Clobbered by Camembert

told you about. It’s young, so it’s sweet.”

“Like you,” I heard Rebecca say to Ipo.

Warm breath caressed my neck. Jordan brushed my back with his fingertips, then kissed my cheek. “Ah, true love.”

Desire crackled through me.

“I’ve got to return to the farm,” he whispered. “Catch you later.” He disappeared out the rear door.

Matthew followed him, saying he had business calls to make back at the shop.

“Earth to Charlotte.” Meredith waved a hand in front of my eyes. “Are you ever going to tell me about your trip with Jordan? You’ve been pretty mum since you got home.”

“It was wonderful, exotic, enticing.” Jordan and I had spent a week in Switzerland, tasting cheese, sipping wine, and chatting. Well, doing more than chatting. Seven glorious days, six romantic nights. “I showed you pictures.”

“Yes, you told me you listened to Alphorns and rode the funicular to Plan-Francey, and you toured the village of Gruyeres and Chateau de Gruyeres. But who is Jordan? Really?”

Jordan had lived in Providence for five-plus years, yet he had a mysterious past that I hadn’t tapped. On our trip when I asked how he had learned to make cheese and, more particularly, how he had learned the art of affinage—the craft of aging cheeses, which he did in his huge caves for many of the smaller farms in the area—he told me a British cheese maker named Jeremy Montgomery had tutored him.

I related the story to Meredith.

“But Jordan isn’t British,” Meredith said.

“His parents were working in the American embassy in London.”

“Aha, now we’re getting somewhere. Doing what?”

“Not sure.”

Meredith put a hand on her hip. “Where did he go to college?”

I took three pictures in a row. “Why are you grilling me?”

“Because he has a secret past.”

“He likes the movie The Godfather. Matthew told me that any man who likes The Godfather is good by him.”

Meredith offered her best schoolteacher-who-doesn’t-believe-the-dog-ate-your-homework look. “Do you believe this story about the cheese maker?” She snickered. “What a silly question. Of course you do. You love him. Jordan could have told you he was formerly an Antarctic explorer, and you’d have believed him.”

“And I’d have been captivated.” I winked at her.

She grinned. “Okay, next round of questions. Who is this Kaitlyn Clydesdale that Rebecca was telling me about, and who is her mysterious partner?”

“Moi,” a man said.

A shock wave of anxiety shot through me at the sound of the man’s voice. I spun to face him as he entered the tent, and my heart skipped a beat. Actually it started to hammer my rib cage.

Chippendale Cooper, aka Chip Cooper, aka Creep Chef, let the door of the tent swing shut. He finger-combed his honey-colored hair and struck his typical jock pose. “Bon soir, Charlotte. I’m back from France.” His sea green eyes sparkled with mischief. With as much humility as he could muster—which wasn’t much—he added, “Long time, no spy.”

Meredith clutched my hand in a death grip. “What’s he doing here?”

I shook her off as deep-rooted anger surfaced. My hands balled into fists. Chip gazed at me warily and lowered his chin. Did he think I’d whack it? I couldn’t top the damage that all the hockey sticks had done to it during high school. Not that I didn’t want to try.

In response to my seething silence, he offered a devil-may-care grin. “Love your hair, babe. It’s longer. The color suits you.”

I self-consciously toyed with strands at the nape of my neck. I had grown my hair to chin length and had added gold highlights in the winter. It was flirtier; Jordan liked it.

Chip held up his iPhone. “Smile for the camera.” He snapped a picture. “Beautiful.”

Only Chip and Indiana Jones could have scars that turned into charming dimples. Jordan had a scar down the side of his neck—an ugly, jagged scar, usually hidden by the collar of his work shirt. I had discovered it one night during our trip to Europe—one intimate, lovely night. When I’d asked about it, he wouldn’t tell me about the event that had led to it. I had attempted a guess or two, of course: a hard life on the street; a drunken brawl; an attack by an angry ex-girlfriend? Jordan had cracked a smile at the latter but had offered no answers. Maybe a wayward penguin had attacked him on one of his Antarctica explorations, I mused.

Rebecca raced to my side. “What’s going on? Who’s the hunk?”

“Chippendale Cooper,” Meredith said, as if that explained it all.

Rebecca gasped. “Creep Ch—”

“Chip,” I said. “Call him Chip.”

“Of all the gall.” Rebecca flung her ponytail over her shoulder and glowered at the hunk as if she was the one he had maligned.

Chip took a quick picture of Rebecca, then hitched his head. “Can we talk outside, babe?”

“We have nothing to talk about.” The level of bitterness that crawled into my throat surprised me. If I wasn’t careful, tears would surface. No way was I going to let that happen. Chip could make all the snipes he cared to; I’d remain stoic. “Rebecca, I’m going back to Fromagerie Bessette. You close up the tent. Meredith, would you give her a hand?”

I strode toward the exit. Chip raced ahead of me and held back the tent door. While tightening my neck scarf, I sidled out, doing my best not to breathe or touch him as I passed. I didn’t want to remember his musky scent. I didn’t want to remember his fingers stroking my neck, my cheek.

Cool air blasted my face as I headed south through the Village Green.

Chip hustled behind me, stating the whys and wherefores of his decision, on one fateful winter’s night years ago, to flee to France. He begged me to forgive him. “I was young.”

“You were thirty.”

Dodging hordes of folding tables and chairs, boxes of crafts, and clothing racks, I snaked through the white tents. I sped past a security guard for the Winter Wonderland faire, who tapped the brim of his hat with a fingertip in greeting. Too angry with Chip, I failed to respond to the guard. I would have to apologize another day.

“Thirty is a formative time in a man’s life,” Chip said, keeping pace.

“In a woman’s, too,” I hissed.

“Tick-tock, yes, I get that.”

“Not tick-tock. Not that at all.”

“Don’t you want children?”

I blasted past the ice sculpture of the Great Dane and kittens. Sure, I wanted kids. Yes, I was nearing my mid-thirties, and yes, every dratted magazine on every dratted magazine stand displayed some kind of article about the risk of having children over the age of thirty-five, but I ignored the articles. I did. I had eons of time. I was healthy, vibrant. I exited the Village Green and skirted around a man offering authentic Amish horse and buggy rides to tourists. Chip followed and gingerly scruffed the horse’s nose as he passed.

“Then what is it, Charlotte?” Chip pressed. “Why are you so mad at me?”

I stopped on the sidewalk near the Country Kitchen diner. Every red booth inside the diner was filled with patrons. All seemed to be staring at us. I said, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“What?” Chip threw open his hands like a petitioner waiting for me, the judge, to deem him innocent.

I waggled a finger. “We are not having this conversation.”

“I’ve come home to tell you I love you.”

“Home? This is not your home. You abandoned the town. Your folks have moved away. You have no heritage here. Go back to France.”

He shrugged. “There’s nothing for me in France.”

“There’s nothing for you here, either.” I folded my arms across my chest. Defensive, sure, but I needed armor, which seemed to be sorely missing. Maybe I had left it at the dry cleaners.

Chip jutted his hip like a cocky teenager, but he didn’t fool me. I had shocked him with my tirade. His eyes