LOVE IS IN THE HEART: Verne Estate Series, Book 4

Finally home! Sunday mornings are always hectic at the bakery, and today was no exception. So, even though the manager in me is thrilled at the turnover, the girl whose feet are stewed sighs with relief. I got out of the car, it was way too hot! What an idea to leave with a sweater this morning! But it was eyeing me in the closet, with its grinning pumpkin on the front. Halloween is only a few weeks away. Let’s start getting in the mood! Besides, I spent part of my evening yesterday decorating the shop: cobwebs, pumpkins, skeletons. I had a field day. Not to mention the pastries! My cupcakes have already been displayed in autumn colours for several days, and carrot or cinnamon cakes are popular in my windows. So no, frankly, this blue sky and this global warming don’t suit me at all! I want greyness, dead leaves and fog! The kind of weather that makes you want to devour cakes that are far too caloric, but so comforting, by the fireplace. Otherwise, in a few years, I’ll be selling strawberry tarts until Christmas! Don’t get me wrong, I love strawberry tarts, but in the spring. Each pastry has its season, and that’s what makes my job interesting: the pleasure of finding recipes that I haven’t prepared for months. I climbed the three steps to my porch. Definitely, it’s much too hot! I insert my key in the lock, and no sooner have I passed the door – and I closed it, having no taste for exhibitionism – than I take off my sweater. I appreciate the fresh air on my bare skin. I can finally breathe! While I’m at it, I’m also going to get rid of my bra. This kind of instrument of torture is supposed to make my breasts perky. I find that it especially has the gift of constricting my breathing. Besides, who wears a sexy red lace bra under a pumpkin sweater? It’s not like there’s a chance anyone other than me will see it… The only male individuals who have seen me in my underwear over the last year are my GP – who’s at least 80 years old, and has the same moustache as Salvador Dalí – my gynaecologist – who didn’t seem impressed – and Croissant, my cat. Ah yes… and Simon. I unfasten the hook on my back, slide the straps over my shoulders... “Surprise!” shouted several voices at the same time. I let out a howl of terror and slammed my arm in front of my chest to hold my lace shackles against my breasts. And also, to hide them, because although the piece of fabric may have cost me a small ransom, it doesn’t leave much room for imagination. If we look at the price/material ratio, I’m sure the lace is worth more than Jeff Bezos’ divorce. “Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday!” then several people shouted. There’s everyone: my friends, my parents, my brothers… A good thirty people are crammed into my living room. Someone hung up a Happy Birthday garland, there were even balloons! And they’re all singing at the top of their lungs, while I’m half-naked and just as scarlet as my bra. I don’t have to force myself too much, my diaphanous pink skin reacts instantly as soon as I feel the slightest embarrassment. In novels, the heroes always find it sexy. In real life, I don’t see how being able to turn into a lobster at the snap of a finger gives me any points in the market of available girls. The proof is that I’ve been single for… far too long to take into account. And here I am celebrating my thirty-eight years… “Happy birthday, Aunt Romy!” Amélia, the youngest of Elena and Jack, lisps, if we ignore my friend’s plump belly. “Th…thank you, darling.” I was about to caress her blond curls but changed my mind so as not to offer the congregation more than is already done. A clearing of the throat next to me catches my attention. My brother, Benjamin, knowingly avoids facing me. “You’ll want to put something on, right?” In other circumstances, and especially if I hadn’t been the topless girl myself, I would have ignored him. But I must admit that, for once, his remark is full of common sense. “Well yes.” I glanced over to where my jumper should have landed. It’s clear that it’s no longer there. But considering how many kids are in this house right now, I’d bet one of them has already stolen it. Now all I have to do is get a T-shirt from my room. Problem: it’s located upstairs, and the stairs are at the other end of the living room. So I have to walk through the crowd hoping that they’ll step aside and see fit to avert their gaze. Unfortunately, some people – not to name them, my three closest friends: Loraine, Elena and Leona – still decide to ignore my modesty and take me in their arms for a group hug. “Happy Birthday!” “Uh, girls, I adore you, but if I don’t remember my thirty-eighth birthday as the one where I ended up topless in front of everyone I know, I would really appreciate it.” They release their embrace, and I can finally slip away. Well aware that everyone is waiting for me downstairs, I grab the first T-shirt that comes my way. I put it on in a hurry, I hesitate to check my make-up and my hairstyle, then give up. Anyway, they’ve already seen me, and we’ll say that I had a lucky break forcing myself to wash my hair this morning. I just suffered a monumental embarrassment in front of my friends, at least I did it without greasy hair. In life, we console ourselves as best we can... A surprise birthday. No, but why? I stopped celebrating three years ago, the day I reached the canonical age – in my mind – of thirty-five. Why? For several reasons. First of all, I’m old, everyone knows it, it’s not worth celebrating. So I can already hear the recriminations of those who have passed this stage or who are close to it. You don’t consider yourself old. But ask an 18-year-old kid at what age he thinks he won’t be young anymore? He’ll answer you, for sure, thirty-five. Secondly, because at my age, it’s impossible to imagine a super party with unlimited mojitos and clubbing until the end of the night. My friends have a whole bunch of brats to babysit – any idea how much a babysitter costs? It’s not that I don’t like children, quite the contrary. But when you’re the only one who doesn’t have one, it’s hard to bear at times. How many times have I witnessed conversations about the best way to relieve teething pains or diaper rash? More than I could count. I don’t blame them, and I completely understand that