"I like you, Valérie."
Rain hammers against the windshield of Estienne's car, and the words land between us with all the subtlety of a brick through glass.
The morning started innocently enough. Gray clouds swallowed the vineyard at dawn, and by eight o'clock, the downpour made harvest work impossible.
I found Estienne in the farmhouse kitchen, nursing coffee while Margaux complained about the weather ruining her laundry schedule.
"I need to go into town," I said, keeping my voice casual. "Toiletries, a few things I forgot to pack when I left my previous... situation."
I did not mention that what I really need is a new phone. My old one sits in a drawer at the Pasquier estate, deliberately abandoned because Frank tracks everything.
Estienne looked up from his mug with an expression I could not quite read. "I can drive you. I need to pick up some tools anyway."
Now we are twenty minutes down the road, the windshield wipers marking time like a metronome counting down to an explosion.
‘I like you, Valérie.’
I have been pretending those words never left his mouth, and Estienne has been letting me pretend with a patience that borders on saintly.
But saints have limits. I can feel his sideways glances landing on my profile, each one sharper than the last, until finally he decides that silence is no longer acceptable.
"You never told me why you ran away that night," he continues, his eyes fixed on the rain-slicked pavement ahead. "After I kissed you."
Because I don't deserve you. Because I destroyed your family.
"We were moving too fast," I say instead, and even I can hear how flimsy the excuse sounds. "I barely know you, and you barely know me."
"That's deflection." His hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel.
"Americans are supposed to be charming," I mutter. "Not this direct."
"I spent twenty years learning to be direct because some people find it very refreshing." He glances at me sideways, and the hint of a smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "I don't know why you're running from whatever you're running from, but I know I like you. And I should tell you—I don't actually need any tools."
My eyebrows rise before I can stop them. "Excuse me?"
"I wanted an excuse to spend the day with you." His tone carries zero apology. "So this is a date now, whether you agreed to it or not."
The audacity of it steals my breath for a moment.
Frank never asked for my company—he demanded it, scheduled it, tracked it like inventory.
The idea of someone wanting to spend time with me, manufacturing reasons to be near me, feels foreign in a way that aches.
"You could have just asked," I manage, though the words come out softer than I intended.
"Would you have said yes?"
No. Absolutely not.
"Probably not," I admit.
"Then I made the right call." He signals left, turning onto a narrow road that winds toward a cluster of buildings in the distance. "There's a diner in town that makes the best croque-monsieur you've ever tasted. Unless you object to kidnapping victims being fed."
"I object to the kidnapping," I say, but the smile tugging at my mouth betrays me. "The feeding is acceptable."
The diner is modest in every way—chipped formica counters, mismatched chairs, a bell above the door that jingles when we enter.
It smells like coffee and grease and ordinary life, nothing like the restaurants I frequented as Madame Chevotet.
Relief washes through me as I scan the room.
Frank's people would never look for me here.
We slide into a booth near the back, and a waitress appears with menus and a tired smile. Estienne orders coffee and two croque-monsieurs without consulting me, then catches my expression.
"Too presumptuous?" he asks.
"You've already kidnapped me and declared this a date," I point out. "Ordering my lunch seems like a minor escalation."
"I prefer to think of it as efficiency." He leans back against the vinyl seat, studying me with an openness that makes my skin prickle. "So, Valérie Martin. Tell me one true thing about yourself. Just one."
I am the woman you hope is suffering.
"I hate olives," I say instead. "Even the smell of them makes me gag."
His laugh is warm and genuine, and the sound loosens a knot I did not realize had formed in my chest. "That's tragic. The olive oil in this region is exceptional."
"Oil is different," I counter. "Oil has been processed into something civilized. Actual olives are just small, bitter lies pretending to be food."
The coffee arrives, hot and strong, and the conversation flows easier than I expected.
"So what was San Francisco like?" I ask, genuinely curious despite myself. "I've never been to America."
"Foggy." He wraps his hands around his mug. "You'd walk to work in sunshine and come out four hours later into a wall of gray."
"Sounds miserable."
"It was beautiful, actually." He shrugs. "But also lonely," he admits, and the honesty catches me off guard. "I had a corner office and a view of the bay, and I'd never felt more invisible in my life."
Invisible. Yeah, been there.
"I understand invisible," I say.
His eyes sharpen with interest. "Do you?"
"I spent my summers at my grandmother's vineyard." The lie flows smoothly, built on the scaffolding of truth. "She taught me that vines understand patience better than people do."
"Sounds like you preferred the company of grapes to humans."
"Grapes don't judge," I counter. "People have expectations."
"People are terrible," he agrees cheerfully. "Present company excluded, I hope."
"The jury is still out on present company." But I'm smiling, and he sees it.
We are halfway through our sandwiches when Estienne excuses himself to use the restroom.
I watch him walk away, cataloging the breadth of his shoulders, the easy confidence in his stride, the way he paused to thank the waitress for refilling his water.
He's good. Genuinely, terrifyingly good.
Then I hear the voices near the entrance.
"—woman, early thirties, dark hair, might be using a different name—"
My heart slams against my ribs.
I do not turn around, but I can see them in the reflection of the rain-streaked window: two men in dark jackets, showing something to the customers at the counter.
A photograph. They are showing people a photograph.
Frank's people. They found me.
I slide out of the booth with movements I force to remain unhurried, walking toward the back of the diner like I have every right to be there.
The door marked "Hommes" swings open under my palm.
Estienne stands at the sink, water dripping from his hands, his expression shifting to startled confusion when he sees me. "What are you doing in here?"
I close the door behind me.
"If you want this date to continue," I say, keeping my voice steady despite the panic clawing at my throat, "it's time to play by my rules. How do you feel about leaving without paying the bill?"
His eyebrows rise toward his hairline, and for a moment I think he will demand an explanation.
But then a grin spreads across his face, slow and delighted, like I have just handed him an unexpected gift.
"There's a window," he says, nodding toward the small frame above the toilet. "Ladies first."
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