“What a coincidence, so am I.”
“It’s actually not a coincidence. I tried to introduce myself on the plane before they had us take our seats. I’m Elliott Schaffer, Heart Restoration Project’s production supervisor.”
“Really? And they sat you in coach?” I teased.
“There are worse things in life, I can assure you,” he scoffed.
Based on the look on his face, I couldn’t tell if he was being serious about the coach joke, and worse, I was pretty sure he thought that I was.
Chapter Seven
Gervais escorted us outside the Marseille airport to a ridiculously small vehicle, which, by the looks of it, wasn’t much larger than a Ringling Bros. clown car. I glanced over at Elliott, expecting an equal reaction of incredulity, but he showed no sign that he thought this to be anything strange or out of the ordinary.
“Excusez-moi, Monsieur, this car is to take both of us to Maubec?” I waggled a finger between me and Elliott, trying (unsuccessfully) to hide my confusion.
The driver shook his head. “Mais non, not exactly.” He emphasized the ee sound at the end of exactly with an extra flourish.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, good, that’s what I figured.”
The driver pulled out his cell phone again and checked the messages. “Ouais, we are supposed to be waiting for un de plus.”
“‘Un de plus’? What’s ‘un de plus’?” I asked with a crooked brow.
He pointed a single digit in the air to answer.
“One more? Another whole person? Wait, four of us in this little roller skate?” I asked. Elliott shot me a look of distaste as I fidgeted uncomfortably. “No problem, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I said, although I wasn’t sure at all. I scanned my eyes up Elliott’s humongous frame, at least six foot three if not taller, and was wondering if he’d spent time as a contortionist for as cool as he seemed about the situation.
Gervais continued to scroll through his phone and said, “Desolée, it seems there has been a change of plans. A member of your team was supposed to be in the car as well, but . . .” He tapped on his watch, as a way to explain their delay. “I will take you to the inn and return for her once her plane has arrivée.”
“Oh, okay, great. Merci. I could really use a shower and catnap before I hit the ground running.” I peeked around the back of the car, searching for a Harry Potter type of magical expanding trunk or more likely a trailer hitch. “Sir, where is my luggage going to go?”
“Oh no, everything is to remain here until all the production équipement arrives later. Then they’ll load everything together in the van and deliver your luggage to the inn, n’est-ce pas?”
I sucked air through my teeth. “Hmm . . . I don’t know if that’s going to work. I have things in there that I may need. Is there any way—”
A humph escaped from Elliott’s lips, and I shot a glance in his direction, spitting out, “Something to add?”
“Not at all.” But his expression said otherwise, his face resembling a steaming kettle ready to pop. The tight, thin line of his mouth implied he was trying to remain silent, but clearly he could no longer hold his tongue. He patted the car’s roof for emphasis. “Haven’t you ever seen a smart car before? It is one of the most popular cars across Europe because it’s practical. One, because of fuel costs; two, because of space; and three, because of price. But I can sense pragmatism isn’t your strong suit.”
Whoa, guess that little joke I made about him sitting in coach struck a nerve. I’d met him for less than ten whole minutes, and apparently he already felt some sort of contempt for me. Wait, no, that wasn’t it at all, it was worse. Elliott didn’t despise me; he despised the Plum Everly he’d seen on TV all these years. The one who sometimes played the villain, sometimes the flirt, sometimes the privileged princess—whoever and whatever the producers needed in order to sell their show.
Elliott confirmed my assumptions when he lifted his small duffel onto his shoulder and spat, “This isn’t EVERLYday or The Real Housewives of Maubec. Extravagances like Escalades and your luggage ‘essentials’ are unnecessary. Are you sure this project’s a good fit for you? It doesn’t seem like you’re accustomed to being inconvenienced.”
I flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance. “I’m just being realistic. Seriously, tell me how you plan on fitting in this car?”
“I’m sure I’ll manage. Can we just get on the road? I checked the GPS before we landed, and it will take about an hour to get to the inn from here. So we better get a move on.”
The driver popped his head from around the open door and interrupted. “Allo, coucou, I may have une solution. I can squeeze one of the valises onto the passenger seat, if you two would be okay to”—he gestured with his hands in a narrowing, pinching motion until they met—“how you say, smoosh.”
Our eyes shot to one another—a showdown without mercy until Elliott grunted in surrender. “Yeah, sure, fine. Can we just get going?”
“Bien sûr. Um . . . if you want to try to climb in the back and arrange yourself, I will return tout de suite.” He rushed inside the airport, leaving me and Elliott to battle ourselves into the miniature back seat. A growl escaped his lips, and sweat dripped down my forehead.
“Whoa, watch your hands, buddy—” I cried.
“Ow! Careful there, will ya? God, is your bag really worth all this?” he asked.
“Move over a bit, would you?”
“Uh, where exactly would you like me to go?” he pressed.
Our voices continued to jump over one another, escalating in volume and growing in intensity.
Elliott’s knees were practically up by his ears, and he was folded in half like an ironing board. The sound of slight panting puffed through the car, and out of the corner of my eye, I dared to look at him.
A smirk grew across my face. It reminded me of Chris Farley’s infamous “Fat Man in a Little Coat” except as “Tall Man in a Baby Car,” the mere thought of which sent me into an uncontrollable fit of giggles.
“Yes, hilarious. This should be a real hoot for an hour. Where is this guy with your bag? The sooner he gets back, the sooner we can leave, and the sooner I can unfold myself out of this ridiculous car,” Elliott ranted.
“Oh, so now the car’s ridiculous?!” I tried to peer through his arm and past his shoulder. “I see him now. Oh, thank God, he grabbed the right one,” I said, noticing the pink luggage tag.
“Yes, thank God,” Elliott mocked.
The driver lifted my suitcase into the front seat, slid behind the wheel, and adjusted the rearview mirror to try to see around Elliott’s head. I leaned forward. “Sir, before we get going, can you turn off the child locks on the windows? I need to roll mine down, I get terribly carsick.”
I didn’t miss Elliott’s eye roll. It was so exaggerated it was practically audible.
“Desolée, Mademoiselle. The window on that side is cassée.” He blew a raspberry with his lips. “It does not descendre . . .” He pointed down with his index finger.
