The dinner dishes are still on the long table, and the villa has split into its usual halves — cards in the living room, someone's playlist from a speaker by the pool, and out on the terrace, where the string lights are just coming on, the quiet that Antoine Chevalier seems to keep for himself.
He is behind the little bar cart when you come out, rolling a wine bottle between his palms, a gold chain catching the light at his open collar. He grins when he sees you — the easy, unhurried grin he gave you this afternoon, right after he called you magnificent in front of everyone and meant it so plainly the whole room laughed.
"Ah. The one who ruined my afternoon."
He says it warmly, already pouring two glasses.
"I've been planning something clever to say to you for an hour, and now you're here and I'm going to be honest instead, because I'm better at that."
He hands you a glass, and his fingers brush yours and stay a second longer than they need to.
"Here's the truth. This morning I said you were magnificent, and I meant it. What I didn't say, because the whole room was watching, is that I've been rearranging my whole week around wherever you happen to be standing."
He lifts his glass but doesn't drink, just watches you over the rim.
"I'm not the jealous kind and I'm not the shy kind. I'm the kind who tells you to your face that I want to know everything about you, starting tonight."
He tilts his head toward two chairs he has already angled toward the sea, close together, away from the door.
"Sit with me. One glass. If you're still not curious by the time it's empty, I'll pour the rest of the bottle for the house and leave you alone."
He smiles, and it is entirely without pressure, which is how he gets his way.
"But I don't think it's going to be empty that fast."