With his hands on his hips, Bastien grumbled as he strode back to me.

“What’s wrong? What’s going on?” I asked.

“I spent close to three years renovating this house, and the clown over there won’t let me past the front gate. He must be new, but even still, c’est répréhensible!”

“What about the owners? Can’t you just call them?”

“This time of year they’re on their yacht somewhere in the middle of the Med.”

“Three years? Someone’s bound to recognize you.” I tilted my head toward the front gate. “Let’s go back and ask around for someone else.”

“I have a better idea. Come with me.” He took me by the hand, flashing me his most devilish smile before leading me around the side of the gate and out of sight.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Bastien continued down to the estate’s massive vineyard with rows of grapevines whose sprawl faded off into the horizon. We wove in and out through the meticulous rows until we made our way to the back of the estate. “If I am remembering right . . . yes, good, it’s still there,” he said, pointing to a large door that opened into what looked like a cellar. “That’s the wine storage room. The servants’ staircase connects through there into the lower level.”

He started to advance toward the door, but I stayed in place, forcing Bastien to stop short when my hand, still connected with his, didn’t move forward too. “No, we can’t,” I pleaded, pulling him back. I didn’t need any scandals, any bad press, any additional attention. My palms started to prickle with sweat at the thought of doing any kind of stint in a federally mandated orange jumpsuit. “Wouldn’t it be trespassing?”

He flashed a sexy grin. “Only in the most literal sense of the word. I don’t know about you, but I’m not trying to steal any of the silver. I just want to show you around a bit, and then we’ll go. No harm done.”

Rhys and I used to pull crazy stunts like this together all the time. Skinny-dipping or staging elaborate pranks on the EVERLYday crew. He was always game for anything I suggested, and I loved him for it. We made a good team—that was until I realized he’d started playing the part of supportive boyfriend instead of actually being the supportive boyfriend he had always been. The more out of control I got, the more publicity he got, and with his recent admission about the tape, it was only now I realized he may have been fervently fanning the flames of my self-destruction all along.

Bastien took note of the uneasiness on my face and placed my hands in his. “Plum, turn around, you see these vineyards? They’re characterized by their terroir.”

I searched my limited French vocabulary and came up empty. “Terroir? I’m not sure I know that word.”

“It loosely translates to mean ‘a sense of place.’ In a vineyard, terroir refers to the specific characteristics imparted to the wine itself. But it is no different with people or even houses. Everyone, really everything, has its own unique terroir or sense of place in this world. A restoration is about honoring such things. I did it here at Château du Val d’Été, and we will do it again at Le Château Mirabelle. Come inside with me. Let me show you what I mean,” he said, gently cupping my chin in his palm. I looked up into his eyes, which were flickering with optimism. “What do you say, game for another adventure?” he whispered softly.

Realizing that this wasn’t a publicity stunt but a genuine moment of spontaneity, I brushed aside my apprehension and allowed myself to be swept away. “Oui. Yes. Let’s go inside,” I answered.

Bastien set off into the cellar while I followed closely behind him. A few vineyard workers were inside packing up cases of wine for shipment. I took out my phone and filmed them. It was just the kind of slice-of-life moment I loved to capture. Over the last few days, I’d decided to keep my own video diary of my time in Provence. Maybe just for myself? Maybe I would use it for social media down the road? The truth was that I wasn’t really sure what I was doing it for exactly, but with so much inspiration to be found here, I simply couldn’t help myself.

I took a few steps closer to the table and zoomed in on the workers’ rough hands, their weathered faces, and their mud-stained cuffs. I dragged the camera down the long rows of empty glass bottles that would soon be filled to the brim with crisp white wine.

Bastien leaned over as I continued to focus in on the tightly bound strips of the grainy French oak barrels. “Isn’t it your job to host the show, not to film it?” he asked.

“There is something so beautiful about the simple things. You know, real life,” I said, turning off the phone.

“Oui,” he agreed, “there most certainly is.”

We smiled and nodded at the workers as we continued past, but they barely batted an eye. They probably figured we were just guests of the château who lost their way. Climbing up the steep, cramped, winding servants’ staircase, we emerged surreptitiously in a hallway between the kitchen and dining room.

“Château Mirabelle has a few things going for it that Château du Val d’Été did not,” Bastien explained.

“Yeah? What are those?” I asked.

“Well, plumbing and running water for one. None of it’s up to code, of course, but at least we have a better place to start from.”

