1
CHLOE
I’d always heard the grass was greener on the other side. The moment I stepped off the bus, I knew better. No patch of grass could ever compete with blinding blue water and a face-full of sea breeze.
I shouldered my backpack, thanked the driver with a chirpy, “Merci,” and moved along the path running alongside the cozy beach. A fine sheen of sweat already clung to my skin—no surprise, the bus I just survived had no air-con. And its suspension probably dated back to the Book of Genesis.
And naturally, I’d forgotten sunblock. Redhead problems. At age thirty-two, I was basically a walking, talking freckle.
The bus growled over the cliffs of Furze-Sur-Mer and vanished. I paused, taking it all in.
A narrow, bumpy road ran beside a strip of pebbly beach. It curved into a small roundabout before climbing uphill. Where the beach met the bitumen, a jagged rocky outcrop pushed pedestrians onto a narrow boardwalk leading to a small cluster of buildings.
I turned into the breeze, sucking in a breath. The water wasa vibrant blue as far as the eye could see. Only a few super yachts on the horizon marred the sea’s endless perfection.
A group of seagulls balanced one-legged on the pebbles. They side-eyed me suspiciously, maybe sizing me up for breakfast.In the interest of world peace and peck-free ankles, I gave them a gracious smile before heading along the boardwalk.
Nothing could spoil my arrival. The beach was, without a doubt, my spiritual home.
I’d been on the move for nearly two years. First, with my friend, Iris. We had a blast together. But when she met and married Luc, her very own hot, French billionaire, I took off on my own. I’d never been good as third-wheel material. Staying in one place for too long made me antsy.
Instead, I’d lived my best single life all over the globe. I’d stopped in Italy before coming to France—my friend Esmé had a gallery opening there. But now, it was time to find a new direction. A new adventure.
I rummaged in the side pocket of my backpack for my phone, snapped a shot of the beach, for my socials, and tucked it away for later.
Letting out a sigh, I smiled. Damn, it was pretty. Admittedly, when Iris and Luc presented the idea of spending a month in a quaint little fishing village, my pulse had skipped. Turquoise water, never ending sun, and a simple job minding some beach-club owner’s child? How could I say no?
With a grin, I crumpled my bus ticket, lobbing it into a rubbish bin that sat on the kerb. A line of sweat snaked between my shoulder blades. Why on earth had I turned down Iris’s offer to fly here on their private jet? Public transport was for the delusional. I think I deserved a swim.
As I moved along the boardwalk, the little beach woke up. A couple of old men fished off the rocks at one end, and a T-shirted man opened sun loungers and umbrellas outside a white-washed shack.
When I said shack, it was more fisherman-chic with bells on—fit forVogue Living—and definitely the closest thing to a beach club in sight.
I smiled. A French beach club was different from the ones I’d worked at elsewhere.
Here there were no members-only rules. You paid an entry and from there, the lines between sand, bar, and restaurant blurred like sun on saltwater. Customers came for lunch and stayed till sunset, sipping rosé with their toes in the pebbles.
I narrowed my eyes, peering into the building’s cream-toned interior. This had to be my new boss’s club. But the only person I saw was a dark-haired woman with a perfectly coiffed bob, a scowl, and killer red lipstick. I had to give her credit. Considering it was barely nine in the morning, she looked amazing.
The man in the T-shirt bundled past me and the woman eye-rolled at him. He moved through the tables, finally taking a spot behind the coffee machine, acting like he was on death row.
Usually, that would be me. Not the death row part, of course, but I had a relentless record of working in coffee shops, bars and restaurants. Having dyslexia didn’t lend itself to high-profile corporate gigs. I left that to my siblings. But this guy had eye bags like hammocks and a look of pure resignation. I almost wanted to give him a hug.
The aroma of fresh coffee drifted to my nose, and I instinctively turned towards the entrance.
The place didn’t technically look open, but very little got between me and my caffeine addiction. As I approached, the woman hissed something to the man in French.I had no hope of understanding, but with the ice in her glare as she looked at him, my skin prickled. Maybe now wasn’t a good time to beg for a coffee before I hit the water.
As if only just noticing me, she looked up and nodded. “Bonjour.”
My mouth ran dry. It was completely unreasonable to spend time in another country without at least trying to speak their language. But she looked like she would shred my tourist-level French to pieces. Followed by the rest of me for dessert.
As I shifted from foot to foot, she narrowed her eyes. “English?” she asked, tipping her head to one side.
Was it that obvious? I nodded. “I was wondering where’s the best place to swim?”
She looked me up and down, not unkindly. More like she was appraising me—sizing me up to see if I’d be annoying. And no doubt noting every stain or threadbare patch on my old sundress.
She opened her mouth to reply, but a hiss of steam burst out of the chrome pipes of the coffee machine, cutting her off. The guy behind the controls let out a yelp, followed by a flurry of French curses.
