The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,78

I needed to be strong for her. I sucked in a breath and, trying to keep my hands from shaking and spilling orange soup on her nightgown, I fed her a spoonful. Grand-mère licked her lips. “Oh, ma chérie, this is absolutely wonderful. I taste each and every ingredient. Oh, lavender. Turmeric? The lobster. Wonderful! How on earth did you bring all these flavors together?”

“I learned everything I know from you,” I said. “Honestly, cooking school was a cakewalk.”

“I could never have created anything like this,” she said. “You are far more creative than I am.”

“This is a soup,” exclaimed Agnès. “A soup? And it’s the best meal I’ve ever had in my entire life.”

“I concur with Agnès,” said Grand-mère, and a deep pride set in. “Now, tell me. You said Rémi helped you? I take it you’ve settled your differences?”

“We did,” I said. “And we’re friends again. He thinks it’s a good idea for me to get away from the château,” I said. “See life outside the gates. If that’s okay with you. Of course, if you need me, I won’t go.”

“The château isn’t a prison,” she said. “Don’t worry about me. I’m not dying any day soon. Stop digging my grave and get out, have some fun.”

This was an order.

“But not too much fun,” she said with a soft cackle.

I blushed. “Grand-mère, we’re just friends. He only wants to show me around.”

“I see,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “I’m glad the most important people in my world are just friends.” She opened up her mouth. “More of this deliciousness, s’il te plaît.” Spoonful after spoonful, as I fed her, I hoped she couldn’t read my mind, because I was thinking about Rémi and how I really didn’t want to be “just friends.”

23

in and out of the friend zone

After a very sleepless night, I woke up at six in the morning. Every fiber of my being was telling me to stay far, far away from Rémi—to keep him at arm’s length, to accept his friendship. My dream, the one I was controlling in my head, said otherwise.

“Yes, he has a child,” one voice would say. The other voice said, “Sophie, you need to see if something is there—look at his lips, his gorgeous kissable lips.” And then the other voice said, “Sophie, your life is still in the crapper. You can’t bring them into this.” I scrambled out from underneath my covers, feeling like I was on the verge of going schizophrenic.

Nerves set in until I reminded myself this wasn’t a date. Rémi wanted to show me life outside the château. That was all.

I dressed, pulling on a green cashmere sweater, jeans without holes in them, and my black woolly boots. Casual. Cool, calm, and collected, my hair blown dry and down. A little mascara. A little blush. I was me. Just me.

Rémi, as promised, waited for me in the foyer at nine a.m. He looked gorgeous, wearing black slacks, a gray sweater, and a fabulous steel-gray cashmere coat—like he’d just stepped off the pages of GQ magazine.

This is not a date.

“Wow, you should wear green more. It brings out the color of your beautiful eyes,” he said, and I smiled bashfully. “But those boots? Did you steal them off a homeless gitan? Or a babushka?”

“What’s wrong with my boots?” I asked, a bit insulted.

“Everything.”

I looked down at my feet. “Should I change?”

“No, I don’t think you should change. I think you’re wonderful just the way you are—even in those ugly boots.”

He’d just complimented and insulted me at the same time. I liked it. “Do you always say what’s on your mind?”

“Not always, but I’m French. You are family. I’m allowed to tease you,” he said. “Are you ready to go?”

Family. Right.

“Where are we going?”

“I was thinking of taking you to Cordes-sur-Ciel, voted one of the prettiest villages in France, and afterward taking la route des bastides, where medieval villages thrive, to show you a little history, but then I thought you’d like to be in the city.”

“Toulouse?” I asked.

“Oui, Toulouse,” he said. “Have you ever been?”

“Aside from the hospital, no,” I said.

“Toulouse it is then,” he said. “It’s only forty-five minutes away. On y va?”

“Yes, let’s go.”

“Maybe you can find some new boots,” he said, opening the door.

As we walked to the truck, I looked down at my boots again. They were ten years old and way out of style—just like the rest of my wardrobe. I needed more than shoes. I needed more than