I scrolled through my phone to see if any new emails or texts came through from Kate or production. “So what do you know about him?”

“Know about who?” he asked with a grunt of impatience as he was scrolling through his own phone, clearly distracted.

“Bastien?” I asked, meeting his tone of agitation with one of my own.

Elliott reached into his backpack and pulled out a folder. He opened it on his lap and riffled through a bunch of papers before pulling one out of the stack. “Bastien Munier was born and raised in Maubec,” he read off his résumé.

“I think it’s pronounced moo-nee-ay, not manure.”

“That’s what I just said, Bastien Munier.”

“You’re still pronouncing it manure,” I corrected.

Elliott huffed and passed me the paper. “Look at it yourself, then.”

I scanned through Bastien’s CV sprinkled with contracting experience and renovation projects throughout Provence and then flipped the page to find his professional headshot staring back at me. He was at least twenty years younger than I expected, with a classic square jaw, a tall forehead, strong and symmetrical features, and a slight scruff that gave him a bit more ruggedness than his broad shoulders did. There was no question he was gorgeous—sexy, mysterious, and undeniably French with a cool confidence conveyed through his smoldering stare.

Starting to feel a bit carsick from reading, I returned the folder to Elliott as the van slowed down. Gervais pulled up on the brake, and I looked out the window and squinted my eyes to see through the bars of a vine-covered wrought iron gate to the château, but I couldn’t make out the house.

Gervais slid open the van door. “Voilà, Château Mirabelle,” he said, tossing a half-smoked cigarette onto the ground. He tapped on his watch. “I will return precisely at two o’clock.”

“Gervais, comment ça va?” an excited voice called out from behind us.

“Bastien!” Gervais said, throwing out his arms for a hug, and then launched into rapid-fire French that neither Elliott nor I could even attempt to follow. “Ça fait longtemps qu’on ne s’est pas vus. C’est bon de te voir.”

Bastien patted Gervais on the back. “Toi aussi, mon ami!”

Bastien extended his hand in my direction. “Bonjour. Moi, c’est Bastien. You must be Plum and Elliott?”

“Yes. Oui. We are. I mean, I’m Plum, and this is Elliott,” I said nervously. He was even better looking in person than his headshot, which in my experience was rarely ever the case. His eyes were warmer and more easygoing than the serious sex appeal of his photograph. Don’t get me wrong, there was still sex appeal—and lots of it—but Bastien was even more enticing when he offered a wide grin and open arms in a genuinely enthusiastic welcome.

He scooped me into his arms, lifting me up off my feet in excitement, and pressed his lips to my right cheek and then my left. A school-girl-esque flutter flickered inside me like a live wire. He set me down, and as I tried to regain my balance, Bastien continued to make his introductions by extending an open hand out for Elliott’s. Elliott didn’t seem nearly as taken with him as I was. (Probably because Bastien was far more my type than Elliott’s.) But like a professional, he shifted his camera to his other arm so that he could meet Bastien’s hand with his own.

Bastien practically bounced out of his skin, unable to stand in one place for too long. “Lovely to meet you both, and bienvenue au Château Mirabelle. Did you know the word mirabelle roughly translates to mean plum, so it is . . . how do you say . . . sérendipité this home should be yours.” He batted his eyes at me through thick lashes, and I’m pretty sure I melted a little. I don’t know if it was the accent, the general air of charm and charisma, or the ambience of being flirted with in the middle of rolling lavender fields and grapevines, but he could have told me that I had bird poop in my hair, and I think I still would have swooned a bit.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Elliott muttered under his breath.

“No, I am not kidding you,” Bastien said, reeling around to answer Elliott, oblivious to his sarcasm. “The mirabelle, it is a very sweet, luscious fruit, but also quite rare. Because of the rich soil and abundant sunshine, however, they truly flourish in this part of France.” Bastien motioned toward the château. “Ready to make our way? On y va!”

Bounding up the long, plum tree–lined drive toward the house, Elliott and I did our best to keep up with Bastien’s quick stride and the amount of information he was dispensing about the property. All the while, I couldn’t help but marvel at the expanse of the land, like a panoramic photograph that almost defied description. Rows of grapevines wound gracefully along the contours of the land, their young leaves vibrant with the promise of future bounty, and cypress trees, with their slender, dark-green silhouettes, punctuated the landscape, like tall sentinels standing watch over their flock.

We rounded the final bend, and there in front of us, perched atop a sloping hill, sat Château Mirabelle. The home must have been a breathtaking sight in its prime, but it wasn’t hard to see that time and the elements had not been particularly kind. The once-majestic turrets were now leaning at odd angles, each looking as if it could collapse at any moment. The slate roof was covered in a plush green moss now threatening to overtake the uppermost sills. Thick, ropelike vines climbed up the stone walls, reaching into every crack and crevice. Most noticeable were the blown-out windows, doorways, and ramparts on the far end of the estate closest to the vineyard, almost as if a bomb had detonated somewhere deep within the belly of the house.

Despite all that, it wasn’t hard to look past the decay and see all the wonderful potential of the place. The classic architecture and craftsmanship of a bygone era. From the marble fountains that still spouted fresh spring water, to the multicolored stained glass windows, to the menacing gargoyles carved in stone staring down at us from up above. I hadn’t even set foot into the château, and already I loved everything about her.

