“I want one,” Finn said.

“What, grief counseling?”

“No. A kid, smiling at me.”

She made light of it. What else could she do? “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

He studied her. Sexy. Smoldering. “Am I?”

“I have to go,” she told Finn. “I can’t . . . I have to go.”

“Why?”

“Because . . .” She forgot what she was going to say. When he looked at her, she forgot everything in the world.

“That,” he said, turning to her and giving her a lingering kiss, “is not a valid excuse. Let’s discuss it later. At my place.”

“Your place, eh?” She was intrigued.

“We’re going to have a nice dinner at my favorite bistro, and then we’ll bring a good bottle of rosé home.”

“I should get back to Bellerive. Check on Julie . . .”

“She’s fine. She has a whole houseful of people looking after her. Let me borrow your phone.”

She handed it over without thinking. He tapped in a message and hit send.

“Hey.”

“I let everyone know you’re staying in Aix tonight.” And with that, he turned off both their phones and stuck them in his pocket.

“Hey.”

“You bossed me around all afternoon in the darkroom. Now I’m in charge.” He ushered her out of the institute, and she followed, weirdly and reluctantly turned on by his attitude. He took her through the old town, where the evening was just getting under way. Aix was true to its Roman origins—Aquae Sextiae—with fountains in every square, bursting from walls or ornate stone basins, where the locals placed their wine to chill.

“There’s a saying by Cocteau,” Finn said. “‘In Aix, a blind man thinks it’s raining. If he could see with his cane, he would see a hundred blue fountains singing the glory of Cézanne.’” He shrugged. “Probably sounds better in French.”

The Cours Mirabeau was lined with plane trees and cafés with scalloped awnings. It was open to pedestrians only, with colorful booths lining both sides of the street. Kids and nannies played around a mossy fountain in the center. The sounds and smells were overwhelming—fish fresh from the ocean, bouquets of flowers, incense, food being fried up in huge iron pans over gas burners. Street musicians played for tips, and to Camille’s delight, Finn was a generous tipper. She felt utterly seduced by the joie de vivre here.

He brought her to a small square with yet another fountain, which was surrounded by café tables. The waiter served them from one of the bottles left to chill in the babbling water. They savored a slow, delicious dinner, finishing it with small cups of lemon ice. Camille felt his gaze unabashedly studying her eyes, her lips, the way she sipped from her wineglass.

“Let’s go,” he said, signaling for the check.

She was too relaxed to object. She wanted to explore this thing that was happening between them. It felt so new. Every look, every touch, even just the brush of his hand, ignited her senses. A feeling of wonder held her captive as they strolled to his house, a walk-up apartment in an elegant old converted mansion in the pedestrian quarter where the only traffic consisted of wandering tourists and the occasional scooter. Lime-washed walls and exposed beams gave the whole place a timeless air. It was like being detached from the world here, a hideaway set apart from everything else in her life.