“My parents divorced when I was eight, so I spent weekends with Papa and the rest of the time with my mom and stepdad, Bart. I have two half sisters. Britt is married and works with us at the shop, and Hilda’s in college. Papa never remarried. When I was younger, that was fine with me, because I always thought a stepmom would be scary. Too many fairy-tale readings, I guess.”

“Fairy tales are awesome. I once taught a class on the historical context of fairy tales. Stepparents get a bad rap.”

“True. My stepdad, Bart, is totally great. He’s an oysterman.”

“And your dad’s a wine expert. You guys must eat like kings.”

“We do, actually. Papa and I make dinner together every Friday night. It’s a tradition. And we mostly speak French together, because I wanted my daughter to speak it like a native. Actually, a native of the Languedoc, so not the usual—”

“You mean she sounds like a southerner,” Finn said in Occitan, the vernacular he’d picked up on his latest teaching assignment.

Camille’s eyes widened. “Okay, now you’re showing off.”

Yes. Yes, he was. “You should come to Aix-en-Provence.” The idea of hanging out with her in France seemed incredibly appealing.

She looked down at her lap. “Like I said, I don’t really travel.”

“Why’s that?”

She paused, then let out a sigh. “You have a plane to catch tonight.”

“Long story?” He wanted to hear all her stories. Preferably while lazing in bed with her after a night of—

The waiter came back for their drink orders. She asked for a glass of sweet tea, extra lemon. “Let’s take a look at the menu,” she suggested, opening hers. “Oh boy. Really, you didn’t have to do this.”

The cuisine here was a fusion of Patsy’s soul food and Arnaud’s French classics. “We both have to eat. It’s my last day in the States for a while. I might as well make it pleasant.” He set his menu aside. “Do you have a favorite restaurant in the city?”

She shook her head. “I’m not one for foie gras and Reblochon cheese. In Bethany Bay, we’re happy enough with local backfin crab and sliced cukes in ice water.” A flush rose in her cheeks. “Thus revealing my townie roots.”

“I chose wrong, then.”

“Not at all. The shrimp and grits sounds delicious.”

“And just so you know, I’m partial to townies.”

“Even though you’re a come-here.”

“A what?”

“That’s what locals call the visitors from the city.”

“Who serve foie gras at their parties.” Finn ordered the crab cakes and a side of fresh cucumbers. “I’ll share,” he said, savoring her shy smile. His pleasure wavered when he noticed a table full of D.C. power brokers across the room. Among them was a lobbyist Finn had slept with not long after his divorce—not his finest moment. He turned slightly, facing Camille.

“What?” She dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “Do I have something on my face?”

“I was just wondering about something.”

“About what?”

“Why are you single?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Most women like you are already taken.”

“Women like me?” Her eyes sharpened with suspicion.

Okay, that came out wrong. “Smart, interesting, cool . . . It just occurred to me to wonder why you’re single. Was your divorce recent?”

“I’m not divorced. My husband died,” she said, her mouth tightening.

“What?” Shit. He wasn’t expecting that. “I mean, I heard what you said . . .”

“It always creates an awkward moment,” she said.

Shit shit shit. “Sorry I brought it up. I just assumed . . . Has it been . . . when did he die?” Finn realized he was babbling. There were no smooth come-ons or pat phrases for this.

She hesitated, then added, “It’s been five years.”

That was slightly less freaky. Five years seemed like long enough. “Oh man. Was he in the service?” Finn flashed on the endless alabaster rows of markers at Arlington. All the guys he knew who had died young had been in the service.

“No,” she said. “It was an accident.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. And for what Julie will never get to know. I’m sure you’ve been hearing that for five years, but I do mean it, Camille.” Shit, he thought again. A divorce was one thing. But a death? At a loss for words, he touched her hand. A crazy feeling went through him. He had no idea what was going through her, but she looked down at their hands, and gently moved away.

“Thank you. I guess . . . so maybe you can relate to Julie’s situation. Growing up without your dad.”

“Yes and no. I had a stepfather by the time I was two. My sisters, especially Margaret Ann, missed my dad horribly, but they adjusted. I hope your daughter does, too.”

“She seems resilient,” said Camille. “I hope so. I hope she doesn’t carry sadness around with her all day every day.”

“I hope you don’t either,” he said. “I mean, losing your husband must have been a nightmare, and I’m sorry as hell it happened to you, but he’s going to be dead for a long time, and there’s nothing wrong with moving on.”

“That’s a blunt way of putting it.”

“Sorry. I get flustered over gorgeous women. And gorgeous tragic women . . . that’s even more . . .”

“More what?”

“Flustering.” He was sounding like a genius now.

She lightened the moment with a smile. “Did you just call me gorgeous?”

“I did. And tragic. Also smart and interesting. I could go on . . .”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Okay.” He was usually pretty good with the pickup lines, but today, everything was coming out wrong. Maybe it was because with Camille Adams, he didn’t want a pickup. He wanted to pick her. This was a new, exhilarating feeling. Highly unexpected, but undeniable.

She dabbed with her napkin again. “Truth be told, I’ve always thought I’d find someone. I wanted to. After a few years, I dated a bit. Julie’s still young, and I loved being a family. I wanted more kids—a bigger family for Julie. And being single started to feel lonely.” She took a swig of her water. “Plus I wanted to get laid.”

“You’re making me wish I wasn’t leaving,” he said.

“That’s not my point. I’m trying to explain . . . I’ve stepped back from dating. I gave a lot to the last relationship. We both really tried, but it wasn’t right, and I realized it was never going to be right. I keep wondering if it’s me . . . or him . . . or us together that simply didn’t work. And I realized I simply don’t care for dating. It just doesn’t work for me.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “So I’m taking myself off the market. Or out of the pool. Whatever.”

“How can you be off the market? We only just met.” What about more kids? he wondered. What about getting laid?

“Very funny,” she said, clearly assuming he was joking. “Let’s finish our lunch, and I’ll show you what I came here for.”

All righty, then. Finn decided not to push it. If he came on too strong, she’d bolt. He knew this because when a woman came on to him, he was the one who bolted.

He backed off and enjoyed the excellent meal, watching her while trying to appear not to. There was this raw, elemental attraction he couldn’t deny, but it wasn’t just that. She was entrancing, with those deep brown eyes and delicate skin, and the unconscious way she bit her lip when she was listening.

“So here’s what I have,” Camille said during a lull after they ate. “I’m pretty good at reading old photographs, but I could use an expert opinion.” She explained the provenance of the photos. A large box of old artifacts and photographs had been delivered to her father from the village of his boyhood, most of them shrouded in mystery. “Do you know much about cameras?”