Page 24 of Touch the Sky
In that moment, I know what the catch is.
I know why the house at La Grange Rouge is too good to be true.
Jacinthe is wearing a sharp navy blazer over a crisp white button-up. Her jeans look brand new, the pristine, dark blue denim clinging to her thighs. Her bob is gelled back behind her ears, bringing her features into stark focus: the severe jaw softened by the impossibly cute button nose, the dark lines of her eyebrows, the round cheeks flushed with what I can only assume is a mixture of nerves, excitement, and pride.
And those eyes.
Those deep brown eyes skip right over her mother to land on me.
I swallow, my hands flexing in my pockets.
The catch is her.
The catch is that Jacinthe Gauthier is, in fact, incredibly hot.
Chapter 7
Jacinthe
So many people surge into the inn once the ribbon is cut that it’s at least twenty minutes before I catch sight ofMamanagain.
I shake more hands than I can count, doing my best to smile and act friendly even as my attention keeps drifting over to the front door while I stand in the lounge.
I swear I saw Tess out there with her.
I guess it’d make sense, considering the whole freaking town is piling into the building. What I don’t know is why the thought of Tess watching one of the biggest moments of my life is making shocks of electricity crackle up and down my arms.
I’m in the middle of accepting congratulations from the manager of Café Cloche whenMamanfinally joins the stream of people coming through the door.
My breath catches when I get a look at her face.
She’s wincing with every step.
“Excusez-moi,” I say to the manager. “I have to go talk to my mom.”
I rush over and guide her to an empty corner of the lounge next to one of the windows.
“Maman, you’re hurting.”
She waves me off. “I’m fine,ma belle.”
“No, you’re not. It’s a bad day, isn’t it? You said you’d tell me if it was. Did you drive here?”
She shakes her head, grinning as her gaze drifts to something over my shoulder.
“No, I bummed a ride with Miss Tess.”
I whirl around, and there she is.
Again.
This woman keeps on popping up out of nowhere.
She’s got a worn pair of jeans on under a long-sleeve t-shirt that clings to her muscles. There’s a smudge of dirt on her forehead that somehow just makes her look extra rugged and tough instead of dorky.
I ignore all of that and ask, “You drove her?”
“Um, yeah.” She’s got her hands in her pockets, and she shifts her weight between her feet like she’s nervous. “It just seemed like?—”
