Page 8 of Finally Forever
Sebastian:If you want me to take you, I can.
Me:You’re working.
Not that he has to. He does it because he likes to keep busy. I admire that about him.
Sebastian:I can leave.
Is it me or is his paranoia getting worse? The last time this happened, his father was in Sicily meeting with his grandfather, and the feds were keeping a close watch on the family.
Me:Is everything okay? Has Agent Clark reached out to you or Xavier?
She does when she gets urgent intel on the Gianni family, but things have been calm for so long now.
Sebastian:Nope, just making sure you’re safe.
I let out the breath trapped in my lungs, but my muscles aren’t as easy to relax. We don’t keep secrets from each other. You can’t in this lifestyle. But I wonder if he is regarding the frequency of his migraines and the pain being worse.
Sebastian will always put my safety first. He will protect me with his life, even if it means ending his. I’d rather we conquer threats or danger together, and I worry there is a part of him that will abandon me if it means keeping me safe. I couldn’t live with that. I already lost him once. I can’t do it again.
4
Ainsley
Xavier drives the Mercedes SUV through winding roads until we reach the highway that leads to Aix-en-Provence. The small town reminds me of a village out ofBeauty and the Beast, or any fairytale, really. It’s either as old as the Roman Empire or the Romans founded it. I can’t remember that fact and need to double check it, because I should know, given my minor is architecture history.
“You know the drill,” Xavier says, like he always does.
“Yep.”
The drill being: he follows behind me while I pretend I’m alone. He watches from outside the café where I’ve met these classmates before when working on a project. Then he follows me to the car. Acknowledging him, even if only to make friendly conversation, is not allowed because it would blow his cover as our secret bodyguard, and then we’d have to hire a new one.
We pull into the parking garage to Aix and find a spot near the elevators. I go first, my bag hooked on my shoulder, and Xavier joins me as we pretend not to know each other.
The elevator doors ding and open on the top floor to a mini outdoor mall, not that different from ones we have in Florida. The modern buildings and glass elevators feel out of place among the historic town that lies a few blocks ahead.
I window shop as I pass by stores like Sephora and H&M. The afternoon sun shines brightly, offering warmth against the cool spring breeze. I don’t look behind me, but I know Xavier isn’t far behind.
A short jaunt farther, and I arrive at my favorite part of town—the historic section. Buildings made of an ochre-colored stone surround a tree-lined courtyard with splashing fountains. There are so many, the village is referred to as the City of a Thousand Fountains. No taller than three stories, the ancient houses, boutiques, and cafés form a hedge of buildings that twist and turn like a labyrinth around narrow roads not designed for vehicles.
The first time I visited Aix, I got lost in the winding streets that were constructed long, long ago. Cezanne spent his teenage years here, tramping through these same paths and painting landscapes.
The smell of pickled meats, cheeses, and fruits infuses the air, with Indian spices being the strongest scent of all. The overpowering odor nearly knocked me out on my first visit when I walked by one of the stands and, by mistake, inhaled a deep breath.
Now, oddly, it’s starting to smell like home. I love it here. Love the history, the storybook appeal, the people, and the way they greet you. Americans seem rude in comparison, not bothering to make eye contact when you enter a place of business, let alone sayhi. And the businesses in the US where the staff do greet you often have robotic tones because the gesture is mandatory, not out of friendliness.
“Welcome in,”the staff would say when Harper and I walked into certain Winter Park boutiques. Their tone held no warmth, and they only became interested in us when they spotted the dollar signs dripping from Harper in the form of designer jewelry, bags, and shoes. At that point, the store employees hustled over, eager to make a commission.
It’s not like that in France, not in my experience. In high school and college, I heard people talk about their travels to Europe and how the French hate Americans, believing we’re rude. My theory is that some Americans are impolite, and the French respond in kind.
I pass café workers sweeping around outdoor tables, preparing their small businesses for the lunch crowd. Restaurants don’t open for food until twelve o’clock. You can get a drink before that time, but a menu isn’t available until noon every day. If you’re hungry, you wait—or you drink coffee.
“Bonjour,” says a man with the broom, his smile deepening the wrinkles on his face.
“Bonjour,” I reply with a grin.
I turn left and follow one of many narrow roads, cutting a path through more boutiques and cafes. If I had to guess, I’d say there are well over one hundred companies selling clothes, food, wine, lotion, and shoes, so many shoe stores. My favorite lotion store sits between a wedding dress boutique and a chocolate store.
The road slopes upward the closer I get to it. Sugar, butter, and cocoa waft through the open door. My mouth waters. I almost stop to buy desserts for Sebastian and myself but decide to wait until after I meet with the class, so the pastries are fresh.
