Beyond Ordinary Love_A Journey's End Billionaire Romance Page 2

  “Baptiste! You have over a thousand dollars’ worth of potluck items here! Why not just go to the bakery and get some cookies?”

  “I did that, too.” He pointed to a pink box in the back of the trunk. “I wasn’t sure if all the children would like the apples, so I got a few macarons.”

  “A few?” she cried, eyeballing the box. “How many?”

  “I don’t know. I just bought all they had.”

  She smacked her forehead and burst into bright laughter at his expense. If the sight hadn’t been so enthralling, he might have taken a moment to have his feelings hurt.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  He grinned, beginning to feel sheepish. “Too much?”

  “Ah, yeah, you could say that. By a factor of about a thousand.”

  “Your criticisms don’t bother me in the slightest. I’m very glad to be included, and I want to make a good impression on all these kind people.”

  “Honey, you’re going to make an impression, all right. I predict that several people will be asking you for loans before the day is over. You need to work on blending in with the humble folk a bit more.”

  “Noted,” he said. “Now if you’re finished taking me to the garage—”

  “Woodshed.”

  “—perhaps you could find me a wagon or something so we can carry the apples.”

  They laughed together. He was just leaning closer to steal another kiss under cover of the open trunk when footsteps crunched on the gravel to their left and they started, looking around.

  It was her former fiancé, whom he’d met yesterday, Baptiste saw. His chest tightened with his new friend Jealousy, ridiculous as it was to be jealous of a gay man who’d already broken his engagement to Samira. Terrance Shields was the man’s name. He had another man with him—boyfriend, perhaps? —and both carried giant bottles of soda.

  Baptiste hastily backed up a step from Samira, mindful of her desire to keep their relationship quiet. She was the PR manager at Harper Rose Winery, the local outfit that was merging with his winery back in Bordeaux to form Château Harper Rose, so they’d have to work closely together for the near future, and she didn’t want to jeopardize her career with office gossip. Left to his own devices, though, he’d have put his arm around her waist.

  “Hey!” Samira’s smile seemed a bit forced, although whether it was from awkwardness at being discovered with Baptiste or lingering possessiveness over the man she’d almost married, Baptiste couldn’t tell. “Terrance. How are you?”

  “I’m great, beautiful.” Terrance gave her a kiss on the cheek that triggered a twinge in Baptiste’s gut. “Good to see you. And thank you for not running in the other direction.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We mended all our fences yesterday,” she said airily, leaning past Terrance so she could shake the other guy’s hand. “Hi, Jeremy. Great to see you again. Did you bring an appetite?”

  Baptiste watched her closely. Seeing only warmth in her expression as she talked to the man who had, quite possibly, replaced her as the romantic interest in Terrance’s life, he began to feel some of his tension ease away. Began to breathe again.

  Unless she was the world’s best actress (and the more time he spent with her, the more he appreciated how genuine she was, if nothing else), then she was over her feelings for Terrance, as she’d said.

  Baptiste felt a tremendous surge of satisfaction.

  “I brought enough appetite for two to three people,” Jeremy said, turning to Baptiste as they all laughed. “Jeremy Phelps. How are you?”

  Baptiste smiled and shook his hand. “Jean-Baptiste Mercier. Pleasure.”

  There was an awkward pause while Baptiste and Terrance considered each other. Terrance had a speculative glint in his eye that didn’t bother Baptiste (best for the man to understand that there was someone new in Samira’s life, lest there be any misunderstandings), but, judging from the way Samira fidgeted with her hair, she wasn’t quite ready for the old man in her life to confront the new one.

  “Terrance, you remember Baptiste,” she finally said.

  “I do,” Terrance said, his lips thinning out. “Did you say you were coworkers now?”

  “I did.” Samira did an admirable job holding on to her smile of angelic innocence, although her word rate increased by a good fifty percent. “I said Baptiste is now a co-owner of Harper Rose Winery, yes. It’s going to be renamed Château Harper Rose. We’re all very excited about the merger. Lots of changes in the air—”

  “Oh, so that explains it.” Terrance stared at Baptiste, his expression indecipherable. “Coworkers often ride together to social events.”

