Read Chapter 3: The Only Available Room

The smell of coffee pulled Camille from a sleep so deep it felt like drowning. For a moment she didn't know where she was—the ceiling was wrong, sloped and beamed, and the light through the shutters had that particular golden quality that only existed in Provence.

Then memory arrived like a wave. The storm. The broken car. *Julien.*

She sat up, and the locket slipped from where she'd tucked it beneath the pillow, clinking softly against the nightstand. She stared at it—at her own seventeen-year-old face, caught mid-laugh in the tiny oval frame. She'd meant to ask about it last night. Meant to. But the tension between them had been so thick she'd barely managed to say goodnight.

Camille shoved the locket into her jeans pocket and padded down the stairs in the too-large t-shirt Julien had loaned her. The kitchen was warm, filled with the smell of butter and thyme, and a woman she didn't recognize stood at the stove, flipping an omelet with the casual confidence of someone who owned the space.

"You must be Camille." The woman turned, assessing her with sharp green eyes. She was maybe forty, with cropped silver hair and the lean build of someone who spent her life on her feet. "I'm Claire. Julien's business partner."

Camille's bare feet felt suddenly very exposed on the cold tile. "Nice to meet you. I didn't realize—"

"That I lived here?" Claire's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "I don't. But I come early to prep for the guests. Julien's in the garden. He said to send you out when you woke."

The emphasis on *when you woke* suggested Camille had slept scandalously late. She glanced at the clock. Nine forty-seven. In the restaurant world, that was practically dawn.

She found Julien in the back garden, crouched over a bed of lavender, his hands buried in the soil. He wore a faded blue work shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and for a moment she was eighteen again, watching him fix his grandmother's fence, the same concentration pulling his brows together.

"Coffee's in the kitchen," he said without looking up.

"Claire's in the kitchen."

At that, he did look up, and something flickered across his face—amusement, or maybe wariness. "Ah. She's not as scary as she seems."

"She looks pretty scary."

"She owns thirty percent of this place. She has a right to be protective." He stood, brushing dirt from his hands, and gestured toward the house. "Full occupancy starts today. We've got a German couple arriving at noon, two British honeymooners this evening, and a family of four from Lyon tomorrow. The renovations are done on the first floor, but the attic room still needs work."

Camille followed him inside, her mind catching on the phrase *full occupancy*. She'd assumed—foolishly, she realized—that she'd be able to stay in the guest room she'd slept in. That there would be space. But of course there wouldn't be. This was a business. Julien had a business to run.

"Your room," Claire said as Camille re-entered the kitchen, "is technically the last one available. But it's not ready."

"I'm aware."

"Julien tells me your car broke down." Claire slid the omelet onto a plate and pushed it across the counter toward Camille, the gesture almost accusatory. "And that you don't have a plan."

Camille took a bite. It was excellent—light, herbed with fresh tarragon—and she hated that she couldn't find fault with it. "I have a plan. It's just not a very good one yet."

"What kind of plan?"

"Claire." Julien's voice was a quiet warning.

"What? I'm asking a question. She's a stranger in our house. I think I'm entitled to know a little more than 'her car broke down in the storm.'"

The words hung in the air, and Camille felt the familiar heat of shame crawl up her neck. She was thirty-four years old, a trained chef who'd worked in some of the best restaurants in Paris, and she was standing in someone else's kitchen in a borrowed t-shirt, being interrogated like a stray cat.

"I'm recently divorced," she said, setting down her fork. "I left Paris with no plan because staying would have killed me slowly. My car broke down in front of this house because the universe has a sick sense of humor. And I have money—enough for a few months, if I'm careful—but not enough to just... float indefinitely." She looked at Claire directly. "Does that answer your question?"

Claire's expression softened, just slightly. "Okay. That answers it."

Julien leaned against the counter, arms crossed. The morning light caught the grey in his stubble, and Camille noticed—unwillingly—that sixteen years had been kind to him. The boy she'd known had been all sharp angles and restless energy. This version of him was solid, quiet, like a stone wall that had weathered some storms.

"The attic room," he said slowly. "It needs work. But it's livable. Small bed, small window, shared bath down the hall until I finish the ensuite." He paused. "I could give you a deal on it."

"What kind of deal?"

"I need help with the renovations. My grandmother—" He stopped, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "She was in the middle of redoing the place before she died. There's a lot left unfinished. I'm doing it myself, but it's slow going alone."

"You want me to work for my room."

"I want you to help with the renovation. Sanding, painting, hauling. Nothing skilled." His eyes met hers, and something passed between them—an offer, tentative, testing ground. "Room and board in exchange for labor until your car's fixed and your plans solidify. Or I can charge you the going rate, and you can find a hotel in town."

The town. She hadn't even thought about the town. About running into old classmates, old neighbors, old versions of herself. About people asking where she'd been, what she'd done, why she'd left.

"Room and board," she said. "For now."

"Then we'll need to draw up a proper agreement." Claire pulled out a chair and sat down, producing a leather-bound notebook from her apron pocket. "I'm not running an informal operation. Julien, I'll need you to set the rate—what would you normally charge for the attic room?"

"Eighty euros a night, once it's finished."

"Right. So we'll structure this as a month-to-month lease agreement, rent discounted to—say—half rate in exchange for documented renovation hours." She looked at Camille. "You'll need to sign. And I'll need a security deposit and proof of insurance."

"I don't have insurance."

"You'll need to get it. There's an agency in town."

Camille's chest tightened. Town. She'd have to go to town. She'd have to walk into the *mairie* or the insurance office and show her face, and within days, word would spread that Camille Roux was back, divorced, broke, and living in Julien Laurent's attic.

"Fine," she said. "I'll go this afternoon."

Julien was watching her with an expression she couldn't read. "You can take my car. I'll be here all day with the guests."

"You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to." He stood, crossing to a drawer and pulling out a set of keys. "But you're going to need to get around while your car's being fixed. And I don't want you walking into town barefoot." He nodded at her feet, and she looked down at them—still bare, still pale against the dark stone floor.

She took the keys. His fingers brushed hers, and the contact sent an electric jolt up her arm, which she absolutely refused to acknowledge.

"Month to month," Claire said, sliding a piece of paper across the counter toward her. The typed text was dense, professional. "Sign at the bottom, initial each page, and we're square."

Camille read quickly, scanning for traps. There were none, just standard terms, and she realized, with a sinking sensation, that she was about to sign a lease. She'd spent two months in Paris, unraveling the intricate, expensive knot of her marriage, and she'd sworn she would never again tie herself to anything. No contracts. No commitments. No promises.

And here she was, signing a month-to-month lease with her high school sweetheart, work exchange clauses and all.

She picked up the pen. "Is there a rule about tenants and ghosts?"

"Excuse me?" Claire looked up.

"Nothing. Bad joke." Camille signed her name—*C. Roux*—with a quick, decisive stroke. She released the pen, and her hand felt suddenly light, as if she'd let go of something she'd been carrying a very long time.

"Welcome to La Maison Bleue." Claire's eyes finally warmed, just a degree. "I hope the room treats you better than the road did."