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James’s gift for him is already sorted. We’ve been working on it for a week or so and it’s all packaged and ready to go. Not sure when I’d see him, I’d started mine, but not been as gung-ho to get it sorted. It’s a bittersweet gift, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit worried, but I smile as I set to work on the present. I hope he loves it.
Having checked the itinerary of the party multiple times, I start gathering clothes and shoes for the events. Guests have access to quads, bikes, and ATVs, as well as spa and pampering stuff. I also have to scramble a bit as the party event is fancy dress, vampire theme.
I smirk at that. I knew it! He’s hiding in plain sight. All that sucking and expert biting. You don’t get to such proficient levels unless you’re a professional blood sucker!
I pick out a floor length, white, halter-neck lace number. It’s also backless. Very backless. So low cut you can almost see my arse. It’s beautiful, and as soon as I put it on I feel my confidence level notch higher. I feel glamorous, fearless, and I’m mesmerised by the woman in the dress staring back at me in the shop mirrors. White crystal accessories enhance my hair, which is still silver, perfectly and white makeup as the bride of Dracula completes the ensemble.
Grace and I coordinate our outfits to complement each other—she’s a bridesmaid in a similar dress, but shorter. Much shorter. I raise my eyebrows at the length of it, but she pouts and says, “If you’ve got it, flaunt it,” and I can’t argue with that. But I’m still sticking with my long dress. I love the silhouette, and know I’ll feel super sexy yet comfortable in it.
For the family party, I’ve gone with a more conservative, yet figure hugging black dress. I expect I’ll be in mourning, being with that lot. It’s shorter but still knee length, very classy. I know I'll be pulling on my big girl pants for that event. I take a deep breath in, shaking my shoulders and puffing out my chest, and give myself a mental pep talk before the big exhale. It’ll be great, I will be great.
It’s a relatively short flight and I arrive at the chateau around 11:30 a.m. Excitement turns to awe as I pull up to one of the most gorgeous places I have ever seen. It’s old and obviously lovingly restored. Cue the drooling. I’m practically kissing the brickwork and haven’t even gotten inside the door yet.
The staff have been out twice to take my luggage and see if they can get me anything, but I’m too engrossed in some old ironwork on the house to answer or look up. The gravel crunches again for a third time and my brain races to catch up with what I hear.
“Your first appointment is 12:30 at Marchand. I thought we, erm, you would want to go there first.”
I move so fast it’s as if I’ve been shot, all my senses converging as one as I splutter out, “Kellen, what the hell?” Reeling backwards, I blink several times, like he’s an apparition. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, it is my home. One of them, anyway. And I am having a party here this weekend, you know.”
“This is where you were ‘dragged off to’ when you went to France? All those summers must have been traumatising for you.”
“I’ve had it restored over the past few years. It was never as nice as this when I was young; cold and draughty even in the hot summers. And the pool could have maintained icebergs right through July and August.” He grins at me.
I look at him and then at the house in front of me. Well, house is not really the word. I count at least five stories, with towers at either side on all corners, plus outbuildings to die for, brick and stonework I could touch for years, beautiful shutters in the most delightful grey that almost changes to green in different lights. I spin around in front of him. “It’s fabulous, Kellen. Really amazing. Can you show me around? Do you have time? Do you know what work they did? Do you have the plans? Do?—”
“Whoa, Evie, chill. We have the weekend to explore here, let’s go to Marchand first. And there’s a couple of places that have been in the Best Garden Guide for the South of France, so we can pit stop there and then come home. Sound like a plan?”
I stand and stare at him, my mind trying to process a myriad of emotions. Why is he here? And being so accommodating? I know we’ve been talking via James over the past few weeks, but I did not expect him to be rolling out the red carpet to this degree. I’ve hardly been gushing over him. I feel we’ve reached the dizzy heights of polite civility in those conversations, but certainly that's the limit. So to say I’m surprised by his willingness to help me is the understatement of the century. “It does, but you don’t have to come with me. I can sort myself out if you're busy. I know you’ll have a lot on with the party.”
“It’s all sorted. I came yesterday to get things going, and Xander will be here first thing. The party planner is here already, staying in the guest accommodation.” He gestures to the buildings I can just see the rooftops of in the magnificent gardens.
“I’ve put you in the house, in one of the towers. There’s an amazing view, and lots of open brick for you to inspect. Come, we’ll get going. I’ve booked us lunch there. I hope that’s okay?”
I nod, still a bit dazed by his appearance here in France now. I did not expect him to be here at all yet. Also his apparent willingness to go look at gardens. Smiling genuinely at him for the first time in a while, I barely recognize my own voice murmuring faintly, “Sure, that’d be fab.”
We move towards a car parked facing the wrought iron gates, and I have to duck my head to get in under the bare wisteria hanging over it. “This must look fabulous in the spring when the flowers are out.”
“You'll have to come see it,” is all he says as he opens the passenger side door for me, moving off straight away to get into the driving seat. I don’t answer, but only because I can’t. I’m tongue tied, my head spinning at his gentlemanly behaviour. Looking over at him as he gets settled, butterflies start to flutter in my stomach. Oh boy, what a day this is going to be.
It turns out to be one of the nicest days I’ve had in a long while. I have my camera with me and take hundreds of photos. Marchand is delightful and gives me a few ideas on the use of space; the look and how it might work. It showcases potted, bedded gardens, greenery and climbers around stonework, features created out of plants and trees. I love the trees, and drift off into a world of trees within the yard, already planning how to use them.
And Kellen is not nagging at me to move on. His patience amazes me, his disposition to please me first and foremost, kicking my senses to life.
Apparently, the lunch he ‘booked’ is with the home’s owners. In the house! Aside from an absolutely delightful meal, they bring plans out for me to look at. I think I might’ve died and gone to heaven.
“I feel high as a kite,” I tell him as we leave the house and gardens.
“Some people snort coke, Evie. You snort brick dust.” He’s laughing at me as he helps me into the car. I haven’t missed the fact that every chance he gets, he puts his hands on me. Not blatantly sexually, but small touches and fleeting brushes. And I like it.
I look at myself as we leave, mildly flushed and a bit dishevelled. Not my best look, but he never took his eyes off me. A genuine smile crosses my lips as I tell him with stark honesty, “That was the best. Thanks, Kell. I know if I’d come on my own, they would not have pulled out those plans. Sorry if I was a bit intense with all that, I had to calm myself down.”
He stares at me for a beat before saying, “I like to see you happy. You look like you.”
I knock down the sun visor and flick open the mirror flap, trying to distract myself from the honesty and intensity coming my way. Pulling a face at my reflection, I mutter, “What a mess.”
“You look amazing. Just right.” With that, he pulls out of the driveway and we set off back towards his home.
