As my mind raced, recalling my kiss with Bastien, I couldn’t help but chime in, my voice filled with anticipation, “Absolutely, let’s see where this journey takes us.”

Chapter Twenty

Two weeks later and according to René, we’d already fallen at least a month behind on the renovation schedule, and I couldn’t figure out where we’d gone wrong. Bastien blamed the incompetence and insubordination of the crew. He’d fired three workers so far, and we seemed to be growing in shorter and shorter supply of employees who met his high standards. The whole mess had slowed the project so greatly, I really started to worry about meeting the show’s tight deadline.

If I knew one thing, it was that production delays equaled money. Lots of money. And money was not something that producers were happy about wasting, especially for avoidable issues. Maybe they’d blame me and toss me from the project? Or even worse, what if the whole operation folded because this small-bit company didn’t have enough backing to extend production? My mind was reeling, and I could feel a migraine mounting at the base of my skull.

I rubbed my temples and sat on a stone retaining wall in front of the château. Bastien stormed out the front door and stood for a second under the entryway with his hands set firmly on his hips. After a few heated seconds of pacing and muttering to himself, he lifted his head, probably to see if anyone was watching, and caught sight of me. His stance softened, and the corners of his mouth curved up into a smile.

“What is that phrase you Americans say?” He sat down on the wall beside me. “A nickel for your thoughts?”

I laughed and leaned into him. “Penny. A penny for your thoughts.”

“Okay, take all my money for your thoughts. Whatever you like, it is yours.” His thick French accent made his silly banter even cuter. He lifted my hand and pressed my palm to his lips. “These workers don’t know their col from their cul.”

“Their what from their what?”

“They don’t know their collar from ass! I know that you have been worried about the progress, but I promise, even if I have to be here morning, noon, and night. Tout ira bien, comme toujours, we will get it sorted.”

He kissed my forehead and ran the tips of my hair between his fingers. When Bastien spoke to me in French, it was sexy as hell, but I rarely had any clue what he was saying. What did it even matter, though, when he was just so damn charming? “Don’t work too hard. I was hoping we could grab some dinner later. Maybe Chez Noisette?”

“I don’t know. I was thinking maybe more of a night in.” He waggled his eyebrows to emphasize his suggestion.

“You’re working that French-lover stereotype real hard now, aren’t you?” I teased.

He gave his eyebrows one last definitive shimmy. “As if you mind,” he said between brushing a few sweet kisses down the column of my neck before standing.

“Whoa, wait, Romeo, where are you going!?” I said, my skin still tingling in each spot where he’d pressed his soft lips.

“Ma belle, we are already behind schedule,” he joked. “I cannot be responsible for any more delays. Plus, we are going to dinner later, non?”

“I thought we were staying in tonight?” I asked.

“Okay, well, if you insist.” He winked and then headed back toward the house.

As soon as he was within earshot of any worker who would listen, Bastien was already starting back in with the shouting. “Non, non, non!” His voice grew louder with each iteration of the word.

All I could hear from where I was sitting was the worker speaking in rapid French, and Bastien meeting him with furious huffs and grunts. Out of my peripheral, I spotted Elliott coming my way from the house, but I didn’t look up. The pressure in my head was increasing with every disagreement.

Elliott rested his camera equipment against the half wall and then sat next to me, wiping the dust from his sunglasses on his T-shirt. In the last two weeks, we’d settled into a cordial working relationship, realizing we both needed the other if we were to have any hope of success for this project.

“I can’t film any of this. René and him are going at it like two cocks in a ring.” Elliott grunted.

I tilted my head, picking up on the dig at his word choice. “What are they fighting about now?” I asked, not even sure I wanted to know.

“There are issues with the foundation, and the way Bastien wants the plumbing, and the electrical work is not up to code or something like that. I can’t make out enough of the French to really be sure.”

“I’m sure he just wants it all to be perfect. He cares so much about this project. Does Kate have any idea how behind schedule we are?” I asked.

“She says the dailies are testing so well that they’ll find the money to make it work, so it seems we both still have a job, for now.” He smirked and bent down to grab the camera at his feet. “Actually, I had an idea while I was waiting for something filmable in there. How about you and I go shoot a few clips off-site? We can grab some footage from around town and try to interview some locals? Beats sitting on our asses listening to this nonsense for the next few hours.”

“Agreed. I’m sure by the time we return, Bastien will have it all sorted out, and we’ll be back on schedule.” My voice sounded hopeful as I tried to mask my skepticism.

“I doubt it.”

“We’ll see.” I smiled at him, secretly grateful for the excuse of a temporary escape.

