The Chateau of Happily-Ever-Afters. Jaimie Admans

couldn’t be more annoying if he tried. It’s been a long time since I shared a house with anyone, and my roommates back then were annoying enough to make me want to move back in with my mum…

      I wonder how annoying I’d have to be to drive him away. If he won’t leave out of choice, he’s giving me no option. I can’t spend my holiday with him, even if he is nice to insects and plants. The only thing I can do is make him leave. I’ve spent my life repelling men. It shouldn’t be too difficult.

      He seems to know what I’m thinking because he’s looking at me with that bloody eyebrow raised again.

      ‘Apparently, I’m a terrible housemate,’ I start. ‘It would be a shame if you—’

      ‘Got so annoyed I decided to leave?’

      I shrug.

      He smirks. ‘When I was younger, I had a revolving door of roommates. I learnt every trick in the book. If you think you can outdo me in the annoying-housemate ranks, bring it on.’

      For the first time since I saw his car pull in, I feel a genuine smile break across my face. I suddenly have a purpose in life again. I will get this man out of my château. ‘Bring it on.’

Chapter Six

      Julian’s still oohing and ahhing around the orchard when I hear a voice coming from out front. ‘Hello? Anyone home?’

      A woman! An English accent! I zoom back through the bramble pathway so fast that I snag my clothes and nearly fall over myself in my rush to see who’s there.

      There’s a woman with short blonde hair standing in the courtyard.

      ‘’Ello, lovely,’ she says, smiling when she sees me. ‘Hope you didn’t mind me popping me head in. I saw the car in the driveway with the British number plate and thought I’d say hello.’

      I take in her spiky blonde hair with blue and green tips, her matching eyeshadow, which would’ve made anyone else look like an eighties escapee but somehow works for her, and, more importantly, I take in the fact she’s standing next to a cart full of French baguettes. I run at her so fast that she takes an involuntary step backwards.

      ‘Oh my God, you’re English and you have food. I think I might love you. Are you selling these?’ I’ve grabbed one and ripped the top off with my teeth before she’s had a chance to answer. ‘Oh my God, this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.’ I don’t know why I’m bothering. My words are so muffled around the huge mouthful of bread that she’d have an easier time understanding Cousin Itt.

      The woman watches me with a look somewhere between fear and amusement.

      I make indeterminable noises and flap my hand in front of my face, trying to tell her I’m not a hyperactive giraffe, I don’t usually behave this way, and I’ve bitten off far too much bread and am struggling to chew it up.

      I’m actually out of breath by the time I swallow, swiping the back of my hand across my face as I’m no doubt covered in crumbs. I’m desperate to take another bite, but force myself to manage a conversation with the poor woman I’ve just attacked and stolen a loaf of bread from.

      ‘Sorry,’ I say, blushing at how much of a mess I’ve made. ‘It’s been a long night and I’m so hungry I was just wondering what the grass might taste like. You turned up at exactly the right time.’

      She laughs, bright and jingly. ‘I’m a mobile baker. My career revolves around turning up at the right time.’

      ‘A mobile baker? I’ve never heard of that.’

      ‘Yep. I get up at the crack of dawn every day, bake everything in my kitchen at home, load it all into my cart, and do my rounds. Only around my local streets and to the village. There’s a boulangerie there but it doesn’t open until lunchtime and when it does there’s a queue for miles. This way, I catch people as they’re looking for breakfast, just at the right time.’

      I blush again at how rabid I was. Instead of shoving the whole baguette in my mouth, I snap the gorgeously crusty crust and pull pieces off, trying to remember how civilised people act.

      ‘I’m Kat.’

      ‘Wendy,’ I say, my words muffled around yet another mouthful of the best bread I’ve ever tasted. ‘And you’re English. I didn’t expect to find any English people out here.’

      ‘There are a lot of expats around these parts. Land is cheap, the commute back home isn’t too bad, and everything’s just that bit nicer over here. Well, you must know that already if you’re moving in.’ She nods towards the château, her long earrings jangling with the movement.

      ‘I haven’t moved in,’ I say, trying not to choke on the baguette I’m making short work of. So much for being civilised. ‘I’m just here on holiday for a few weeks. After that, it’s back to the grindstone in the UK.’

      ‘Where are you…’ She stops mid-sentence with her mouth hanging open. I follow her line of sight towards the château. Julian has chosen that moment to appear from the gardens and is walking up the steps to the open door.

      ‘Oh. My. God,’ Kat says, doing an unintentional impression of Janice from Friends. ‘Look at that fine specimen of manhood. That is a god carved out of pure marble, that is.’ She grabs my wrist. ‘Is he yours?’

      ‘No!’ I say in horror. ‘Ick!’

      At the top of the steps, Julian turns and gives us a wave.

      Kat is practically swooning on the spot as he disappears into the depths of the château. Her grip on my wrist tightens. ‘Why on earth is he not yours? He’s gorgeous.’

      ‘Ew! I would never…’ I stutter, struggling to find the words for just how hideous a thought that is.

      She looks at me and then back at the house. ‘There’s something wrong with you. As they would say around here, that is un homme magnifique.’

      She may as well be drooling.

      ‘Yeah, from a distance. Once you meet him, his attractiveness drops so far below zero that we need a bigger numeric table.’

      ‘I don’t believe that for a second.’ She finally lets go of my wrist, but if she was a cartoon character, there would be hearts in her eyes.

      ‘He’s a Scottish knobkettle who thinks he’s far better looking than he actually is.’

      ‘Ooh, he’s Scottish too?’ She fans a hand in front of her face. ‘Don’t make it worse! Scottish men are so sexy. Does he have a kilt?’

      ‘I sincerely hope never to find out.’

      The look she gives me would be less incredulous if I’d told her there was a flock of pterodactyls swooping overhead. ‘Why is he shirtless?’

      ‘Because he’s an idiot.’

      ‘I didn’t know idiocy caused men to spontaneously remove their shirts. If that was true, there’d be a lot more shirtless men in my life.’

      I smile as I look over at her. She’s got friendly blue eyes that are accentuated by her short haircut, and her bright green top is colour-coordinated to perfectly match the green bits of her hair, her eyeshadow, and the bracelets around her wrists. Everything about her screams of someone who’s supremely comfortable in their own skin.

      ‘I could introduce you, if you want,’ I say against my better judgement. She seems like a nice person. She deserves better than Julian.

      ‘Nah. I’ll trust your judgement. Besides, I’ve got my eye on someone. He hasn’t got the body of that glorious creature, but he’s got a smile that makes me go weak at the knees every time I see it. Of course, he’s only in town twice a week for the market and he doesn’t speak a word