Page 93 of The Stranger

“Women can have babies.” I leave the explanation there. The depth and breadth of this biological minefield is way above my pay grade. But I do find myself wondering just how many different women Sylvie has had in her life so far. Nannies, chefs, housekeepers, maybe doctors, and other staff.

“Women can do a lot of things.” She gives a pause as a tiny frown mars her cute little face. “But I think I would rather have a beard than a baby,” she announces. “Because you can grow a beard for a little while,” she says, flicking her bed-messy braid over her shoulder. “And if you don’t like it, you can make it go away. You can’t do that with a baby.” She looks my way, the apparent voice of authority.

“Er, that’s right,” I say, taking a sip of my juice.

“Babies are a lot more work than bristles,” Zoe puts in.

“Papa’s bristles tickle my cheek when he kisses me.”

Can relate, I think with a little cough, though I manage not to choke on my juice. And because this morning isn’t enough already, this is the precise moment their father walks into the kitchen. FML. M. LDH.

“Papa!”

“Bonjour, ma famille.”

Don’t look—don’t look. But, of course, I do.

His hair is a shower-fresh tousled mess, and his shirt impossibly white against his tan, sleeves rolled like he knows to show the good stuff. Wrists. Veins. Fingers that know how to play my body like a well-tuned instrument.

Immediately, my pulse forgets how to behave.

He has the audacity to look extremely well-rested as he presses his lips to Sylvie’s downy head, repeating the action with a bristling Felix.

“Papa,” he complains.

“It’s the law,” Sylvie pipes up, holding up three fingers. “Parents must kiss their children at least three kisses a day.”

“Don’t say stupid things,” Felix retorts.

“When you stop looking stupid,” she snipes back.

“It’s too early to be arguing,” their father says magnanimously from the far side of the island.

“We started much earlier than this,” Sylvie reasons in French before turning my way and barely pausing for breath as she switches language. “Primrose, what is that on your neck?”

Her father feigns interest in the fruit platter as my stomach takes a sudden dive. But I don’t immediately answer as Zoe catches my attention, mouthing something from the other side of the island as she points at her neck.

“Burned yourself on the straightening iron this morning.” She pivots. “Bonjour, Monsieur du Beaumont!” she trills, turning just as quickly to the coffee machine. As it begins to noisily grind the beans, she bustles out of the kitchen yammering about needing something from the garden.

Bless her diversionary tactics. However, he’s not going to blow his top over something he’s responsible for. I might, though.

Later, obviously. Not in front of the children.

The children. Focus on them—they deserve better. Better from me. Better from him. Servant, I silently add for good measure while, outwardly, I become fascinated by my glass of juice again. Hands are useful, I think, lifting the glass to my mouth. Hands don’t blush, meanwhile, my cheeks feel radioactive.

“Good morning, Primrose.” His salutation sounds like a satisfied hum as his thumb grazes the base of my spine as he passes behind me.

I sit straight, as though electrified, the base of the glass connecting loudly with the countertop. “M—” No further sound comes out. I clear my throat and thump my chest.

“Papa, quickly—Primrose is choking again!”

Sylvie’s panicked proclamation seems to give Luc permission to put his hands on me. Where everyone can see!

“Have I stolen your breath?” He pitches the question low enough only for my ears as he rubs a slow circle across my back.

“I fine!” I practically jump from my seat, apparently having turned into the Mrs. Doubtfire version of a nanny by my tone. Maybe I’d be better served by channelling Nanny McPhee and cultivating a nice nose wart. “Let me… let me get your coffee.” I scoot to the other side of the counter, adjusting the towel at my shoulder for maximum coverage. Obviously, not for his benefit. “Café noir, right?”

He inclines his head, his smile a touch self-satisfied. Because I remember his coffee order or because of last night, it’s hard to tell.