That day in the café in Richmond, Hannah had turned to François, her heart as usual jolting in remembrance—some of François’s features were so like Laurent’s: the thick dark wavy hair, the strong and proud Gallic jawline, the wide, high cheekbones, the clean blade of a nose. ‘Will...?’ She tried to form the word Laurent, but it stuck in her throat and refused to budge. Eventually she managed to mutter, through a false smile, ‘Will having me as the celebrant be okay with all of your family?’
François’s eyes were different, a softer, more forgiving blue, none of the striking, pain-inducing brilliance of Laurent’s. The care in his eyes had matched his gentle tone when he had answered, ‘Laurent is to be my best man,’ but Hannah had still felt it like a whip to her heart.
She’d looked away from the discomfort in both Lara’s and François’s expressions, hating that they had been put in this position. Their wedding should be a carefree celebration, not tainted by the fact that she’d foolishly fallen in love with Laurent, confusing his Gallic charm and romantic gestures for a sign that he’d felt what she did, that he too had wanted more.
In the months after he’d left London to return to the family business and château in Cognac, telling her before he left that he didn’t want to continue their relationship, she’d puzzled over the overwhelming effect he’d had on her. The pain, the disappointment, the humiliation had been so engulfing she’d struggled to comprehend it all. Was it the fact that he was the first man she’d ever truly fallen in love with? Which admittedly was pretty tragic at the age of twenty-nine. But up until then, she’d never met anyone who had quickened her heart, who had communicated so much with a glance, who intrigued her.
At first she’d resisted the chemistry between them, her age-old need to protect herself holding him at arm’s length. But in truth she’d been changing and had been more receptive to allowing someone into her life. She’d chased security and stability throughout her early twenties, desperately needing the safety of establishing her career in finance and buying her own apartment. But as she neared thirty, she’d realised she wanted more. A more free life, a more optimistic life. One of taking chances and not being so afraid. And into this new way of thinking and daring to dream had walked Laurent Bonneval. The brother of her best friend’s new boyfriend. And he’d swept her off her feet. But ten months later he’d left her with a broken heart.
But that heart was now mended and firmly closed to Laurent Bonneval’s charms.
Hannah jumped as the beast’s tail hit against her door panel as he turned and bounded away, disappearing around one of the château’s fairy-tale turrets that sat at each corner of the four-storey building.
She breathed out a sigh of relief. But then her heart plummeted to the car floor. From around the corner, sprinting at first, slowing to a jog when he took in her car, came Laurent, the beast at his side.
Stopping, he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the low evening sun. Behind him his shadow spilt across the gravelled drive, his tall, broad frame exaggerated.
She waited for him to move. Tried not to stare at the fact that he was wearing only running shorts that revealed the long length of his powerful legs and a lightweight vest top that showcased the taut, muscular power of his broad shoulders and gym-honed arms. His skin glistened with perspiration.
Heat formed in her belly.
He moved towards her car.
Her heart somersaulted.
She grasped for the window control and buzzed down her window a couple of inches, only then realising how stifling the car had become as she’d been held hostage by the beast. She longed to run a hand through her hair, check her make-up in the mirror. But she resisted giving him any sign that she cared how she looked in his eyes.
He came to a stop a few feet away from the car. The beast came to heel at his command. ‘Hannah...’ Her heart pinged at the concern in his eyes. ‘Are you okay?’
The low, intimate sound of his voice almost undid her. Memory after memory rushed through her brain—how he used to leave her voicemails that had her blush and giggle. His mouth against her ear when they would be out with others, whispering a compliment, a promise. The Saturday mornings when they used to cycle to their favourite French bakery in Putney Heath and eat breakfast while playfully flirting, her legs trembling when his fingers would stroke her hand, her arm, her cheek, before he would suggest that they head home. His murmured words when they made love afterwards that had swelled in her heart and burst like joyful bubbles in her bloodstream.