The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,69

people’s business. Let them talk. They always do—especially les dames.”

“You’re scaring me, Rémi,” I said.

“Pourquoi?”

“Because you’ve completely changed overnight,” I said. “And you have a wild look in your eyes.”

“But this is the old Rémi, the one who used to believe in happiness. He saw a sliver of what things could be like last night,” he said, thrusting out his hand. “Bonjour, Sophie, it’s Rémi, your childhood friend. I missed you.”

I squinted at him with confusion.

“That’s what I should have said at the airport when I picked you up.”

“Oh, I get it, Mr. Hyde, we’re backtracking now.”

Rémi’s face pinched with confusion. “Mr. Hyde?”

“Never mind.”

Lola stretched her arms out to me. “Maman,” she said.

“I’m not your maman,” I said, and she started to cry and squirm in Rémi’s arms, reaching out for me.

“Sophie, s’il te plaît,” said Rémi. “Évidemment, she thinks you’re Anaïs.”

“Why on earth would she think that?” I asked.

“She’s seen pictures,” said Rémi. “You both have black hair.”

I studied his face anxiously. What was his point? Why did he have to say Anaïs and I had anything in common? It was then I realized I wasn’t angry; I was jealous, and that was the feeling I’d had last night with Jane. “Le Père Noël clearly has a twisted sense of humor.”

Lola wailed and held her arms out to me. I sighed and scooped her up. She nestled into my neck. Her hair smelled like strawberries and sunshine. “I’m your Aunt Sophie,” I said, trying to figure out a solution to this conundrum. “Tatie Sophie.”

“Tatie?” she questioned, sucking back her tears. She placed her chubby, sticky hands on my cheeks, her little mouth twisted with confusion. “Pas Maman?”

“Non, pas Maman,” I said. “Tatie Sophie.”

Rémi blew out a sigh of relief.

“How would you like your tatie Sophie to make you a chocolat chaud before you visit with Grand-mère?” I asked, emphasizing “tatie” again, and looking to Rémi for his approval. I didn’t know what this child was allowed to eat or drink. I didn’t know a thing about children.

“Oui, Tatie Sophie,” she said, bouncing in my arms. “Oui, oui, oui! Chocolat chaud! Chocolat chaud!”

Lola bounced in my arms like a jumping bean. I adjusted my arm under her bottom so I wouldn’t drop her, and that’s when a wetness saturated my arm. I handed Lola back to Rémi. “I think somebody needs their diaper changed,” I said.

“We’ll meet you in the kitchen, Tatie,” he said, lifting up Lola like she was on an airplane ride. “A pretty baby girl needs her diaper changed.”

They zoomed into the salon. Thankful for the distraction, I headed into the kitchen, washed my arm with soap, and then rubbed on a gel disinfectant. Then, I pulled out a pot and gathered most of the ingredients—milk, crème fraîche, sugar, vanilla, and cinnamon. I was about to head into dry storage to grab the chocolate when Rémi came in with Lola.

“Can you hold her for a second?” he asked. “I need to grab a high chair.”

Lola was squirming in my arms before I could respond and I hoped she wouldn’t pee on me again. She grabbed my braid, pulling it. “Mon chocolat chaud, s’il te plaît, Tatie.”

When I was in New York, I hadn’t given motherhood much consideration, thinking I’d be a terrible mom, but with Lola cuddling up to me with her sweet baby breath, the foreign concept crossed my mind for a second. But why was my head even going there? The answer returned with a high chair. I found myself staring at every inch of Rémi’s body. The way the dimples formed in his cheeks when he smiled and set Lola in her chair. The way his strong hands buckled her in. The way his broad shoulders shifted when he straightened up to face me. I’d also felt the same way last night when we had our talk. My God. I couldn’t be falling for Rémi, the ward of my grand-mère and, although not a blood relative, a member of the family. He had a little girl to take care of; this was too much. An angel without wings, Lola came with extraordinary responsibilities. I shook my head to clear it. I had enough responsibilities now, like making sure my grandmother got better. Auditioning to be a replacement mom wasn’t in the cards.

“You’re staring at me again, Sophie,” said Rémi. “And with a look of disgust. Is it because of what just happened?”

“No, no, no, it’s fine,” I said. “I just don’t know where to