It was hard to believe that the gorgeous estate surrounding us didn’t even have the bare basics when Bastien took it on as a restoration project. It sparked in me a renewed hope for the future of Château Mirabelle, and I could now envision those crumbling walls and dilapidated floorboards transforming into this. We continued down the dimly lit passageway and up another small flight of stairs into the château’s sun-soaked entranceway with floor-to-ceiling windows. Carrara white and black marble tiles were laid out like a chessboard in front of us.

“Come,” Bastien said, taking my hand. “I want to show you the salon.”

Chapter Seventeen

We stepped into a cozy room with painted ceiling beams and a massive fireplace. Bastien pointed up at the rafters. “You see the lights? Chandeliers, girandoles, and candelabras were all redesigned to re-create the original feeling of . . . intimacy.” We locked eyes for a moment before he continued his tour.

“The goal of this renovation was to restore the space to its original condition while being mindful of the decorative woodwork, paintings, gilding, and flooring.” He drew my attention to the ground. “The paneling was entirely removed to allow for necessary structure and to hide the lighting and safety networks. We also worked on all the stone and brickwork, and the plastering, bien sûr. All but maybe a dozen walls in the château were compromised in some way or another when we started.”

It was becoming increasingly clear why Bastien brought me here. He wanted to show me where a little vision and a lot of hard work could get you. He had every reason to be proud of Château du Val d’Été. It was more than a home, it was a painstakingly crafted work of art.

“So what do you say? Should we go get a drink in the garden? They have a lovely restaurant out there,” he said.

We settled down at a table under a large black-and-white-striped umbrella. A server spotted us and came rushing over to take our order. I motioned for Bastien to take the lead. He picked up the wine list, rattling off a litany of wines and vintages.

Bastien handed the two menus to the server and crossed his legs at the ankle. “I hope you don’t mind, I took the liberty of ordering a flight of their finest: Sancerre, Sauvignon Blanc, Melon de Bourgogne, Chenin Blanc, and one surprise. Although we’re often overshadowed by France’s more prestigious regions, most obviously Bordeaux, the Luberon Valley has played a vital role in French wine history for many centuries.”

“You’re so passionate about wine and winemaking. Did you ever consider becoming a vintner like your grandfather?”

“Pfft,” he scoffed a bit sourly. “Considered it? Mais oui! Of course. It’s all I wanted for as long as I could remember, but I don’t come from a wealthy family, and these things, they are, how do you say . . . political. It’s not like how it used to be, the trade being passed down through the generations. The newer châteaus and wineries want you to have all the formal accreditations, and I couldn’t afford the tuition. A good vintner can make the difference between poverty and prosperity. I understand, though, these vineyards have become important businesses for this region.”

“I guess that explains why Odette was so disappointed to hear I wouldn’t be staying on to run Château Mirabelle,” I said.

Bastien’s lips flattened into a smooth line as he shifted in his seat. There was clearly something he wasn’t telling me. “Hey, what’s the real story with you and Odette?” I asked.

The server came over with our order and placed the two flights on the table, along with small plates of tangy olive tapenade, buttery foie gras, and creamy herb-infused fromage de chèvre paired with slices of crusty baguette. Bastien lifted the first glass and swallowed it down in one gulp. He set the empty glass back on the table. “What do you want to know?”

I shrugged. “I guess whatever you’re comfortable sharing.”

“Odette and I were childhood sweethearts. I thought I might even marry her one day.”

I propped my elbows onto the table, my eyes wide in disbelief. “What happened?”

“So many things. But if I had to narrow it down to just one, I wasn’t good enough for her.”

“She actually told you that?”

“Not in so many words, but her actions made it clear enough. At one time I did think I would follow in my grandfather’s footsteps. But when all those winery doors were slammed shut in my face, I wasn’t sure how I would be able to support myself, let alone a wife and family. I promised Odette I would make something of myself, I just needed a bit of time to figure out how. Well, she couldn’t wait. First chance she got, she hightailed it to Paris and started building a whole new life, one that didn’t include moi.”

I shook my head. “That’s awful.”

“No. She’s always wanted more than this provincial life. I’m sure she would have come to that realization eventually, no matter what.”

“But she seemed so committed to the idea that Château Mirabelle could help revitalize Maubec. She was talking like it was her own personal mission or something.”

“I’m sure she wants what is best for Maubec. Her maman and papa have the inn there. But Odette won’t be returning. She’s very wrapped up in her new Parisian friends and their jet-set lifestyle. I’m certain that is why she attached herself to you so quickly, you represent everything she wants for herself—fame, fashion, status, followers.”