We asked Gervais to drop us back in the town’s center, where we plotted our route over garlicky mussels in a soupy, white-wine-and-herb-infused broth and extra-crispy frites. The small cliffside bistro had about ten small wrought iron tables with mosaic tops adorned with fanned white linen napkins that billowed gracefully in the afternoon breeze. When the server asked what we’d like to drink, we ordered two glasses of the Chenin Blanc he’d recommended to go with the meal.

A roving accordion player strolled past, and the melody of France’s famous “La Vie En Rose” floated by on the back of a warm breeze. Elliott’s foot grazed against mine as he inched closer to listen. As he scooted in, his eyes glanced at my cheek, and he moved his fingers toward my face. Confused and a little unnerved, I tried to lean back, but as I was pinned against the chair, his pointer finger and thumb reached out to brush my cheek. Considering the size of his mitt-like hands, his touch was surprisingly gentle.

“Uh . . . whatcha doing there, buddy?”

He pulled his fingers back, away from my face, and held out his thumb. “Eyelash. Make a wish.” The sentence came out in one breath, like it was preprogrammed.

Out of the thousand things I saw Elliott do every day, nothing could have prepared me for that to have come out of his mouth. I squinted at him to check if he was joking, and then seeing that he wasn’t, I looked to the tiny hair on the large pad of his thumb. I chuckled. “Make a wish!? I thought only eight-year-old girls did that?!”

Catching himself, he blushed, almost as if surprised he’d said it at all. “Eight-year-old girls and overly superstitious thirty-year-old men who grew up in a house full of little sisters. Some habits die hard, I guess.” But in spite of his embarrassment, he extended his thumb out a bit closer, and, surrendering, I closed my eyes.

I inhaled deeply and considered my wish before opening my eyes, pursing my lips together, and expelling a whoosh of breath to send the eyelash into the warm summer air—and along with it, any traces of his previous embarrassment.

Elliott pulled back, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, while grabbing for a sip of his wine with the other. “So what’d you wish for?” he asked as soon as he swallowed.

“I can’t tell you that! Or else it won’t come true. Everybody knows that.” I crossed my arms over my chest as if holding in my secret and grinned in mock defiance.

Maybe I was a little superstitious too. He smiled but he didn’t speak, his eyes remaining focused on me. I wasn’t sure if he was challenging me with his stare to tell him my wish, or just observing the fact that I wouldn’t. Either way, usually, I would have ignored the attention, but from him, I held his gaze and studied his face, his relaxed posture, his lack of pretense.

When I finally pulled my eyes from his, I scanned the bistro as it twinkled under the string lights above. The warm, honeyed tones of the Provençal sky merged seamlessly with the landscape below, and the hills, dressed in a patchwork quilt of vibrant greens and soft purples, unfurled like a living tapestry tossed over the hills as if to keep it warm as the temperatures dipped at night.

I took out my phone, opened the video app, and zoomed in on the accordionist swaying to and fro in front of the whole picturesque view. The entire scene was so cinematic I couldn’t help but be drawn to capturing it, even though I was certain the magnitude and true beauty could never adequately translate the same way as seeing it in person.

Elliott, spotting my camera, started waving his hands at me, his eyes growing wide in panic. “Ah, no! What are you doing!? That’s just going to make him come over here!” He very inconspicuously tried to hide behind his menu, obviously unsuccessfully since his head alone could barely be concealed by the tiny paper flapping in the breeze.

The musician meandered closer as the final notes were played and peeked over his accordion to ask, “Excusez-moi, do you young lovers have any special requests?”

Elliott looked around, seeming to think the stranger was addressing someone else, and when the man stood there waiting for a response, Elliott finally sputtered, “Lo . . . lovers?! Us? No! We’re not!”

“Jeez, relax. We’re sharing a bowl of mussels and a bottle of wine and sitting like two feet away from one another. It’s not completely unreasonable he might think we were on some sort of date. Doesn’t make it true,” I shot back. “And thank you for making it sound like a date with me is the most offensive idea on the planet. Real ego boost, thank you.”

Elliott turned to the accordionist. “We’re fine. This isn’t a date and we . . . we’re not . . . lovers. Um, here,” he said, tossing some money into his porkpie hat, “take this, for the rose song.”

The rose song, classic Elliott.

I continued filming him, zeroing in on his flushed face and him gulping down his glass of water, until the musician disappeared into the crowd to serenade some actual lovers, and then I tucked my phone back into my bag.

Elliott watched me as I put it away and said, “I know I was giving you a hard time about your little videos before, but I’ve seen some of the clips you’ve been posting to your TikTok account. And, I’m big enough to admit, they’re not half bad. The one you posted a few days ago of Agnès shuffling around the inn in her housedress arranging sprigs of lavender was really very good. The editing was clever and original, and it showed her in a totally different light.”