“Hazelnut. That’s it!” I covered the side of my face with my hand and whispered, “My sister Pear adds almond paste to hers.”
Agnès smiled and pushed the basket toward Elliott. “One for the road?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, grabbing a delicious-looking tarte aux pommes from the pile and ripping a huge chunk off with his teeth. “Will we see you again?” Elliott asked Odette once he’d swallowed.
“Oui, I’m home for . . . how do you say in America . . . summer break?”
“Good, maybe I’ll catch you around, then. Plum, the van will be here at ten thirty. I’ll meet you outside.” He turned to leave before I even had the chance to respond.
“Is he your boyfriend?” Odette asked once Elliott was out of earshot.
“My boyfriend? God, no. He works on the production side of the show.”
She moistened her lips, closed up the box of teas, and stood. “Why don’t we all grab a drink later? Let me show you both around Avignon.”
“Avignon? Not Maubec?”
“If you drove through the town square and passed the clock tower, then you have seen all of Maubec. Avignon, though, is a bit larger and feels much younger since it is where you’d find one of the bigger universities in Provence. Lots of music festivals, a cool art scene, fun nightlife. Much more exciting than Maubec.”
I dabbed the corners of my mouth with the cloth napkin and set it down on the table. “Sure, sounds like fun.”
“Magnifique!”
“Odette, dépêchez-vous,” Agnès shouted from the next table.
She tilted her head to the right. “I should go.”
“Me too,” I said, standing from the table and pushing in my chair.
“See you later, n’est-ce pas?”
“Absolument.”
Chapter Ten
At precisely 10:29 a.m., the Sprinter van sent from production rumbled up to the inn’s entrance, kicking a thick cloud of dirt and gravel into the air. I waved my hand to clear away the swirling dust, but not before I managed to inhale a lungful. I coughed a few times, finally taking a large swig of water to stop the fit.
Elliott stepped outside the inn and raised his arms over his head to stretch. “Ah, smell that French country air. Just incredible.”
I coughed a few more times as Gervais came around to slide the door open for us.
“After you,” Elliott said, motioning to the van. “No first-class cabin in here, you’ll have to make do in coach with the rest of us commoners.”
Sheesh. Talk about not knowing how to let something go. He was holding on to the one stupid quip I made at the airport tighter than a squirrel hoarding acorns for the winter. “That’s okay, you go ahead,” I offered.
“No, you go. I have to get all the equipment loaded up in the back.”
I nodded and climbed into the van. I yelled to Gervais and tapped on the window. “Can we open these? Remember, yesterday?” Who could forget? “I get motion sickness?” I lifted up my bag, pantomimed puking into it, and then pointed to the window again.
Gervais rolled his eyes and said, “Ah oui. Dégoûtant!” He reached over me and pushed open the window.
“Merci.”
Elliott finished loading his equipment into the back and hopped into the captain’s chair beside me in the van.
“Aren’t we just meeting with the contractor? Why’d you bring all your camera equipment?” I asked.
“The network wants some exterior shots of the château for early promotional stuff. I figured I’d grab the footage while you meet with Bastien.”
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.