  “Baptiste passed me when I was on the riverwalk and offered a ride.” Samira kept her smile glued firmly in place. “He was just showing me the caramel apples he brought.”

  “Ah,” Terrance said. “How are you liking Journey’s End so far, Baptiste?”

  Baptiste looked over at the crowded park, which was alive with excited families and delicious savory smells that made his belly rumble. He noted the huge white gazebo and river view beyond. He thought about the bike trails, kayak landing and dog park. The lovely main street with its quirky little shops. The exquisite and endlessly fascinating woman beside him, whose face he didn’t dare look at now.

  “Journey’s End is a hidden treasure,” he told Terrance, acutely aware of Samira’s sudden stillness. “Every day I find more and more to recommend it.”

  Terrance’s interest sharpened. “So you’ll be staying for a while?”

  Baptiste thought about his apartment in Paris, which was full of the finest furniture money could buy and empty of any heart or soul. Then he thought about the family estate in Bordeaux, which was full of memories—90 percent of them bad.

  “My situation is fluid,” he said. “Many factors are out of my control, but if I had my way? I’d want to learn much more about what Journey’s End has to offer.”

  He risked a glance at Samira to discover her watching him. Much as he wanted a closer look, he forced himself to turn away before he lost any further control of what he said or did tonight. On his current trajectory? He’d wrench the microphone away from the DJ currently playing pop tunes and declare his eternal love for her in front of everyone in town.

  “Interesting.” Terrance’s jaw tightened. “Well, can we help you with your caramel apples? Looks like you need a hand.”

  “Yes, thanks,” Baptiste said.

  Everyone grabbed something. They dodged chattering children as they walked across the lawn, passing a petting zoo and jack o’lantern decorating table. At the gazebo, they added their items to the overloaded food tables.

  “Should we check out the volleyball?” Terrance asked Jeremy.

  “Sure.”

  “Great to see you both.” Terrance kissed Samira again, lobbed a final hard glance at Baptiste and set off.

  “Take care,” Jeremy said, following him.

  “Bye,” Samira said just as a black and white ball bounced across the floor and came to a stop when it hit Baptiste in the shin.

  “Hey!” He stooped to catch it, then straightened and glowered as two boys of about eight raced up. The twins from the local coffeehouse, Java Nectar, this morning, he saw. “Who is attacking me with this football?”

  The boys looked at each other. Giggled.

  “We didn’t attack you,” said the first one, who had a giant spiderweb and black widow painted across his face beneath his glasses. He wore a Starship Federation uniform with a gold tunic along with a sandy brown wig that sat crookedly on his head. “It was an accident.”

  “Is it because I’m a foreigner?” Baptiste continued loudly, holding the ball up, well out of their reach. “You don’t like my accent? I’m not welcome here?”

  More giggles, including one from Samira, who came to stand beside him.

  “You do kind of talk funny,” said the second twin.

  “I knew it!” cried Baptiste.


  “But we wouldn’t attack you because you’re foreign,” continued the second twin. This one’s Starship Federation tunic was blue, and he wore a severe black wig with bangs and had pointy tips glued to his ears. His face, meanwhile, was painted like a tiger’s. “We like foreigners! Everyone’s welcome here.”

  “Don’t you remember us?” The first twin edged forward. “I’m Noah. He’s Jonah. We brought you napkins and silverware at Java Nectar.”

  “Wait one minute.” Baptiste lowered the ball and leaned down to study them more closely. Then he snapped his fingers. “I know you two! You’re the children who brought me napkins and silverware at Java Nectar!”

  “Yeah,” Noah said, beaming. “And you left us five dollars each for a tip!”

  “Well, why didn’t you say it was you?” Baptiste shook each of their hands. “Jean-Baptiste Mercier. Pleasure. How am I to recognize you when you’re so cleverly disguised as a spider and a tiger?”

  The boys exchanged a look.

  “We’re Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock,” Jonah said delicately. “See our uniforms?”

  “Now you lie to me? Straight to my face? Is it because I’m French and you don’t like French fries or French toast?”

  More giggling from the boys.

  “I thought you sounded Russian,” said Jonah.

