Julien’s face twists with something close to fury. He falls forward to bracket my head with his arms, my breasts pressing into his chest that’s slick with sweat as he takes my mouth prisoner. His thrusts gets faster and faster as his tongue dominates mine. I feel his whole body stiffen, and then he’s moaning with the force of his release. His lips trail their way along my jaw and down my throat, murmuring my name.
I could listen to him breathe that sound forever.
Twenty-One
Julien
MATURE: A well developed wine that has reached the full potential of its flavour
“Je t’aime,Maman. See you in three weeks.”
I wave at my mother’s image on the screen. She’s stretched out on a lawn chair with her usual bowl of cherries in hand.
She looks more like her old self than she has since the funeral, but I know the lines in her face are always going to be deeper. She’s in the process of convincingGrand-pèreto move out to the winery, and it isn’t going well. I know the thought of him wandering the halls of thechateauby himself haunts her days, and her days are busy enough.
She dove headfirst into her work at the winery after allGrand-mère’s affairs got sorted out. She may still be a ‘French princess,’ as Monroe once called her, but she’s becoming more of a farm woman by the day. I know it’s a transformation she’s making for her own sake. We’re both done living someone else’s life.
We’re also both so busy the earliest she could book a trip to Canada is at the very end of the summer. I’m the last person in the world who could ever begrudge her delaying a visit, but I wish she were coming sooner.
There’s someone I want her to meet.
“We’re going to be late,” Monroe complains, coming out of the bathroom with her dress unzipped and her head tilted to the side as she tries to put in one of her earrings.
I toss my phone aside and get up off the couch, moving to zip up her dress without being asked. Truthfully, I’d much rather be pulling it off. She looks beautiful tonight, with her hair curled into some sort of vintage style and her curves sheathed by a royal blue dress.
“They’remyemployees,” I point out. “I’m the one who should be worried about being late.”
She shoos me off so she can go find her other earring.
“I want to make a good impression too!” she calls from the bathroom.
There are traces of her all over the condo now. She keeps a toothbrush by the sink and a stack of clothes in one of my dresser drawers. She’s helped me pick art for my walls, and she even convinced me to let her stock the fridge with a couple packs of craft beer. Some of her books clutter my side tables, and there are empty spaces on my shelves left by the titles she’s taken home with her.
“You can keep trying to trick me into readingBeowulf,” I joke, picking the Penguin Classics edition up from where she’s sneakily replaced the book I was working on with it. “It’s still not going to work.”
She joins me in the room again, all ready to go, and grimaces as I put the epic poem back down.
“I still can’t believe you went to Cambridge and you’ve never readBeowulf. I’m ashamed to be dating you.”
I’ve actually been meaning to read it for a while, but she’s so cute when she scowls.
“Shall we?” I offer her my arm and lead her to the door. She grabs the flowers on the way out, and I grab the wine. We lavish our goodbyes on Madame Bovary like the good human servants we are and leave her working her way through a handful of morbidly expensive organic dog treats.
The ride I ordered is waiting for us out on the curb, and I whisper the words I know Monroe’s been waiting for just as she’s getting in. “You lookravissanttonight.”
She shivers.
The address is out in Villeray. We pull up in front of a little red brick house with white trim and a thirsty looking front lawn scattered with children’s toys. We haven’t even made it all the way up the front steps when the door flies open and Bento steps out.
I’ve never seen him without his Frango Tango uniform. He’s wearing jeans and a polo shirt, stubble shading his usually clean-shaven face, and he’s beaming at us like we’re long lost friends.
“Boss!” he calls out, stepping forward to shake my hand. “You are so very welcome, and,linda dama, you are even more welcome than him.”
He presses Monroe’s hand as she laughs at the Portuguese compliment. I’ve never seen him this at ease before, never gotten a look at what he keeps under the mask of professionalism I seem to make all my staff feel they need to wear. I’ve known him for years. He was one of the first employees I ever hired, and I hardly recognize him as he shows us around his home and introduces his family.
What I do recognize is the look in his eyes as we settle down for dinner. I see pride there—pride for all he’s managed to build and provide—but I also see gratitude, and it’s directed at me.
I’ve been doing my best to spend more time getting to know my staff. Monroe has shown me that a team works better when they’re just that: a team. You can’t be strangers with your teammates.
