“Merveilleux, I am so pleased when visitors really get to experience Avignon et Maubec and the real experience de Provence,” Agnès said with a flourish. When she was finally satisfied with the placement and wrinkle-free state of the tablecloth, she set down a small cup and saucer. “Croissant? Espresso?”

“Would it be possible to take them to go? I’m already running way behind.”

She nodded. “Coming in une minute.”

Agnès scooted off to fix the small order before I could even say thank you and brought a small paper cup and white wax paper bag back just as quickly. Tucking the pastry into my purse, I said, “Merci beaucoup.”

Pascal said, “Prune, your French is already much improved.”

I pushed my sunglasses onto my head. “Really?”

“No, I tease,” he deadpanned. “But how about we work on it together. I can tutor you. Would you like that?”

I clapped my hands together enthusiastically. “Ooh yes! I am très excitée!”

He lifted an index finger in the air and waved it furiously. “Non, non, non!” He scooted closer, and I couldn’t help but notice a rosy tint creeping up his face. “Mademoiselle, uh . . . excitée doesn’t mean the same thing here as it does where you live, I think.” The blush on his cheeks was even more pronounced as he fumbled through the explanation. “It has more of a connotation sexual, n’est-ce pas? Vous comprenez? Sex-u-al?” He lifted his brows and slowed the word, his embarrassment reaching a fever pitch.

“Oh . . . Ohhhhhhh!” I cupped my hand over my mouth, finally at long last understanding that excited in French means excited. “Oh my gosh, that’s um . . . not what I meant . . . at all. I just meant I can’t wait to start, but in a completely nonsexual and platonic type of way,” I sputtered, already mortified and ready to cancel the lessons altogether.

He smiled warmly and nodded. “Ça va, ma belle. How could you have known? It is what we call a faux-ami, a false friend. It is a word that looks the same as your English one, but doesn’t mean quite the same thing.”

“Good to know. And I don’t need any more of those, false friends that is,” I joked. “But either way, I guess we’ve already gotten over me worrying about making a fool of myself, so nothing left to lose, right? Anyway, all that to say, I’m very interested, and I can pay you whatever the going rate is?”

“You can pay me nothing. Consider it a hotel amenity. We don’t have a fancy spa or gym or swimming pool on property, so the least I can do is offer my services to teach you a few phrases to help you get around town.”

“That is very generous. But I think you’re ahead of the game. I mean, who needs a gym with all these steep hills everywhere anyway?” I craned my neck toward the door. “I should probably get going.”

“À toute à l’heure! J’espère que tu as passé une merveilleuse journée!” Pascal called.

I froze in place trying to see if I recognized any of the many words he’d just thrown my way. Journée . . . journey? Ugh . . . I didn’t know. With that whole faux-amis thing, he could have been talking about the Academy Award nominees for all I knew. I just shrugged and smiled. “Yeah, not gonna lie, I didn’t catch any of that. Maybe we can start our lessons tonight?”

“I am very much looking forward to it,” he called after me with a wave.

I stepped outside into the cooler temperatures of the early June morning, surprised to find Bastien already waiting for me, fresh faced and wearing a crisp white T-shirt and dark jeans. He was holding a helmet and leaning up against his Vespa, seemingly unaware of the young Dylan McKay, 90210—or better even still, James Dean—vibes he was giving off.

“You look well.” Bastien set the helmet down on the seat and kissed me hello. Smooch, smooch.

“Oh, well that’s good because I feel a little bit like I was hit by a truck.”

Monsieur Grenouille, the proprietor from across the way, was shooting daggers with his eyes. I wasn’t sure what he disapproved of more: me, Bastien, Vespas, or the combination of all three so close to his patisserie. If looks could kill, there was no doubt in my mind I’d be a chalk outline in the middle of the town square by now.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Grenouille, top of the morning to you,” I called out to him.

He made a sort of humph as he set his jaw, hugged his broom to his chest, and marched back into his shop.

Bastien’s attention darted back and forth between us. “What was that all about?”

“I don’t think he’s particularly happy the circus has come to town. And by circus, I mean me.” I took a huge swig of water and for just a second was worried it might come right back up. I put my hand over my mouth, closed my eyes, and swallowed again.

