I moistened my lips. “In my culture, if we are too expressifs, we risk getting hurt.”

He caressed the side of my face. “I will not hurt you, Plum.”

I wanted so badly to believe him. To let him take me in his arms and back to his apartment and help me forget about the tape, about Rhys, about all of it. But I wasn’t ready, not yet anyway. “Can we just take things slow?”

“You are right,” he said, his tone gentle and reassuring, “there is no reason to rush something you want to last.”

“Merci.” And as I melted into his embrace, I couldn’t help but wonder two things. One: How did Bastien always seem to know just the right thing to say? And two: When would the weight of my past begin to feel just a little bit lighter?

Chapter Twenty-Three

Ever since arriving in France, I’d been looking forward to Kate’s visit to the set. She’d become a lifeline for me, taking early-morning calls, answering late-night texts, and basically reassuring me every chance she could that even though Château Mirabelle was far behind its renovation schedule, Heart Restoration Project would still be a success.

Since the crew would be continuing to work full steam ahead to get things ready before we could restart filming, Kate suggested we meet in Paris for a quick weekend jaunt before joining up with the rest of the production team in Provence. I jumped at the offer, desperately needing a change of scenery, some breathing room from whatever was starting to develop between me and Bastien, and a chance to escape to the City of Lights. There was one downside, though: Kate wanted Elliott to come along to film a bit of me in the bustling metropolis, a stark contrast from the sleepy vibe of Maubec. She thought our little foray to Paris might even serve as a good midpoint or lighthearted transition episode for the series.

It was a three-hour-plus train ride from Avignon to Paris, and for most of it, Elliott sat curled up in his seat, engrossed in a book. Some nonfiction, boring-looking behemoth with a plain cover and a thick spine. Every so often he’d yank out an earbud and ask me to scoot my knees over so he could pass to get to les toilettes or the café car. But for the most part we kept to our separate corners. Since our heated argument that afternoon we’d spent in town, he and I had barely spoken more than a few necessary words to one another. Still, with so much of the show left to shoot, I knew I needed to keep it civil between us if we were going to have any hope of making it through to the end.

We met Kate at George V, one of the swankiest hotels in the city with oversize suites and Eiffel Tower views right off the Champs-Élysées. She was waiting for me in the lobby, looking chic as ever, pin-straight blonde extensions framing her perfectly made-up face. You would never have guessed she just stepped off an almost twelve-hour flight.

“Plum, darling,” she said, springing over to me. “You look fabulous!” She eyed Elliott up and down. “Hello, you must be Elliott Schaffer?”

“Nice to finally meet you in person, Ms. Wembley,” Elliott said with a nod. He hoisted his camera onto his shoulder and switched it on, its bright light practically blinding us both.

Kate looked into the camera, seemingly startled that it was focused on her. The footage was supposed to be of me, not necessarily us, in Paris, but Elliott would need to film as much material as possible in order to ensure we’d get great edits.

“Best to think of him as a piece of furniture or a plant, something in the background nobody pays much attention to. Better yet, pretend like he’s not even here.” I waved a hand at him dismissively, only half joking.

Kate eyed him up and down and whispered, “Looking like that, easier said than done, am I right?” She brought her voice back up to a normal level. “Anyway, I dropped my bags in my room and came straight downstairs to meet you.” She jumped up and down, clapping her hands like an overexcited schoolgirl. “I planned the most fabulous day for us. The first dailies are testing so well with our focus groups that Tributary has almost quadrupled our budget and my expense account,” Kate said with a mischievous grin. “We’ll start with coffee and a macaron at Ladurée and then hurry over to Le Bon Marché, where two personal shoppers will be waiting to assist us through the store. Then, I arranged for a private tour of Coco Chanel’s Paris apartment followed by spa treatments here at the hotel and finally, dinner at Café de Flore. You’ve been working so hard, I wanted to treat you to a special day.”

“That all sounds wonderful,” I gushed. And it did. After lots of long hours sweeping and disposing of construction debris, attaching and mudding drywall panels, and spackling every godforsaken hole I could find, I was in dire need of some good R & R. And I had a feeling Parisien R & R was going to be just what the doctor ordered.

Kate lifted her tote over her shoulder and pushed her oversize sunglasses down off her head onto her face. “Good, let’s go, all of Paris awaits.”

We left the hotel, turned onto the Champs-Élysées, and headed straight to Ladurée, a gorgeous old French tearoom famous for its brightly colored macarons and people watching. As we approached the front door of the restaurant, Kate turned to Elliott and said, “Why don’t you let me and Plum have a private girls-only catch-up? We’ll meet you in front of Le Bon Marché at eleven to start filming for real.”

“You’re the boss,” Elliott grumbled, and without being told twice, he turned and headed in the opposite direction.

“Is he always like that?” Kate asked once Elliott had left.

“Yes, always.”

“Noted.”

Kate gave our name to the maître d’, who seated us at a small banquette right off the main dining room. After browsing through the menu, we settled on a few pastries: un plaisir sucré, un millefeuille, and a selection of colorful macarons. The sweet scent of powdered sugar swirled with the bitter aroma of fresh-brewing espresso, and I inhaled it as deeply as I could.