  Noah scowled around at him and thumped him in the belly with the back of his hand. “How would you know what Russian sounds like, dummy?”

  Baptiste smothered a laugh and worked on looking severe.

  “We’re Spock and Kirk,” Noah said with infinite patience. “We just happened to get our faces painted.”

  Baptiste frowned thoughtfully. “Would Spock do that, though? Or would he consider it illogical?”

  “Dude,” Jonah said. “We’re just kids trying to enjoy Halloween.”

  “Fair enough,” Baptiste said, grinning. “But I don’t think I talk funny. My English is perfectly good. ’appy ’alloween. There. You see?”

  The kids doubled up with laughter.

  “Dude!” Noah cried. “You aren’t even saying the aitches!”

  “The who?” Baptiste deadpanned.

  “Say HAH-pee HAL-oween,” Jonah said.

  “’Appy ’Alloween,” Baptiste said.

  The boys howled.

  “Now let’s hear your French. Say croissant,” Baptiste said, rolling the hell out of his R.

  “Croissant,” said the boys.

  “Croissant,” Baptiste said.

  “Croissant.”

  This continued for several rounds, until the laughter finally died out.

  “Would you like your football back?” Baptiste asked.

  Yet more giggling.

  “Why do you keep calling it a football?” Noah asked. “It’s a soccer ball.”

  “No, no, no,” said Baptiste.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” said both of the twins. “Don’t you know anything about soccer in France?”

  In response, Baptiste juggled the ball several times with his feet, then caught it between his knees.

  “No freaking way! How did you do that?”

  The twins laughed and whooped, giving him high fives.

  “Wish you were our soccer coach,” Noah said glumly. “Our coach sucks. He’s some kid’s dad, and we think he only knows about soccer from watching online videos. Maybe you can play a game with us sometime?”

  “I would love to,” Baptiste said, unaccountably touched.

  “Oh, but you probably can’t with those shoes,” Jonah said, pointing to the offending footwear. “Do those hurt your feet?”

  Baptiste had to laugh. “You sound like my friend Daniel Harper. He doesn’t like any of my shoes.”

  “Daniel? He’s our uncle now that our mom married his brother!” said Noah.

  “I’m sure he’s very pleased to have such cool nephews,” Baptiste said, feeling an odd pang in his chest.

  “Hang on.” Jonah pointed to the dessert table, all but levitating with excitement. “Are those Rice Krispie Treats? With M&Ms in them?”

  “They are.” Samira smiled indulgently. “I made those. Do you like them?”

  “Like them? Are you crazy? Can we have one?” Jonah asked.

  “I’m not sure, guys,” Samira said. “Are you allergic to anything?”

  “No!”

  “They haven’t served dinner yet. I don’t want to get in trouble with your mom,” Samira said.

  “Our mom will never know! She’s on her honeymoon! We’re not gonna tell her!” said Noah.

  “I don’t know,” Samira said. “Baptiste?”

  Baptiste tipped his head thoughtfully. “I think it should be okay. This one time. As long as you don’t go bragging to your friends about it.”

  “Okay,” said Jonah a little glumly, his expression falling. “Thanks.”

  “And you can have one of the caramel apples after dinner, if you like,” Baptiste said, pointing.

  The boys recoiled.

  “Are those nuts?” Noah asked.

  “I’ll pass,” Jonah said. “Most kids hate nuts.”

  “The ones that aren’t allergic,” Noah added.

  Baptiste stared down at the boys, aghast.

  “Wow.” Samira exchanged a look with Baptiste across the top of the twins’ heads. “Awkward.”

  Baptiste sadly shook his head, which was all he could do at that dark moment.

  Rice Krispie treats were passed around. The boys gleefully bounded off, taking their ball with them. Samira turned to Baptiste, trying not to smile.

  “Yeah, I can see why a guy like you wouldn’t want kids. What a nightmare that would be. Hoo-boy. I get chills just thinking about it.”

  Baptiste grinned. “It’s easy with those children. They are already trained. My children would probably be a nightmare. Like me.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Don’t try to sidetrack me. Are your parents here?”

  “Yes,” she said, heaving a dramatic sigh. “You sure you want to do this?”

