“What’s that?”

“Keep you tipsy?” He took a bite and groaned a little.

“Is it as amazing as it looks?”

“It is. Here, you try it.” He handed me the rest of the bite he’d prepared. “It’s one of my favourite things in the world to eat.”

I popped the bite into my mouth and savoured the combination of crusty bread and creamy cheese. He was right. It was delicious. If I did end up spending the rest of my life with James, I’d probably gain about fifty kilos.

“Anyway, sorry, I interrupted—the old vintner, keeping you tipsy.”

“Oh, right. And, yes, he did. His wine was just so drinkable.” I took another sip of my bubbles, also dangerously drinkable.

“We’d arrive at the château mid-afternoon from Paris, and by the time I went to bed that night, I’d have drunk seven or eight glasses.” His eyes widened. “And we didn’t leave until after lunch the next day, so I’d have a sneaky glass or two with lunch. I swear I’d be half-cut by the time we left for Antibes. This was just the tour managers, though. The drivers couldn’t drink before a travel day, so they never got to have any wine. I’m sure it drove them batty.”

“Pun intended,” he joked.

“Oh, pun definitely intended.” It wasn’t.

“So, how many people at the château? How many tours at once?”

“Only ever two tours with around fifty people on each.” He shook his head as though in disbelief. “It was a big place, but even so, we all shared rooms. It was crowded, but fun—well, mostly. I’m guessing you’ve never really travelled like that.”

“Oh, I think you’d be surprised.” I grinned. “I’ve not gone on a bus tour, but I certainly had some escapades backpacking around Europe—in my youth, that is.” His eyes twinkled with amusement.

Just then, my mind alighted on a memory from Greece, when James had introduced me to his friend, Armando. “Wait, were you called ‘Jimmy’ then, in your youth?” I asked, loading up the word like he had. His head cocked to the side. “It’s just that Armando called you that, and you’re old friends, right?” I took a sip of my bubbles.

“Depends what you mean by old.”

The bubbles went down the wrong way, leaving me spluttering and coughing, and James reached across to pat me on the back. How had I wandered so blindly into “age difference” territory? Yes, James was in his fifties, but I certainly didn’t consider him old.

“Are you all right?” Concern etched his face.

I cleared my throat, then nodded. “All good, thank you.” I took a deep breath and saw his concern ease. “You know, I don’t … it’s not … I don’t really care …” Good grief, Sarah. You’d never know I was an English teacher.

“Are you talking about our age difference?” he asked, saving me from another bout of verbal diarrhoea.

“Poorly, but yes. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Nor me.”