Chapter 7: The Back Kitchen

"Down," Rémy said.

He said it low and fast, with his eyes on the window.

"Behind the case. Go."

I dropped to my knees behind the pastry case with my suitcase pulled in against my legs.

The door bell rang.

Through the glass I could see a strip of the shop floor, the leg of the counter, and the toes of two pairs of shoes.

Preston's shoes. The boat shoes from the golf bag.

"Bonjour," Rémy said, in the flat polite voice of a man who sells to tourists.

"Afternoon," Preston said. "The usual, please. Two bags."

"Yes sir. Pecan?"

"Pecan."

Rémy slid the bags across the counter. I heard the rustle of paper, and then Solène's voice, light and close.

She was standing at the end of the counter, by the glass.

Twelve inches from my head.

"Tu es sûr qu'elle ne se doute de rien?" she said in French.

Are you sure she suspects nothing?

"Je te l'ai dit," Preston said. "Elle croit que je suis à Hartford."

I told you. She thinks I'm in Hartford.

Rémy was ringing up the order. His face didn't change at all.

"Elle a une tête de femme qui ne remarque rien," Solène said.

She has the face of a woman who notices nothing.

I pressed my fingers against my mouth.

"Plus que trois jours," Preston said. His voice was different in French. It was lower, and it sounded younger. "Lundi, tout change."

Keep reading free with an account. Start My Husband Told His Ex in French I'd Never Find Out from Chapter 1, then sign up free to read the rest of this chapter.