The urge to still his hand with mine beneath the table, or press my foot against his in the sand, to offer him some kind of comfort, was overwhelming.

I picked up my glass and took a long sip of ice-cold Shirley Temple. As I did so, I stealthily slid my paper coaster toward his place setting, earning a small surprised puff of air and acceptance as he casually picked it up and got to work.

Xavier drank sparkling water and didn’t touch a drop of the wine his father poured for him.

His father was watchful. Whenever I caught his gaze, I’d paste a quick placid smile and look away. Thank God for my sunglasses.

The whole lunch was awkward and seemed interminable. At least the spaghetti with clams Dauphine had ordered us was mind-numbingly delicious.

“Alors, where are you from, Jenny?” the elder Pascale suddenly asked me when Alfredo Morosto excused himself to go to the bathroom.

All eyes turned to me. I was down to the last few sips of my drink, and I’d reached the cherry. “Uh. I’m from America.” I didn’t bother to correct my name as I fished the cherry out of my glass. Actually, I was rather relieved he’d forgotten it.

“Yes, but where?” he pressed.

“Charleston. It’s on the east coast, in South Carolina.”

“Ahh, yes. I know of it.” His gaze shifted to his son, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You spent some time there recently, didn’t you?”

I glanced at my boss, surprised, as I bit down on the sweet and chewy cherry, rolling it around my tongue. He’d been in my city?

Xavier hadn’t taken his sunglasses off, but I felt the shadow of his gaze on my mouth as I chewed. Then he shook his head and took a sip of water. His breath hitched and made him cough. His father must really make him uncomfortable. “I was there briefly, yes,” he responded. “Visiting a yacht company.”

“Oh? Which one?” I asked.