the kitchen—and, besides, meat is far more expensive in the UK than Australia. Mostly, I stick to single-girl dinners. I make a great cup of tea though—and toast. I’m good at toast.”
“Toast?” he sounded amused.
“Yes. Most people don’t know this, but it’s easy to mess up toast. I do it correctly.”
“I see. So, it is your kryptonite, but toasted, it is okay …?” At first, I wondered what the heck he was talking about. Then I remembered Anna’s restaurant in Rome and the breadbasket.
“Good catch. I do occasionally buy bread, but only proper artisanal bread. And when I do buy it, I make excellent toast.”
“I see,” he replied, a mock-serious tone to his voice. “And what is a ‘single-girl dinner’?”
“Oh, uh …” I was suddenly self-conscious.
“I am curious, because most of the time I am by myself in the evening. I wonder if it is the same as a ‘single-man dinner’.”
He was teasing me, and I could feel my cheeks getting hot. I’d been able to talk to him about anything when we were teenagers—big picture, life-changing stuff, right down to the minutiae, so why was something so trivial getting a rise out of me? I was annoyed—at him for teasing me, but mostly at myself. He was getting under my skin.
I forged ahead regardless.
“A single-girl dinner is usually something like frozen peas or asparagus cooked in the microwave, a handful of cherry tomatoes, maybe some olives, and a tin of salmon—for protein. Or, I eat a Lean Cuisine, or some ready-made soup from Marks & Spencer. I certainly can’t cook fish like you did last night and even if I could, I probably wouldn’t bother just for me.”
How on earth had I ended up defending eating salmon from a tin as though it was my basic human right? I stole a glance at him. Still amused, the bastard.
He reached down and took my hand. “So, we should buy some bread when we get into town—for dinner. I think it is your turn to cook, yes?”
There was a beat before I burst out laughing. “All right, very funny. How about we go out for dinner instead?”
“A very good idea.” Still teasing me.
“Hey!”
“We could perhaps meet your friends, ask them to join us?”
“Oh, fun! Yes, let’s do that.”
“Bien. And, Catherine, it is okay that you do not cook.”
“I know.” Touchy much? Lighten up, Cat.
He pulled my hand up to his lips and kissed it. “I am happy to be the chef.”
What? I suddenly realised why I’d been so apprehensive about the whole cooking conversation. It was about real-life—domesticity—and it had led exactly where my unconscious mind was worried it would—to Jean-Luc thinking about us in a relationship, sharing a home, divvying up domestic duties.
I’d stepped into the rabbit hole.
Chapter 17
We met the others, Craig and the girls, at a family-style restaurant close to where Jean-Luc and I were staying.
“Hey,” I said, giving Craig a big hug. “How are you?”
“Great. I went up Jungfrau today.”
“Oh, wow, I want to hear all about that.” He and Jean-Luc shook hands and started chatting, and I took the opportunity to hug my girls.
“You look happy,” said Dani, a grin on her face.
“I am. Very.”
She giggled with approval, then walked around to the other side of our table and sat down. Craig took the seat next to her, still chatting with Jean-Luc, who sat opposite him.
“You’re sitting with me tomorrow,” said Jaelee. “I’m living vicariously through you. I want details.” It wasn’t the time to remind her that she’d had her own adventures at the château. She took the chair next to Dani.
“I’ve missed you, Lou.” I reached up for a hug. Only a day had gone by since I’d seen her, but when you go cold turkey on your bus bestie, it stings a little.
“Me too.”
“Sit next to me?” I asked. I ended up in the middle of Jean-Luc and Lou. I could hardly talk about him with him sitting right there, but she and I would catch up when we left Lauterbrunnen. At the thought, my stomach lurched. Leaving Lauterbrunnen meant saying goodbye to Jean-Luc until the next time—if there would be one.
As the table filled with plates of wursts and varieties of potatoes and as we ordered a second round of Appenzeller, a beer, the conversation whizzed between us as we filled each other in on our days.
Craig, Dani, and Jaelee had all gone up Jungfrau and I was a little jealous as they described the view from the mountain top, though not so much of Craig’s depiction of the ice caves—far too closed in. I got a little breathless at the thought of them.
Lou had gone on a valley hike with some of the others from the tour group. “Oh, I totally agree, Swiss cows are the prettiest cows I’ve ever seen,” she said.
“See?” I asked Jean-Luc.
He raised his hands in surrender. “You are right. They are the most beautiful cows in the world.” Teasing me again. “Actually, I got a good photograph of Catherine feeding a cow.”