they want to share their experiences as mothers with each other. For many years, I even listened avidly to their stories, telling myself that it would always be beneficial to be prepared for the day when… Unfortunately, that day hasn’t arrived, and probably never will. I sigh and prepare to head back downstairs. I just have to convince myself that it’s just lunch with people I love and forget about the subject that brings them all together. I walk down the hallway, turn to take the stairs… and bump into someone instead. I lose my balance and try in vain to regain it by doing useless arm twists. This manoeuvre never saved anyone, especially not from ridicule. But to my amazement, my posterior doesn’t violently meet the floor as I expected. Two large palms grab my waist and bring me forward, against a chest that I know is deliciously firm. “Well then, Rom, you’re so happy to see me that you swoon?” he asks with his naughty smile that has always made me c***k. I raised my head towards this face that I didn’t think I would have the opportunity to see today. “You’re here!” I exclaimed. “How could I miss my favourite redhead’s birthday?” I smile, and I know my cheeks are flushing slightly. I shouldn’t, it’s just a compliment to please me, and he certainly said it to all the women he meets. Besides, he doesn’t know that many redheads. And then there are the blondes, the brunettes, the bald ones… But this compliment comes from Simon. And unfortunately for me, my brain is never very objective when it comes to him. Simon and I met about ten years ago, and we’ve had a kind of friendship ever since…with benefits, shall we say. Unlike me, he didn’t grow up in the area. Newly arrived in Locron, he showed up one evening at the Café de la Place, thinking of going there for a quiet drink. Except it was the day of the famous singles parties in our small town. Suffice to say that his arrival didn’t go unnoticed. The eyes of all the women – and some of the men as well – immediately fell on him, and the image of a fresh piece of meat facing a pack of hungry lions pretty much summed up the turn his evening had taken. Having felt a little pity for him – and being highly intrigued by this stranger, let’s be honest – I offered to help him get him out. Well, I’m not quite sure he would tell it that way… Let’s say that seeing his advanced state of distress – Gina, the eccentric hairdresser, being in the process of sticking her cleavage under his nose while beating eyelashes, the fact that he was young enough to be her son didn’t bother her at all – I told myself that I had to act. The poor man was so scared that he must already be thinking about the phone conversation he would have with his real estate agent the next day to put his house up for sale as soon as possible. And if he were to end the evening with one of Locron’s bachelorettes, it would be me. So, praying that he would join in my game, and using my best acting skills – thank you, Leona, for the acting lessons – I literally jumped on his neck. “You’re here!” I exclaimed a bit like today. Surprised, he didn’t have time to push me away, but to anyone observant, our embrace was seriously lacking in warmth…at least, for him. Because I was fully in my role. I’m like that, I don’t do things by halves. Especially when it comes to hugging a handsome guy. “Pretend to know me,” I whispered in his ear. “I’ll get rid of her.” I thought for a moment that it wasn’t going to work. But finally, he replied: “Ah... uh... hello, you!” News flash: Simon is a very bad actor. Fortunately, Gina and subtlety are far from being synonymous, her orange hair being the proof.” “Do you two know each other?” she wondered. “Yeah…she’s my…best friend,” Simon said. I was a little disappointed with this qualifier, but his answer was certainly the most logical he could give at that moment. And I have become his best friend. Well, I think… because there’s always some mystery about Simon, and I sometimes have trouble understanding him completely. A few seconds later, we left the bar and I invited him to come to the bakery for a pick-me-up. I didn’t have any alcohol to offer him – except the baba rum – but the promise of a slice of apple pie was enough to convince him. We spent the evening talking. He told me about his profession as a photojournalist, which takes him to the four corners of the planet, and he insisted on knowing everything about my life as a baker and pastry chef in a small village in the Var. I fell under his spell that night. Simon isn’t stunningly handsome like Ryan Gosling, even though their names sound close – his name is Gosselin. But when he enters a room, we cannot remain indifferent. In addition to his cerulean eyes, his black hair with large curls, his full lips and his athletic build, he possesses a charisma that radiates all around him. But it’s his smiles that personally are my Achilles heel. Even if he distributes them without restraint, I know him well enough now to decipher them, and those he sends me have something more. As in this moment when I’m still snuggled up against him, I know he’s happy to see me again, and maybe he missed me. “I thought you were still in some country ending in -stan for a month!” “My assignment was cut short.” “Ah, damn, nothing serious, I hope?” “No, don’t worry,“ he said, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. “It’s pretty good news, actually.” I’m about to question him, but my mother arrives on the stairs. “Romy, everyone is waiting for you!” Then, seeing Simon: “Hello, Simon, you were able to come? That’s fantastic!” She gives us a knowing smile, I know exactly what she’s thinking, and I guess Simon does too. I glare at him, just to make him understand that there’s nothing to infer from the fact that he and I are far too close for mere friends. I step aside and begin to descend a few steps towards my mother. She’s waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. Her gaze falls on my stomach, and I see her expression change. Her eyes widen, she opens her mouth, then her hand comes to rest on her lips. I stopped my descent, not really understanding her reaction. Her eyes go back and forth between Simon and me, so I glance back at my friend who responds with a shrug. As I’m about to ask my mother what’s happening to her, she exclaims: “Oh, my dear, that’s wonderful!”