And as soon as I’d finished my thought, I heard the shower shut off, signaling it was my turn. I stripped off my crusty clothes, wrapped myself in a lavender-scented towel, and grabbed for my cache of toiletries. Cracking open my door, I made sure the coast was clear and then quickly tiptoed down the hall to the washroom.

I wrenched the water up to as hot as it could go (incidentally not very hot) and waited for the fog to billow up like a thick cumulus cloud. I rested my arm against the shower wall in front of me while the water streamed down my hair, and inhaled the steam.

But then, a sudden blast of ice-cold water knocked the wind from my lungs. “Ahhh! What the—” Hair still mid-lather, I shrieked and jiggled, unable to think logically while being blasted by the freezing jet. I finally managed to turn the dials (why were there so many dials?!) enough for the water to slow to a stop. Panting and still soapy, I tried to towel dry out the bubbles still left in my hair.

Forget it. Xanax and sleep. STAT. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

I wrapped my body back up in the now sopping-wet towel and shimmied down the hallway to my room. I heaved my bag open, threw on an oversize nightshirt, and dug around for the familiar bottle.

Oh no. A treacherous realization dawned on me: the Xanax prescription was in my other bag.

Merde.

Chapter Nine

The buttery, sweet aroma of fresh-baked baguettes and flaky croissants drizzled with lavender-infused honey floated up through the inn and under the door to my room, waking me from a deep and tranquil sleep. I don’t know if it was the quiet of Maubec or the genuine feather mattress, but for the first time in years, I slept like a baby without the help of a sleep aid. I lifted my legs over the side of the bed while my stomach let out a deep growl.

I had been so exhausted when I arrived at the inn, I bypassed Agnès’s welcome spread of meats and cheeses, opting for a handful of grapes and flaky croissant to go as I beelined to my room to shower and pass out for the night. Perhaps not my best decision to eat in bed since I woke to buttery crumbs embedded into my cheeks. I slipped on a clean T-shirt and jean shorts from the rest of my luggage that had been delivered late last night, washed my face extra well to ensure there were no remaining bits of pastry left behind, and raked my fingers through my hair as I studied my appearance in the cloudy antique mirror. After yanking my phone out of the charger, I shimmied it into my pocket before heading downstairs to the dining room.

A handful of guests were already seated at small tables, sipping frothy espressos and foam-topped café au laits while Agnès walked around with a basket offering a colorful assortment of homemade goodies. I spotted an empty chair by the window overlooking Maubec’s belfry and made my way over to it.

“Bonjour, Prune. Sleep well?” Agnès asked in a cheerful tone.

“Very. It’s so quiet here at night. Not at all like LA.”

“Oui, nothing but les cigales.”

“Les cigales?”

Agnès scrunched up her nose. “How you say . . . cicadas? Here . . .” She held up a linen napkin embroidered with the large-winged green insect and beamed proudly. “See?”

“Oh, um, a bug is stamped on your napkins? Well, that’s an interesting little mascot,” I said, hoping to sound genuine.

“Not just a mascot, Mademoiselle, la cigale has great significance in Provence. It is like your bald eagle. Similar to four-leaf clovers and rainbows, les cigales are thought to be signs of good luck and good fortune to come. In fact, that’s how we came upon the name of our inn.” She set the basket of treats down on the table and put a place mat and utensils in front of me, scarcely missing a beat of her story. “According to Provençal folklore, God sent the cicada to prevent peasants from becoming too lazy by keeping them from their afternoon naps. All that buzzing and chirping was thought to be a great nuisance. But the plan backfired. Rather than the people finding the cicada to be an annoyance, they found the singing relaxing, which in turn lulled them all into deep and tranquil sleeps. So the name of our inn, La Cigale Chantante, means the Singing Cicada, as we hope that our guests find their stay relaxing and full of peaceful rest.”

“I love that story. My parents are always finding little details like that to celebrate in their properties too.”

“Of course, happy to share. Mais faîtes-attention, les cigales have a reputation of stowing away into many a tourist’s suitcases.” Agnès laughed.

I wasn’t sure if she was serious or not, but either way, I was very much considering encasing my luggage in Saran Wrap as soon as I returned to my room.

She flipped over the coffee cup in front of me and set it on its saucer. “Can I get you a coffee? Tea, perhaps?”

