“I would love that.” I stare at her while she’s driving. It’s the first time I’ve seen Camille behind the wheel and she looks different, but also very much the same as the day I met her. Endlessly capable of getting things done. A confidence about her that says a flat battery in a smoke detector is the least of her worries. The assured air of all the mothers I know who are not fazed by the small things in life. Except for traffic. That does seem to bother her, whereas her reaction to it amuses me greatly.

“Connard.” She lays on the horn. “Did you see how that abruti cut me off?” She turns her face to me.

I can’t help but burst out laughing. “Remember that phone call in Sydney when I was stuck in traffic?”

“I’ll never forget.” From the look on her face, she seems to have forgotten about the connard—another word to add to my expanding French swear word vocabulary—who cut her off.

“Maybe you should think about that while you drive,” I suggest.

“Thoughts are no longer enough now that you’re here.” She puts a hand on my knee. “Which is why I want to get us home as quickly as possible.”

I nod my understanding, relishing the simple touch of her hand on my knee.

Chapter Nineteen

I whistle through my teeth when Camille pulls up to the driveway of her house.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she says. “This is a politician’s house, not a civil servant’s.”

“I was thinking no such thing.” I stare at the limestone facade, the ornate front door, and the sheer size of the place.

“I inherited this house from my grandparents. Jean-Claude had no claims to make on it when we divorced. Now that the kids have flown the nest, it is admittedly a bit big for just me, but I love it here.”

“I can’t wait to see the inside.”

“What are we waiting for then?” She leans over, brings her cool hand to the back of my neck, and slips her tongue inside my mouth. With her other hand, she opens the car door on my side.

I smile and as soon as she draws away from me I pull her closer again, kissing her.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, this is a posh neighborhood. Two women kissing in a car will be heavily frowned upon,” Camille says with a wide smile plastered across her face.

“I’m so very, very sorry. I wouldn’t want to traumatize your neighbors and put any ideas in their head about the decent woman who lives on their street.” I suck my bottom lip into my mouth.

Camille’s face goes serious. “Inside. Now,” she says, her tone all intention and gravitas. She leads by example and gets out of the car, fetches my suitcase from the trunk and wheels it inside.