I closed my eyes and inhaled the warm, sweet air, focusing on the symphony of lavender, the hints of earthy soil, and the delicate, fruity fragrance of ripening mirabelles, speckled like little globes of sunshine in fields of green. This place was truly magical, and though from the looks of the exterior we had our work cut out for us, I knew once it was all said and done, the finished result could be a masterpiece.

“Château Mirabelle . . . this house, well, maybe not house, more like castle, it’s just amazing,” I gushed.

“Wait until you step inside. It’s in need of some love and attention, no doubt about that, but like all great and overlooked things,” Bastien said, gazing into my eyes, “it is full of untapped potential.” There was a sincerity in his voice that stopped me dead in my tracks. Rhys had been a lot of things, but earnest was not one of them.

“I have loved this château since I was a boy,” he continued. “So when Kate Wembley and Tributary reached out about restoring the property, well, how could I say anything other than oui. You know, my grandfather used to work as the estate’s vintner. His Chenin Blanc was the stuff of legends. We have just a few bottles left, one that was promised to me and my future bride to drink on our wedding night.”

“Wow, that must be some wine.” Elliott snorted.

“Oh, it is. It really is,” Bastien said, oblivious to Elliott’s swipe. “So shall we go inside?”

Elliott slung a camera onto his shoulder. “Not me, I have to take some exterior shots. You two go ahead. I’ll find you in the house later.”

Chapter Eleven

Bastien took my hand and helped me over the broken, cracked, dandelion-covered path that led up to the imposing front door.

“Le château has a long and complicated history in Maubec. Do you know much about it?” Bastien asked.

A little embarrassed, I shook my head. And I was grateful Elliott had left. I didn’t need to endure his judgment for not having done my homework. But, to be fair, Kate didn’t provide any materials about the house’s history at all, only the projections for the film schedule and some notes back and forth about ways they planned to highlight a different side of Plum Everly. So technically, there really wasn’t homework to do.

Ugh. Whatever. That’s why we had Bastien. Plus, in all fairness, me not knowing much about the château (yet) made for a great opportunity to get a bit closer to our sexy lead contractor. Anyone worth their salt knew full well that chemistry and natural magnetism between costars was a crucial element to a show’s success, so spending time together to fill in all the gaps of what I didn’t know . . . would be time well spent.

“And yet you agreed to take on the project anyway? That was brave of you,” he joked.

“Not brave. I was ready to get out of LA. I have a complicated history there. I hate to say it, but my agent could have offered me a gig on the moon, and I probably would have said yes.”

“Well, it may not be the moon, but it is absolutely of a different time and place, like another world entirely.”

“I’m beginning to see that.”

Bastien laughed and stretched out his arm toward a crumbling rock wall in the courtyard. “Château Mirabelle started out as a fortress. That one barricade is all that is left of it. The house you see now was built in the late 1600s on the site of an older castle partially destroyed in 1580 during the Wars of Religion.”

“Oh? But what happened between 1580 and now? Why was the house left abandoned?” I asked.

“In the summer of 1942, the mayor of Maubec received a telegram insisting he evacuate the château. The Third Reich wanted it as lodging for their officers. But what the German army didn’t know was that beneath the house there’s an elaborate web of caves built to store wine—but also useful for hiding things, like weapons, Resistance fighters, and Jewish families trying to make their way to Switzerland.”

As he described what happened, I was spellbound by his storytelling and could immediately understand why, beyond his obvious good looks, Kate chose him to be on camera. “So what happened?”

“They blew it up,” he said matter-of-factly.

My eyes were now as round as my mouth. When my brain caught up, I asked, “Who blew it up? The German army?”

“No, the town! Madame and Monsieur Adélaïse, the owners of Château Mirabelle, gathered all the Resistance fighters in Maubec, and together they destroyed as much of the house and as much evidence as they could. Their bravery likely saved hundreds of lives.”

Goose bumps prickled up my arms, and suddenly the gorgeous, sun-soaked landscape darkened a bit under the shadow of such a tragic story of sacrifice and bravery. Afraid to know the answer, I continued in spite of myself, “And Madame and Monsieur Adélaïse, what happened to them?”

Bastien pressed his lips together and shook his head grimly. “They went into hiding, but eventually they were found, arrested for their disloyalty to the Third Reich, and never heard from again, I’m afraid. That is how the house came to be vacant all these years. The village did its best to maintain the property, but over time, it was simply too much, too hard.” He glanced over at me. “Forgive me, I am talking on and on. I don’t mean to bore you with all this history stuff.”

“Bore me? Are you kidding? I’m riveted. But it’s sad, isn’t it? That more people don’t know this story. About the bravery the town showed in the face of such adversity. Like, why weren’t these the stories we’d hear about in school?”

Bastien’s eyes turned more somber and soulful. “Sad? Perhaps? But we can give the story a happy ending, n’est-ce pas? We can rebuild what has been lost so that it may be found.” A warmth radiated from the upturn of his lips, luring me into total agreement. He blushed and pushed open the front door with both of his hands. “Here,” he said, handing me a hard hat. “Keep an eye out, quite a few of the floor planks are missing, and there is a low-hanging beam that could go at any time.”