“She definitely was not, but back then you said not to mix business with pleasure.”

“Elise isn’t a client. This isn’t exactly mixing the two. It’s uniting the two for mutual goals,” I say, explaining as clearly as I can how the deal with Elise is vastly different.

“That’s hilarious, cuz. How you say that as if you believe it.”

I stop in my tracks and fix him with a serious stare through the screen. “I do believe it.”

“Fine, fine. Keep telling yourself that. Just do me one favor?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t crush her heart.”

“I don’t plan on it, but I didn’t realize you cared so deeply about a woman you’ve never even met.”

He clasps a hand to his chest. “I care deeply about all women. They are lovely and wonderful and we don’t deserve them.”

"Obviously.”

“But the point is—I care. Because, somehow I care about you. Also, if you fuck this up, I’ll have to fly to Paris and sort shit out with you and Erik, and your brother has already made a mess of things.”

I sigh. “I know, I know. Thank you though for helping him untangle it.”

“That’s why every family needs a good lawyer.”

“And you’re the best attorney money and familial relations can buy. Now speaking of breaking hearts, did you ever decide to man the hell up and tell your best friend you have a thing for her?”

He blinks, sitting closer to the screen. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh come now. Pretty blonde. The outgoing American. Summer. The one you’ve been besties with forever.”

He shakes his head like what I’ve said doesn’t compute. “She’s just a friend. A very good friend.”

I wink. “Sure, she is.”

“Why are we talking about me? I thought we were talking about how you could avoid being an arsehole with your wife.”

“Listen, it’s going to be fine. I know Elise,” I say, since the one thing I’m sure of is that she’s even less of a fan of forevers than I am. “She has walls like I’ve never seen before. You think I have guardrails? I have nothing compared to her, and there’s no sledgehammer on heaven or on earth that will knock down her walls.”

“Good—keep it that way. You’re all better off as is.”

“Look, if anyone’s heart is going to be broken, it will be mine.”

Oliver laughs. “Somehow, I don’t think that can happen. In any case, I’ll be in Paris for business soon. We’ll grab a pint.”

“Count on it.”

As I make my way home to check how Erik is doing, I hope my cousin’s right. I can’t deny there’s a part of me that’s the slightest bit nervous, and a little bit hopeful too, when I think about talking to Elise this evening.

That’s when we’ll finalize the plans for our wedding.

Our wedding.

19ELISE

France won’t do. There’s a four-week wait. England adheres to some of the same rules. But Denmark? Blessed Denmark. You don’t have to wait long at all to tie the knot in Denmark.

Christian left Paris last weekend, shortly after the bombshell news, and took his brother back to Copenhagen, since Erik couldn’t bear to be in the same city as Jandy. That means I haven’t seen Christian since the night at his place, but we’ve filed the paperwork, and he made a few phone calls to people he knows to push it along.

Here I am, stepping off the plane at the Copenhagen airport ten days later. I head through the terminal and pass security to find him waiting for me with a huge smile.

I’m hit with the strangest sensation when I see him—I’ve missed him. I drop my bag, rise up on my tiptoes, and kiss him.

He hums against my lips as he kisses me back. An airport kiss. A reunion kiss. And it’s so good it feels like it was worth the days apart, even though we didn’t deliberately plan for this to feel like we’re coming back together.

When we separate, he glances at my luggage. “Can I carry your bag?”

I packed light for the short trip, and I hand it to him. But I’d let him carry it even if it were heavy.

When we stride out of the airport, a sleek black town car waits for us. The chauffeur hops out, and says something to Christian in Danish, and hearing Christian respond in his native tongue as they toss my bag into the trunk is like pulling open the blinds on a darkened window. I’ve never heard him speak Danish before.

Inside the car, the driver turns around and raises his cap, nodding at me. His jowly face breaks into a smile. “Good afternoon, Ms. Durand.”

“Good afternoon,” I reply in English.

He returns his focus to the wheel, and I stare at Christian with wide eyes.

“What?”

“It’s funny to hear you speak Danish.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s so different from French or English.”

He laughs. “It’s all consonants and Swedish Chef up-and-down rhythms, right? Funny sounding, isn’t it?”

I smirk but say nothing. Because he’s right. It’s a funny language. It’s not sensual like French or Italian. It’s clunkier, strangely childish in its intonations, and a bit odd to a woman used to the Romance languages.

“Admit it,” he says then digs a few knuckles into my side playfully.

I laugh as he tickles me lightly. “I admit nothing.”

“You’ll admit everything.” He dives in with both hands as the car swerves out of the terminal. He’s a ferocious tickler, his fingers digging into my waist, and I gasp for breath as laughter sweeps over me. “You think I sound like a Muppet.”

“I don’t,” I blurt out.

“You do.”