When we broke apart, I realised I had a fistful of his shirt and I quickly smoothed out his shirtfront. “Sorry about that,” I said.

He touched his forehead to mine. “Sarah, don’t ever feel you need to apologise for kissing me like that.”

I smiled.

“So,” he said, lightening the mood with a single word, “I hope you’re hungry. We have a delectable assortment of fine foods for our picnic dinner.” He opened the basket and with a flourish worthy of Nigella Lawson, began to decant its contents onto the blanket. I giggled in response and he winked at me.

He took out an array of cured meats, two cheeses—one soft and oozing and a blue—a bowl of plump, glossy olives stuffed with blanched almonds, crispy flatbread, quince paste, pâté, and a mini baguette. Oh, and a bottle of gamay from Beaujolais.

“That’s quite the spread,” I said, genuinely impressed. “I’m guessing we have a few countries represented here.”

“We do.” He pointed to the meat, “Tuscany—wild boar and prosciutto,” then to the cheeses, “France—Meaux and the Pyrenees,” then to the olives, “Spain.” I popped an olive in my mouth. God, I love olives.

“Good?” I nodded enthusiastically and popped another one in my mouth. James would have to move fast if he was going to get any.

From the basket, James produced two plates, two napkins, and cutlery, including cheese knives and a pâté knife. And there I was, already helping myself to a slice of prosciutto with my fingers. Oops. You can’t take me anywhere.

James either ignored them or didn’t care about my bad manners. “Are you happy with the champagne? We could switch to red.”

I held up my flute. “This is perfect for now, but I’m keen on the red for later. I love a wine from Beaujolais.”

“Oh, you do?” There was obvious interest in his eyes. You’re not the only one who can be surprising, I thought.

“I’ve been places and seen things, you know. I’m a proper, experienced world traveller.”

He laughed, “I have no doubt. So, tell me, how did you come to love a wine from Beaujolais?”

“Well, I told you how I used to run tours in Europe.” He nodded. “One of our overnight stays was at a château right in the heart of the Beaujolais region. It even had its own vines and there was this ancient vintner who lived in a cottage on the property. For anyone interested, he’d conduct these little tours of the winery. He had very limited English, but he could get his meaning across with a few words and gestures, that sort of thing.

“And, he especially loved the ladies. I’m pretty sure it was his intention to keep us tipsy the whole time we were there. He’d greet the coaches with carafes of his latest vintage, straight from the barrel and, before my feet hit the ground, he’d hand me a globe-shaped wine glass filled to the brim.”

James grinned at me while he cut off a generous piece of the gooey cheese and slathered it onto a hunk of bread. “And did he?”