  “Positive.”

  “Let’s go.”

  2

  Samira led Baptiste past the petting zoo, where several llamas and goats received their youthful admirers, toward the dog park.

  “What would you do if I held your hand right now?” he murmured, nodding at random people they passed along the way.

  “Groin-strike you.”

  He chuckled. “You probably would. Very shortsighted of you. We’re going to need my queue again quite soon. You’d be sad if you damaged it.”

  “Maybe,” she said, studiously avoiding his gaze, “but is that a risk you’re willing to take?”

  He shrugged, not bothering to stifle his grin as he looked at her. “The thing you fail to realize is that there is more to body language than touching. What about the way we look at each other?”

  “Ignoring you,” she sang, her eyes firmly fixed on the grass ahead. “I just plan on ignoring you.”

  He was still laughing when she opened the gate and led him into the fenced-in dog park area, where dogs of all shapes and sizes were barking and zooming around, chasing each other. One dog in particular, a Jack Russell terrier wearing a taco costume with a shell on each side and colorful toppings running down his back, seemed to be causing a commotion down at the far end by the pond, where he kept intercepting the tossed Frisbee meant for a beleaguered golden retriever.

  “Hey, Mom and Dad,” Samira said, stopping when she got to a couple unleashing their pair of tan and white greyhounds.

  Samira’s parents’ faces split into smiles of unmitigated delight.

  “Sami!” cried the woman, clapping her hands before pulling Samira into a ferocious hug. “You made it!”

  Short and stout, white-haired and brown-skinned, the couple wore long Bermuda shorts, sandals and glasses and seemed older than he’d expected. But of course, Samira had been adopted, so perhaps they’d been trying for children long before they had her. They had a sprightly and good-natured quality a
bout them that reminded him of Father and Mrs. Christmas.

  “I made it,” Samira said, laughing and extracting herself with great difficulty before turning to her father for a hug. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Well, well, well,” said her father, who had a voice so deep and gravelly he might have been Louis Armstrong’s brother. “Look who the wind blew in.”

  The dogs had started to run off, but doubled back when they realized that Samira was there.

  “Hey, guys,” she said happily, bending to scratch ears and rub bellies. “Who’s a good boy, huh? Who’s a good boy?”

  The dogs turned their attention to Baptiste, sniffing him thoroughly and then, when he evidently passed their inspection, leaning against him like a pair of overgrown cats, one in back and one in front. They were surprisingly heavy and strong. Sandwiched, Baptiste took the quick opportunity to scratch their velvety heads and ears and fondly remember his childhood dog, a sleek white Afghan hound named Blanca.

  A sharp ache of nostalgia hit him.

  Dog.

  He wanted a dog. Another unfortunate symptom of his creeping insanity.

  Samira’s mother, still beaming with her maternal glow, looked around at him. He stood a little taller, fighting a sudden and unprecedented case of nerves.

  “And who is this handsome young fellow?” Samira’s mother said, fluffing her short hair and straightening the orange and black kerchief at her neck as she smiled at him.

  Evidently, Baptiste wasn’t the only one with an attack of anxiety.

  Samira straightened, smoothed her hair and flapped a hand at Baptiste in a gesture that was far too offhand for anyone who had even a remote acquaintance with her.

  “Mom, Dad, this is my, ah, colleague from work, Jean-Baptiste Mercier. Baptiste, these are my parents, Joe and Rhoda Palmer.”

  “Jean-Baptiste,” Rhoda said, her brow furrowed as she reached for Baptiste’s hand. “Is that French? It sounds French.”

  “Of course it’s French,” said Joe, now taking Baptiste’s hand in a bone-snapping grip and pumping it several times. “Doesn’t sound Chinese, does it? Nice to meet you, Baptist. Whereabouts are you from?”

  “A little town in Bordeaux in the southwest of France,” Baptiste said, utterly charmed by these two and their open enthusiasm. “And my English isn’t very good, clearly”—he shot a glance at Samira, who already looked a little green and seemed to have some idea where he was going, because she widened her eyes at him and gave her head a tiny but desperate shake— “but I’m not sure that colleague is the correct word, is it, Samira?”