“Sound like he really likes you too, then.”

“I think so. I hope so.”

“It also sounds like you need your own car.”

I groaned, dropping my head back. “Yes. A car. An apartment. A job. Grown up things.”

“Well, here you go.” She set the resume in front of me. “Step one. Go get it.”

I took a deep breath. “You think I can?”

“I know you can.” She lifted her tea with two hands. “What’s with the insecurity? Since when have you ever lacked confidence about something?”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “Since Mom told me I wasn’t a special snowflake.”

Jillian choked on her tea. “What?”

“Don’t laugh! I know it sounds ridiculous, but Mom gave me this pep talk”—I made little air quotes—“last weekend, the day I moved out of the guest house, basically telling me that I need to quit whining, go out, and get a life for myself, because I’ve spent years getting everything handed to me and being told how pretty I am.”

Jillian shrugged. “Kinda true.”

“Thanks,” I said flatly. “Jeez, no wonder I like being around Sebastian. He’s always telling me how amazing and beautiful I am.”

“And you are.” Jillian patted my hand. “But you’re gonna have to work for what you want, too. Nothing comes free.”

Later that night and all day Sunday, I spent a good amount of time researching Abelard Vineyards, and consequently, the Fourniers. On the About the Owners page of their website, I discovered that they’d met while she was vacationing in Paris and married in Provence. There was even a wedding picture, and I gasped when I saw it.

“What a beautiful couple!” I angled my laptop toward the kitchen Sebastian so he could see. He was putting dinner together for us while I took notes on the winery. “This is her? The woman you met?”

“That’s her,” he confirmed, going back to slicing potatoes.

“Look, they got married at his family’s villa. Isn’t that romantic? A villa,” I said dreamily.

“Maybe you should start with an apartment,” he teased, throwing the potatoes onto a baking sheet.

“Hahaha. I don’t even mean to live in—just to visit a place like that would be amazing.” I clicked on the picture to make it bigger. “I’ve always wanted to go to France. Have you ever been?”

“Nope. That would require getting on an airplane.”

I looked up at him, surprised. “You don’t fly?”

He shook his head. “Never.”

“How’d you get back and forth from New York?”

“I wasn’t back and forth all that much, but when I was, I drove.” He stuck the tray in the oven and set a timer.

“Oh.” I stared at the picture for a minute, not really seeing it. I was kind of bummed about this. “Are you scared of flying? Or you just don’t like it?”

“I don’t like it. In general, all forms of transportation make me edgy. Too many possibilities for tragedy to strike. But driving a car, at least I have some control. There’s enough anxiety in my life without adding airplanes to the mix.” His movements had gotten stiff and his voice sounded a little testy, so I decided to drop it.

“Got it. OK, it says here that she got her business and master’s degrees at Michigan State and ran an event planning business in Detroit for years. And he was a professor in New York. A master’s,” I mused. “And married to a professor. I bet she wants someone better educated than me.”

“Stop it. Or you get no meat tonight.” He looked at me threateningly over one shoulder as he turned the steaks in their marinade.

I held up my hands. “That is a serious threat. Stopping.”

“Tell me what else it says.” He tossed the chunks of potatoes in some olive oil.

“OK, let’s see. Here’s some press clips about the winery.” I read the sound bites out loud, followed links to full articles, and took plenty of notes. Apparently, Lucas Fournier purchased the land from a grower who was trying to expand the red wine scene in Northern Michigan, which hadn’t taken off the way the white did. He was particularly interested in making Gamay and pinot noir, so the next thing I did was research those grapes. I also read that Lucas Fournier had opened a successful absinthe bar in Detroit, and I read an interview in which he talked about being modern without sacrificing authenticity. About being willing to take risks. About trusting your gut even when common sense tells you otherwise.

Before I knew it, an hour had passed and Sebastian was asking if I was ready to eat.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” I said, sliding off my chair at the breakfast bar. “What can I take out?” We were going to eat on the patio, at a little outdoor dining set he’d bought at an antiques store this weekend.

“It’s all ready.” He opened the door for me and I stepped out, gasping with delight when I saw the little dining nook under a tree in one corner of the patio. He’d put a light blue tablecloth on the round table, set it with candles, and strung lights in the branches above. “It’s not a villa in France, but I hope you like it.”

“Oh my goodness! This is perfect!” I clapped my hands and grinned at him. “Thank you so much for making dinner. Sorry I wasn’t better company tonight.”

“I’m just glad you’re here. I know your mind is elsewhere.” He pulled out a chair for me, and I sat down.

“I’m learning a ton. Did you know that the Duke of Burgundy banished the Gamay grape from his kingdom in 1395 because it competed too well with pinot noir, which was his favorite? He called it an evil, disloyal plant.” I laughed, spreading my napkin in my lap. “Kind of funny that those are the two grapes Lucas Fournier has.”

“I did not know that,” said Sebastian, sitting across from me. “Tell me more, since we are drinking the Duke’s favorite tonight, an Abelard Pinot Noir, in fact.”

My heart fluttered as he poured. I loved the way candlelight played with the light green of his eyes. I loved that he’d just made steak and potatoes and salads for us and set up this beautiful, romantic little spot. I loved that he’d encouraged me to go after this job, which I was even more excited about now that I knew more about the forward-thinking young owners. I loved the way he touched me, like he still couldn’t believe I was there and might disappear at any moment. I even loved that he looked at me with sadness in his eyes sometimes, because I knew it meant that he was struggling with things in his mind but letting his heart win. He hadn’t had any episodes the entire week.

At least not that he’d admitted.

But I’d given up trying to guess at every expression on his face, every silence he retreated into, every tense one-word response to a question I was hoping he’d answer in elaborate detail. I accepted him for who he was, and how hard he was trying. The chance he was taking with me. I knew how difficult it was for him, and I loved him for it.

Holy shit, what?

You heard me. I love him for it. Just a little. Shut up and let me.

I picked up my fork, dropping my eyes to my plate. That was OK, right? To admit to yourself you’d fallen for someone? I mean, it didn’t have to be a big deal. It was just a feeling. A nice feeling, in fact. A nice, deep feeling. Who wouldn’t fall hard and fast for someone like Sebastian?

And God knows I like things deep, hard, and fast.

I stifled a laugh as I stuffed my face with potatoes, and Sebastian looked at me a little funny but didn’t say anything, which only made my feelings stronger.

But I wouldn’t say anything to him. Jesus Christ, I could only imagine what he’d do if I told him I loved him. I didn’t really have any hang-ups about it—I came from the theater world where everyone loved everyone, loudly and proudly (of course you could hate someone in that world and still love them loudly and proudly too, but that was a different matter)—but I felt that Sebastian wasn’t the type to use or hear a word like love lightly.