Page 26 of One Last Thing
‘Huh. Now you say it, actually, I do remember you telling me you were going to open a restaurant one day.’
‘It was going to be in London,’ he reminds me, the smile widening to a grin.
‘You picked London over Paris. Weird.’
He shrugs. ‘I liked the idea of living in England for a bit.’
‘So what happened to the restaurant dream?’
‘I grew up and realised I didn’t enjoy cooking that much and I also wasn’t that good at it,’ he explains drily.
‘A couple of obstacles there, yes. Still, you ended up running a chateau that has its own vineyard, so I won’t feel too sorry for you.’
‘I wouldn’t. I’m lucky that my aunt and uncle trusted me with the business.’
‘Why wouldn’t they? You know the chateau as well as they do, you spent enough time there.’ I hesitate, before cautiously asking, ‘How’s your mum?’
His eyebrows knit together. ‘We don’t speak. The odd birthday and Christmas message, but that’s it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, heart sinking.
Nico’s father left when he was young and, although my parents were always vague on the details, I know his mum struggled with addictions and didn’t have many stable relationships. Nico wouldn’t talk about her often during our summers together, but I got the impression that he had to become fairly independent fast and take on too many responsibilities far too young. He never seemed angry at his mum when he mentioned her, though. He was more sad than anything. But summers at the chateau with his aunt and uncle offered an escape, a chance for him to be a kid like everyone else.
I’m glad he found his way back there again.
‘It’s okay.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s the right decision. I tried to help, but she has to help herself. She knows that I’m always here for her when she’s ready.’
I nod, silently admiring his resilience and capacity for forgiveness.
‘I’m very happy to call this my home,’ he says, brightening as he gestures at our surroundings. ‘It took me a while to figure out this is where I’m meant to be. I thought my career would be in publishing at first, but the chateau pulled me back.’
I glance at him in surprise as we stroll near the beach. ‘You worked in publishing?’
‘Yes. I was an assistant to an editor and thought I would be an editor myself, but it wasn’t meant to be.’ He notes my expression. ‘Why do you look so shocked?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say earnestly. ‘I didn’t know you were big on books.’
‘And what about you, Megan? Did you get your dream?’
‘You’ll have to remind me of it.’
‘To write.’
Something in my heart tugs.
‘I think you’re confusing me with my mum,’ I say with a nervous laugh.
‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I always thought you’d do that.’
I stop to face him, bringing him to a halt, too. ‘Why?’
‘You were always telling stories. Every day, you’d make up a new one and we’d pretend to play whatever that story was. You don’t remember?’
Yes, I remember. I can’t believe anyone else noticed.
‘Your imagination was amazing,’ he continues. ‘I wished I could think like you.’
‘But yours was too busy making up recipes for your London bistro,’ I quip, keen to steer the conversation in a different direction as heat flushes up my neck and through my cheeks.
