He chuckled and brought my hand up to his mouth for a quick kiss before tugging us on our way. “Actually, this is France. Though, it wasn’t always. And Paco sent our passports ahead to the port master.”

“Oh?”

“You never used to have to do that. But we have so many refugees in Mediterranean waters from the genocide in Syria. Every country is feeling the strain, so officials are checking credentials of boats. And I have a good relationship with people here.”

“You do? How come?”

“Another long story.”

“Hmm. What language do locals speak here? French?”

He guided me up a hill and into a small stair-filled alley that was only a person wide, and guided me ahead of him. “Yes. But many consider themselves Corsican, not French. They have their own customs.” His voiced floated up from behind me as I climbed. “Their own dialect in many areas. Lots of Italian influence. It’s actually closer to Italy. France stole it from the Genoese in the 1700s. And putain, it’s really hard to be going up the stairs with your ass in front of me.”

I whipped around, catching him staring at the area in question. He raised his eyes to mine guiltily, his palms up and a smirk playing around his sexy mouth.

“Well, now I can’t walk ahead of you.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No. I can’t.” I folded my arms.

He bit back a smile. “That’s a pity. I’ll just enjoy it later.” He took my hand. “Besides, we’re here. Though a bit early.” We’d stopped outside a green door. It was set into a chipped stucco wall, the paint of the door peeling to reveal ancient wood. All of a sudden it swung open and a small man came out and propped it open and laid a blackboard against the wall. Then he looked up, and his graying face morphed into a wide tobacco-stained grin. “Pasqual-ey!” he erupted.

The tiny man rushed forward, grabbing Xavier by the hand and slapping his back in a half embrace. It was returned with big smiles. “Cristo.” Xavier greeted the small man who came up to his elbow, if that.

“Venga! Venga!” the man named Cristo commanded excitedly. Xavier and I were ushered inside. Before my eyes had adjusted there was a fuss of greetings from staff in the kitchen and a few introductions made to waiters Xavier didn’t know. It was clear they were being told royalty had arrived. I hung back, letting Xavier catch up. He was responding in what sounded like rough Italian, definitely not French. And then slowly everyone kind of remembered I was there. I swallowed as one by one curious eyes turned to me. Xavier stepped back and took my hand. He held it up and said something, something, Joséphine.