“Did you know that until the late 1800s, women weren’t allowed in cafés without their husbands?” Kate said, passing the two menus back to the server. “Ladurée was one of the first restaurants in Paris that allowed women to dine on their own.”

I folded a mint-green linen napkin onto my lap. “I have to say, I love it here even more now.”

“There’s a Ladurée in Beverly Hills over on Wilshire, but it’s not the same. For a start, you’d never see people in LA shoving their faces full of pastries,” she teased. The server came over, balancing a tray with two coffees and our assortment of sweets. He carefully set them on our table, along with a small metal pitcher of warm milk. “I have to be honest with you,” Kate said, stirring a heaping spoonful of sugar into her mug, “I have slightly ulterior motives for asking you to join me in Paris.”

I took a bite of my macaron, the crisp outside melting into a soft, delicate texture. The pistachio flavor was perfectly balanced, and my mouth flooded with nutty sweetness. “Oh yeah?” I asked midchew, catching a crumb on the corner of my lips with my pinkie.

“I’m hearing different things about the construction delays at Château Mirabelle. What’s really going on?”

“Well, I guess that depends on who you ask.”

“I’m asking you,” she said pointedly.

“Bastien and the crew haven’t exactly been seeing eye to eye.”

She took a nibble of her macaron and batted her lash extensions. “What do you think the problem is?”

“Bastien has a clear vision for Château Mirabelle, one not everyone’s on board with. He’s an artist, really. Maybe a bit of a perfectionist too, which is of course slowing down the train, but he just wants it all to be right. I don’t know if it’s that he sees it to be a personal reflection of him? Or the work he’s capable of? Maybe he is using the renovation of the house as an opportunity to prove himself a bit? He’s so talented and so passionate, I can see how much he is putting his whole self into this thing.”

Kate rested her chin on her hands. “You’re one smitten kitten, aren’t you?”

I shifted uncomfortably. “What? No. I’m not. I mean, I like him. He’s an easy person to like.”

“It’s okay, Plum, you can tell me. I’ve seen the dailies, the sexual tension between the two of you is as thick as ganache,” she said, leaning back in her chair.

A deep flush crept up my face. “It’s the language barrier. Most of the time, I can’t understand even half of what he’s talking about.”

A smile erupted across her face. “You understand everything he says perfectly. Look, I don’t blame you for falling for Monsieur Munier. And all the women in our focus groups, they don’t blame you either. He’s pretty easy on the eyes and charming to boot? He’s practically Prince Charming! I mean, you have the castle and everything.” She threw her head back with a laugh and took a sip of her Earl Grey from the bone china teacup.

Bastien was easy on the eyes, no question, but it was more than that. He was thoughtful, kind, and sensitive. He was frank and unaffected. But there wasn’t anything serious happening between us. Not really. So far, my entire courtship with Bastien consisted of some heavy flirtation and a few light make-out sessions. And though the other night he was angling for us to take the next step, he understood I wasn’t ready. I’d already had my share of showmances, most of them ending as soon as the director yelled cut. I was determined not to go down that road again, unless there was something and someone real waiting for me at the end of it.

“What about Elliott? Personality aside, he’s one tall drink of water, no doubt about that,” Kate purred.

I looked up from my plate. “Elliott?”

“Production has discussed extensively ways to get him on film, but he’s remained pretty adamant he wants to stay behind the camera. Can you imagine someone not wanting to be famous?”

I set down my fork. “Actually, I think he’s become a little more interested in being part of the show in a different way. You know, Elliott and I have uncovered a lot of interesting history about Château Mirabelle that he wants to try to include in the show somehow. I mean, it’s called Heart Restoration Project, right? The house is the heart of the village, or will be once we finish the renovation. We could put such a meaningful and profound twist on its significance to the town.”

“Yes and no, Heart Restoration Project can mean lots of different things. It’s why we ended up sticking with it,” she said matter-of-factly. “Shoot, look at the time, Elliott doesn’t seem like the type who’d be happy to be kept waiting.” Kate waved her hand in the air to flag down the server. “L’addition, s’il vous plait.”

“I didn’t know you spoke French?”

“Un peu. I studied in Paris for a semester during my junior year. I use the term studied loosely. Ran around like a silly American drinking far too much wine and having baguette sword fights in the streets with mes amis.” She laughed at the recollection and threw some euros down on the table before adding, “Shall we?”

We sped over to the sixth arrondissement and spent the rest of the morning being pampered by the personal shoppers at Le Bon Marché. They brought us champagne, canapés, and the best of French fashion. Elliott looked bored out of his mind, but he diligently captured every moment on film as directed.

Kate refilled her flute and collapsed onto the round cotton candy–pink chaise longue in the center of the dressing room while I finished zipping up a body-conscious Balmain ribbed dress with metallic braid detail up the front.

Kate sat upright. “Shut the front door! You look hot in that dress. You have to get it.”

In the mirror, I caught a quick glimpse of Elliott, whose mouth was dropped open, his eyes locked on mine. He immediately shifted his gaze away and tucked himself back behind the camera. I glanced down at the price tag dangling off the bottom of the dress: €3,950. “I can’t afford it.”