Recipe for a Broken Heart

Chapter.12

Chapter 12 — Small Steps

Slowly, it turned out, had a shape Camille hadn't quite expected.

She'd imagined something more dramatic — longing glances exchanged across the office in coded restraint. What she got instead was smaller, quieter, and somehow more devastating: a coffee run turned into two coffees, one for her, unasked, exactly the way she took it. A habit of him pausing at her desk to ask how her mother's physical therapy was progressing. A running joke about the office printer that had apparently developed a personality of its own.

It was the specific romance of being known by someone who paid attention, and she had no defense against it at all.

The first real outside-work moment happened almost by accident, on a Wednesday when they'd both stayed late, and Étienne suggested, almost sheepishly, that neither of them had eaten dinner and there was a decent bistro two blocks away.

"This isn't a date," Camille said, only half joking.

"Of course not. Two colleagues, sharing a meal, because neither of us has eaten since noon. Purely practical." He held the door for her.

"Purely practical," she agreed, fighting a smile.

The bistro was small and warm, candlelit in a way that felt too romantic for a purely practical meal. They talked about nothing important — his childhood in Lyon, summers at his grandmother's house, how disappointed he'd been by every loaf of bread he'd found since arriving in Canada. She told him about summers at Maggie's diner, sneaking behind the counter to watch her mother work.

"You have always worked hard," he observed. "Even as a child, it sounds like."

"There wasn't really an alternative. My mother needed help, and I was the oldest."

"Not everyone rises to meet what is asked of them the way you clearly did." Something closer to admiration sat behind the observation. "I think that is part of what I noticed about you from the very beginning."

"What about you?" she asked, turning it back toward him. "Was coming here something you wanted, or something you were told to do?"

He considered the question, turning his wine glass slowly. "A bit of both. My brother runs the Lyon office and always will. Coming here was as much my choice as an assignment. I needed distance — a place where I was not simply known as the son who had been left standing at an altar he never quite reached."

"That's a very honest answer for two colleagues sharing a practical meal."

"I find it is easier to be honest with you than it has been with most people."

It was nearly ten when they finally left, walking toward the station under a sky that had cleared into something almost starry, and Camille felt lighter than she had in longer than she could remember.

The good feeling lasted exactly until Monday, when a woman named Sylvie arrived from the Lyon office, sharp-suited and effortlessly elegant, and greeted Étienne with a familiarity that made something small and unwelcome twist in Camille's stomach.

"Étienne! It has been too long." Sylvie kissed both his cheeks, her hand lingering on his arm a beat longer than necessary.

"Sylvie. I did not realize you were the one they were sending." His tone stayed politely warm but carefully measured.

Priya slid over within minutes. "That's Sylvie Marchand. They dated, back in Lyon, years ago. Nothing serious, from what I heard."

"I don't know how these things go, actually," Camille said, more sharply than she intended.

"Fair enough. Consider yourself lucky." Priya perched on the edge of the desk. "For what it's worth, Sylvie's fine, good at her job. Not her fault half the office still gossips about it."

"Uh-huh. Relax. He hasn't looked at her the way he looks at you since she walked in."

He found her at lunch, alone in the break room. "Sylvie and I dated, briefly, a long time ago. It ended amicably, and it means nothing now. I wanted you to hear that from me."

"I wasn't wondering," Camille said, unconvincingly.

"You were wondering. I could see it from across the office." A small, knowing smile. "I would be lying if I said I did not feel a small amount of satisfaction at the idea of you being jealous."

"That's a terrible thing to admit."

"Perhaps. But it is honest, and we agreed on honest, did we not? There is nothing between Sylvie and me. Whatever this is, between you and me, it is the only thing I am interested in right now."

"Slowly, remember."

"I remember. Slowly does not mean I cannot tell you the truth when it matters, though."

That evening, Camille told Marcus about Sylvie over dinner. "Sounds like he handled it right, though," Marcus said. "Telling you straight up instead of letting you stew. David never would've done that."

"When did you get so wise about relationships?"

"Six very educational weeks." He grinned. "But seriously. This guy's actually trying. That's more than I can say for anyone you've dated since David."

"I haven't dated anyone since David."

"Exactly my point."

Lying in bed that night, Camille allowed herself, cautiously, to imagine what it might feel like to trust someone again, fully, without the constant bracing for impact she'd carried since David left. It felt unfamiliar, almost uncomfortable, like a muscle she hadn't used in years. But it also felt, for the first time in longer than she could remember, like something worth practicing.