Their old café had been cheerful and comfortable, inviting one to relax over a cup of coffee and a generous slice of coffee cake.
They didn’t even serve coffee cake at this new location.
No, this new location was all about new. New look, new menus, inventive new foods—with a French twist.
And Lauren understood, she did.
Lisa had fallen in love with a Frenchman and had embraced his culture. There was nothing wrong with being chic . . . or having an elegant café. It just wasn’t Lauren.
She was a country girl, fond of flea markets, thrift stores, vintage anything, and shabby chic.
Once upon a time Lisa had been the same. But that was back before she fell in love with a Frenchman from Bordeaux who happened to have grown up in a five-hundred-year-old château. (Although, apparently, growing up in a château wasn’t such a big deal in France, as Bordeaux was full of them.)
And honestly, it didn’t matter if Lisa loved the glamorous background or not. Because she could have fallen in love with him for his charming French accent.
Or possibly his style. He had his own unique style, and he wore his dark brown hair long, as if he were an international soccer star.
And he had brown eyes—warm, smiling eyes—and a masculine chin beneath a strong, Gallic nose.
So no, Lisa hadn’t fallen in love with Matthieu Roussel for his money. But good God, it helped.
“Lisa said you’d be here.” Matthieu’s deep voice suddenly sounded in the shadowy hall, startling Lauren.
She jumped, turned, slamming her elbow on the counter. “When did you arrive?” she demanded, rubbing her elbow and glaring at him as he emerged from the dark hall into the kitchen.
“Just now.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“I will bang on the door with a hammer next time,” he answered, his brown eyes warm, smiling at her.
Lauren refused to be charmed in any size, shape, or form by Lisa’s attractive and charming husband. “That would be nice. What brings you here so early?”
“I’ve been sent here on a mission.” He extended a hand, a big stainless-steel thermos in his hand. “Your sister said you’d be here and that you’d need coffee. Vite.”
He’d come bearing gifts. Coffee, specifically. Okay, maybe Lauren would allow herself to be just a little bit charmed. “Thank you.”
He smiled benevolently. “Or should I say ‘schnell’? Since I believe you studied German in school.”
She wasn’t going to laugh. She hadn’t had coffee and she was in this kitchen she detested. “Or you could just say ‘fast,’ Matthieu, since we are in America and I speak English.”
“I didn’t think of that.”
She rolled her eyes at him, and yet it was all an act. It was impossible to dislike Matthieu.
Gratefully, she unscrewed the top of the thermos and watched the steam escape from it. Lauren inhaled deeply, greedily, letting the aroma fill her nose. She took a cautious sip. The coffee was hot and strong and perfect. “Really good.”
“Not too strong?”
“No. It’s heaven.” She took another sip, grateful for small blessings. “Tell Lisa she hasn’t lost her touch.”
He leaned against the counter. “I made it.”
“You did?”
“Ever since Lisa became pregnant, she can’t stomach the smell of coffee.”
“So she didn’t wake up and make me coffee?”
“No. She woke me up and told me to make you coffee.”
Lauren laughed and shook her head.
Matthieu might be a gorgeous, wealthy Frenchman born in a five-hundred-year-old château, but she couldn’t hold that against him forever. Not when he was truly nice. And so devoted to his wife.
“So what do we do first?” Matthieu asked her, going to the sink to wash his hands.
Lauren swallowed her coffee and looked at him vigorously soaping up his hands as if he was about to perform surgery or deliver a baby. “You’re . . . helping . . . me?”
“Oui.” He flashed her a smile. “I am here to assist you.”
“So you can cook now?”
“Not cook. But I can chop and mix and stir and watch things in the oven to make sure they don’t burn.”
“Since when?”
“Since you were gone.” He saw her baffled look and added with an apologetic shrug, “Lisa was lonely when you left.”
Lisa was lonely. Lonely. Good God, Lauren had never really thought about that, had she?
“So I’d come in and help her,” he added with another half smile. “And I warn you, I’m not a cook, not even close, but I’ve learned how to be good company.”
Lauren stared at him for an endless moment before going to him and giving him a fierce hug. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for being there for her.”