[Wattys 2021 Shortlisted] In the ancient French perfume capital of Grasse, lives bohemian recluse Cassandra Ducasse, the last remaining member of a legendary family of perfumers. Trapped by her past, Cassandra is unwilling to take up the reins of h...
His lashes were so long that they reached nearly halfway down his cheeks when his eyes were closed. And they were dark, black almost. But then all his features were intense like that: defined, angular, stark. She wanted to trace her index finger along the ridge of his brows, following the contours of his face. Then she would do the same with his lips, lips that now lay only very slightly parted as he slept.
Cassandra was lying beside Vince on the pillow, their faces centimeters apart. Despite the late hour, Vince had once again not woken, allowing her ample time to watch him and to memorize every line, every curve and every freckle.
She felt that she would need that after he had gone back to New York – back to his women and his world. She would need to be able to call him to mind in detail, and she decided that this was how she would most like to remember him. He was softer this way, the tense rigidity of his waking hours giving way to the expression of his more sensual nature.
She would need to remember him, she realised, because against all odds it seemed that she had fallen in love with Vincent Callaghan. She smiled sadly. It had snuck up on her, this love. Had he been someone else, she thought, someone she had considered more likely to win her heart, she might have kept her guard more closely. She would have put more effort into protecting herself.
But there he had been, a suited American businessman, all marketing lingo and figures. He had been the last person she had imagined she could love, and now she knew that he was the only person that she ever would.
She wished that she could direct him home before he could break her heart any further. She considered telling him the fragrance was ready and he didn't need to be here any longer, that she would send him a sample and the formula in time for his meeting with Imogen. But plots like this were futile. One crooked smile from him, one dimpled cheek or flash from his humorous dark eyes and she would do no such thing.
She rolled over uncomfortably in the sheets. She was lying in direct sunlight from the East window, and she could feel her skin starting to sheen. The day was already sweltering.
She slid out of bed, Vince barely moving as she did so, and she chuckled and wondered how he managed to get any work done at all with his problematic over-sleeping. She considered waking him, but decided against it. She could use this time while he was asleep to think, and she needed him out of her line of vision in order to do that effectively.
Pulling on her bathing costume and slinging a towel over her shoulder, Cassandra slipped out of the room and closed the door quietly behind her. She wondered how many days she had left with Vince – how many hours. Perhaps a nice cool swim would stop her obsessing for a while. She would go and see whether the water was pleasant.
As she pulled open the doors to the terrace, she heard the chime of her front door bell.
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Vince opened his eyes and squinted them closed again immediately. The sun pouring through the window was shining straight into his face. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and winced into the light.