“If you want to do this another day, we can certainly reschedule,” Bastien said.

“No, we cannot do this another day,” Elliott said, walking out of the inn and interrupting our conversation. “The network wants to start reviewing footage this week.”

I rolled my eyes. So much for compassion. “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me. A little more hydration, and I’ll be right as rain in no time,” I said, steadying myself against the stone wall outside the inn.

“So then, shall we?” Bastien pointed to his Vespa.

“Plum’ll ride in the van with me,” Elliott said, his eyes never leaving me.

For as annoying as it was to admit, Elliott was probably right. I was barely able to balance myself upright on solid ground, so my chances of staying on the scooter as it navigated curvy gravel roads were slim to none. I turned to Bastien. “Probably not a bad idea while my stomach settles down.”

Bastien nodded, slipped his helmet on, and called out to Gervais, “Emmenez-les à l’église de Saint Orens. D’accord? À toute à l’heure!”

Elliott started to climb into the van, but then stopped himself and backed out, gesturing his arm into the vehicle instead. “No need for us to get all comfy, just in time for you to request a round of musical chairs. Better you just take the window seat and save us the shuffling.”

It took me a moment to realize he wasn’t kidding. “Oh, um . . . thanks. That was . . . thoughtful.” I pushed my seat belt firmly into the buckle.

“Honestly, it was a little self-serving. I didn’t bring a change of clothes,” he said in almost stern admonishment, and a fresh round of mortification burbled up like the bile I was fighting like hell to keep down. His serious face remained stoic for an extra beat until he broke into a smirk. “I’m just messing with you. But truthfully, no one needs a repeat performance of our airport trip. Just better to set things off on the right foot straight out of the gate, am I right?” Elliott nodded as if affirming his own statement, reached into his backpack, and passed me the day’s itinerary.

I looked over at his sheet and noticed our first stop was the church of Saint Orens. I looked up from the sheet. “Why are we going to this church instead of Château Mirabelle?”

“In these small villages, churches serve as the equivalent of a town hall. We should be able to find some of the original blueprints, maybe even some interior photographs of the house. All good fodder for the first episode. We’re meeting with a Father . . .”—Elliott riffled through the papers—“ah, there it is, Father François. He oversees their archives. Apparently Château Mirabelle has quite a rich history in Maubec. Did you know that the house was actually used by the French Resist—”

I cut him off midsentence. “I know, Bastien told me all about it.” Elliott’s general know-it-all-iness was really starting to grate on me. Sure, he thought he was highfalutin when he interned for Ken Burns, and sure, he probably considered this gig to be a huge step down, but man, he really needed to take a chill pill. Between his condescension, Roy Kent–style gruffness, and overall attitude toward me, this was going to be a looooong three months.

Elliott pursed his lips together, satisfied, and folded the itinerary back into his bag. “Good. Well then, nothing more to talk about I guess.” He pulled out his earbuds, popped them in, rolled his head to the side, and closed his eyes for the rest of the ride.

The van squeezed down a narrow alley, stopping in a picturesque town square with a large limestone fountain in the center of it. I pushed my face up against the window, my eyes trailing up a long cobblestone road lined with charming old white and honey-colored stone houses with blue wooden shutters.

Gervais threw the van into park and opened the door. “Sortez-ici. Out, out.”

I looked around, confused. “What is happening? We’re in the middle of the street in the middle of nowhere, and he wants us to get out of the van here?”

Elliott yanked his earbuds out and explained, “The van can’t make it up the road to the church. It’s too steep. We’ll have to walk up the hill.”

We both climbed out of the van and stepped onto the curb just as Bastien pulled up beside us in his Vespa. “Can I offer either of you a lift to the church?”

“I have to take up all the camera equipment, so I’ll just meet you there,” Elliott said.

“And Plum? Et toi?”

I glanced over at Elliott.

“Go ahead. There’s no reason for both of us to sweat our asses off as we struggle up the hill,” he said.

I turned to Bastien. “I don’t have a helmet.”

Bastien reached under the scooter’s seat and pulled an extra from the small compartment. But instead of handing it to me, he gently plunked it down on my head and fastened the clip under my chin with a wide grin and a satisfying, “Voilà.”