Page 39 of Second Chance Vacation

Savannah reiterates the same explanation that Wes provided me a bit ago, “We’re going to be heading to Cannes today, and we’ll be back sometime tomorrow.” Much to my surprise, Gen doesn’t react. She just nods as if Savannah told her that we are having spaghetti for dinner or that Wes got a new shirt. The cavalier nature she is sporting leaves me wondering why the sudden shift.

Is it because of yesterday?

“Sounds good.” Gen grabs a grape from the fruit bowl in front of her. It is then that I realize I have been so acutely fixed on her movements. “What do you want to do?” She shifts her attention to me.

My brows shoot up, my face matching the confused expression on both Wes's and Savannah’s faces.

“I uh—I can cook tonight. I’ll run into town to get some stuff…if that’s cool with you?”

“I can come with you.” Gen spins on her heels, grabbing coffee from the pot. The three of us are still fixed on her changed demeanor. She has spent most of the trip thus far dead set on keeping me the hell away from her, so her shift toward willingly being around me doesn’t go unnoticed.

“To the market?” I say as I raise my brows.

“Yeah…I mean, if that’s okay.”

“Oh…uh, yeah, of course.” The look on Wes’s face doesn’t go unnoticed, but I refuse to acknowledge it.

American farmers’ markets have nothing on French ones. Unfortunately, I don’t quite anticipate how busy the market would be. I spend most of my time trying to navigate Gen through the crowd so as not to run into people, so we don’t get the opportunity to talk much. We leave to pick up ingredients without a game plan in place and come back to the house with so many brown paper bags I’m not sure of what we even have in them. Gen runs upstairs the moment we get back, leaving me to unpack the groceries on my own. Sifting through the ingredients we came back with, I opt to prepare a classic French dish I have made a few times back home, Coq Au Vin. It seems like a safe move, as I know Gen loves chicken and mushrooms.

As I pull the Le Creuset from the oven, I finally hear footsteps on the stairs.

“Perfect timing!” I say with a grin, turning toward Gen as my breath instantly catches in my throat.

She looks breathtaking. She’s spent most of our trip in demur clothes—lots of leggings, T-shirts. When we go out, she’ll occasionally sport a sundress, but nothing compared to the sight in front of me right now.

The glow of her tanned skin pairs perfectly with the emerald green sheath of satin draped over her curves. I gnaw at my bottom lip, doing my damnedest to quell the salivating I’m doing at the image in front of me. The cowl neck of her dress dips so perfectly that I get just the slightest peak of cleavage, leaving me begging for a view.

“Hey—” she says, cutting through the silence that has fallen on us as I gawk. It shakes me out of my daze.

“Hey—” I mirror her before clearing my throat. “I hope you like Coq Au Vin. I also opened a bottle of rosé.”

“It sounds perfect.”

Grabbing the bottle off the island, I pour her a glass, passing it across to her. Our hands barely graze as she grabs it from me, making me even more hyperaware of her presence.

I press the wine to my lips as I peer over the rim of my glass, staring at her doing the same. My eyes are transfixed on her pillowy lips as she gulps the rosy liquid. A drop of wine lingers on her lip as I fight the urge to wipe it away. She licks it off her lip before pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. Whether it’s the wine or my utter lack of self-control, I adjust myself subtly behind the counter so as not to be too obvious about the effect she has on me.

“It smells delicious.” Gen inhales dramatically as I place the fixings into two dinner bowls, trying my best to evenly disperse the stew with the chicken. Handing her the bowl, she waits for me to sit next to her before having her first bite.

“Oh my God,” she moans, catching me off guard, “this is incredible.”

“Thanks.” I smirk, trying not to let her reaction go to my head…or other places.

“Where’d you learn to cook like this? I don’t remember your mom really cooking. It was mostly the housekeeper, no?”

“Yeah—Rosie. She did most of the cooking. Still does, actually—”

“Did she teach you?”

“For the most part. I mean, she introduced me to it, but when I moved into my first apartment, it kind of just gave me a stress outlet.”

That’s an understatement.

“When was that?”

“Freshman year of college.” I watch as realization seeps into Gen. She wasn’t the entire reason I had a tough time that year, but she was a factor. Leaving home left me with significantly more anxiety than expected. When I barely left my apartment that year except for class or to get drunk, cooking gave me a healthy outlet that I desperately needed at the time.

“—Oh.” She fixes her gaze on mine. I can see her shuffling through the words in her brain. “Freshman year is really hard.”

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