Back then, he’d shrugged the disappointment off philosophically. Women came; women went. Sometimes it worked out. Sometimes it didn’t.

He lifted his wineglass, swirling the small measure of wine, taking an experimental sip and letting the deep, sweet, woodsy flavor of the wine glide over his tongue.

Sometimes a man got another chance.

The wine was perfect, so he filled their glasses.

Charlotte tasted hers, and her eyes went wide with the experience. “Nice,” she admitted with respect.

“From our vineyard in Bordeaux.”

“I’m impressed.”

He smiled in satisfaction at her reaction.

“Not that impressed,” she drawled.

“That was pride of craftsmanship,” he told her.

“My mistake.” But her sea-foam eyes told him she knew it was lust.

Of course it was. But not a problem. He’d back off and let her relax.

“La pissaladière,” he decreed, retrieving a steel mixing bowl from beneath the countertop. He then assembled flour, yeast, sugar and olive oil.

She watched wordlessly for a few moments. “You can cook?”

“Oui. Of course.” He sprinkled sugar into the bottom of the bowl, adding the yeast and a measure of water. French children learned to bake almost before they learned to walk.

“You do your own cooking?” she pressed in obvious surprise.

“Sometimes.” He nodded to her wineglass. “Enjoy. Relax. Tell me what you wanted to talk about.”

The invitation seemed to sober her, and she took a slow sip of the wine.

Stalling.

Interesting.

“That is one exceedingly fine wine,” she commented.

“I applaud your good taste, mademoiselle,” he told her honestly. Then he retrieved a heavy skillet and drizzled olive oil into the bottom.