I set a napkin in my lap. “Espresso would be wonderful.”

She nodded. “And Monsieur Schaffer? Where’s he this morning?”

My head shot up. “Who? Oh, Elliott? I’m not sure? Still asleep, maybe?”

“Not asleep,” Elliott said, coming up behind Agnès. “I’ve been awake for hours. I went for a run through the countryside before the sun was even up.” He lifted up his T-shirt and used it to wipe the sweat pouring off his forehead, exposing the smallest hint of a washboard stomach I wasn’t at all expecting.

Agnès clapped her hands together. “Pascal, une chaise, s’il te plaît,” she shouted to her husband.

I shook my head. “He doesn’t have to . . .”

“I don’t have to sit here,” Elliott said, finishing my sentence.

Pascal set a chair down across from my own. “Asseyez-vous,” Agnès directed Elliott. “Sit.”

Elliott nodded and slowly slid into the seat. He pushed his tousled hair out of his face and moistened his full lips. His eyes were really the most beautiful shade of baby blue. Was he this good-looking yesterday, or was I too distracted by his less-than-winning personality to even notice?

“Hope you don’t mind the company?” he mumbled.

“What?” I said, quickly averting my eyes off his face. “Oh, it’s fine,” I answered.

“Coffee? Tea?” Agnès asked Elliott.

“Tea would be great,” he answered.

Agnès called out to Odette, who scooted over with a steaming pot. “This is my daughter, Odette,” Agnès said, introducing her to Elliott. “She is a grad student at La Sorbonne but comes home to work when she needs extra money.”

“That’s not the only reason, Maman.” Odette flashed the most perfect pearly white smile in Elliott’s direction.

“What are you studying?” Elliott asked her, clearly already smitten.

“Art history,” she answered.

Elliott’s eyebrows practically jumped up into his hairline. “Really? I minored in art history.”

“Vraiment?! Quelle coïncidence! Where did you study? Have you visited Paris yet? All the museums there—oof, you would love it!” Her enthusiasm was palpable, and Odette inched closer to Elliott, their newfound connection seemingly ousting me out of their conversation.

“I grew up in Kansas City, but when I became interested in filmmaking and set my heart on UCLA, my single mom knew out-of-state tuition would be impossible. In-state was hard enough, even with loans and grants. So we moved to Fresno when I was in high school, I got accepted into UCLA’s film school, and I put my nose to the grindstone to make it worth the sacrifice every day since. A professor I TA’ed for convinced me that an art history minor would help refine my eye as a filmmaker. Wise man.” Elliott paused and set his napkin in his lap. “If I get to Paris, I may not have a ton of time to explore all the museums. So if you have any recommendations on your favorites or tips on how to see the best exhibits, I’d love to hear them.”

I didn’t quite catch her response as I was marveling at the ease of their conversation—like a friendly game of tennis, gently lobbing the ball back and forth with fluidity, when ours had been so . . . trying and difficult. Elliott hadn’t said that many words in the full twenty-four hours I’d known him, let alone shown any kind of interest in me or my background like he was with Odette. I felt a pang of jealousy, and not because Odette was so beautiful and captivating (and she was undoubtedly both) but because I literally had nothing of substance to add to the conversation and felt a bit like an uninvited third wheel.

I didn’t go to college. I’d thought about it, but in the end, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with my life and didn’t have the first clue as to what to major in. So when Nude and Nervous, Celebrity Edition came calling and offered me a big fat paycheck and the promise of a multi-season run, I gave up on the idea entirely. Now looking at the current state of things, I couldn’t escape the nagging feeling I’d made all the wrong decisions.

Odette cracked open a small wooden box containing a variety of tea flavor options and showed the selection to Elliott.

“Which one do you recommend?” he asked.

“Le citrus is my favorite.”

He offered her a smile and nodded. “I’ll have that one, then.”

Odette pulled the tea bag from the paper and placed it on the saucer. She surveyed the room quickly to check on the other patrons, and seeing no one needed her assistance, rested the teapot on the table and pulled up a seat in between me and Elliott.

“I am so pleased you are here, and I’m sorry I could not stay and chat with you yesterday. I must confess, I learned English from watching EVERLYday. I’m such a huge fan. Will your sisters be joining you in France?”