“Elliott? Elliott was the one who texted you?”

“He was genuinely concerned for your well-being. Asked me to let him know once I had you safely in my possession.”

I wanted to be angry at Bastien’s honesty, grow defensive at his assertions, but instead, I marveled at his frankness. Few people in my life had been so forthright, and though my instinct was to fight back, maybe this was the perspective I needed. Didn’t I come to France to get a new outlook along with this new opportunity? My mind drifted to Rhys, who would have riled me up, fanning the fires of the drama to see how it could be used as a headline. He didn’t care about me and my best interests. And truth be told, he hadn’t for a long, long time.

But this honesty from Bastien was refreshing and real. It was an adult conversation, a genuine back and forth, with no ulterior motives. I could either meet the challenge or shy away from this test of growth. I took a deep breath to settle the adrenaline coursing through me.

“You know what? You’re right,” I said. “Though your direct approach is a bit hard to swallow at times, I should thank Elliott for reaching out to you last night.”

“And you know, if it were not for him, maybe you would not be here with me right now, n’est-ce pas?” Bastien smiled and pushed me gently back against the pillows as he positioned himself over me. He kissed me sweetly, and I sank farther into the cocoon of covers. He slid his hand behind my neck, drawing me closer with each affectionate brush of his lips. I wrapped my arms around him and traced my fingernails gently down his spine.

Bastien leaned close to my ear and whispered, “L’amour fait les plus grandes douceurs et les plus sensibles infortunes de la vie.”

“Hmm . . . ,” I moaned against his neck. “What . . . what does that mean?” I asked between kisses. Breathless.

“It means, ‘Love makes life’s sweetest pleasures and worst misfortunes.’ When we are falling in love, we lose all sense of reason, non? It is fun, and wild, and unpredictable.” He pulled back to look me in the eyes. “Just like in the song, ‘La Vie En Rose,’ I like looking at the world through rose-colored glasses with you, Plum.”

At the mention of the song, my mind flashed to the street musician playing “La Vie En Rose” on his accordion as I sat across from Elliott in Maubec’s town square—and to Elliott’s gentle hand delicately swiping the eyelash from my cheek. The sudden intrusion of the memory momentarily disoriented me. Bastien nuzzled his nose close to my neck, his pillowy lips resting by my ear. He whispered my name, the timbre of his breathy voice snapping me back to the present.

I rolled Bastien over, pinning him down. Seductively, I pushed his hands above his head with one arm, my other trailing down his side until it settled on the smallest part of his waist. And then I gave it a playful squeeze, and he let out a laugh-filled yelp. “Aie! No, Plum, I am ticklish there!”

I continued to squeeze and nip at his sides, now with both hands, as he folded in genuine laughter. He reached for my legs and waist and anything he could grab and mimicked the squeezes. “Careful! Ah! The coffee!” Our laughter continued to bounce off the apartment walls. It was the most delightful sound I’d heard in a long time.

When we settled back on the bed, breathless and eyes tearing, he pressed a final peck to the tip of my nose, before catching sight of the bedside clock.

“Merde. We have played too long, and it is getting late. We better get on-site before René changes any more of my blueprints.” He climbed out of bed and headed toward the bathroom. He turned back, a mischievous grin on his face. “I am going to take a quick shower. Care to join?”

His infectious smile was all the invitation I needed.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Kate’s visit a few days later when she was finished with her affairs in Paris had everyone at Château Mirabelle on edge. We were still behind schedule, and with each day that passed, it seemed less likely we’d be restoring Château Mirabelle to its original glory, let alone even ensuring there’d be working toilets in the house.

Despite the uphill climb, the crew—back from their weekend hiatus—was hard at work finishing the flooring, plumbing updates, and drywall while René watched closely from the sidelines, barking out orders like a seasoned drill sergeant.

I tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Bonjour, René, où est Bastien? I didn’t see him at craft services this morning.”

“I’m not sure. As soon as I arrived, Mademoiselle Wembley presented me with a long list of items she wanted to see completed on the château before the week is out.”

“And Elliott?”

He shrugged and turned his attention back to the team of welders restoring a section of original copper piping. A few moments later, Kate came hurrying up to us. “Good, I found you,” she said, slightly out of breath. “Where’s Bastien?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Since I wasn’t needed on set until today, the last time I’d seen Bastien was when he dropped me off at the inn after our night together. Agnès, Pascal, and Odette were turning chairs over, getting the dining room ready for the early breakfast crowd. I tiptoed up the stairs and back into my room before anyone spotted me in my state of disarray and pretended like I’d been there sleeping all along.

“I’m sure he’s around here somewhere. Anyway, how are you holding up?” Kate asked.

I held up my phone. “Aside from these, just dandy.” Over the last forty-eight hours, my sisters, parents, Nancy, and almost every person on my contact list had forwarded one article or another about my Paris run-in with Rhys. Some of my favorite headlines were City of Fights, Plum Everly and Rhys Braun Showdown at the George V and Ménage à Trois—Plum Everly Confronts Rhys Braun and New Fiancée Anya Vanhulle.

“What’s that thing people say? No press is bad press?” Kate reasoned.

“I can tell you for a fact that’s not true. Especially where my family’s concerned. They don’t love seeing my name in Page Six. Especially after that tape.”

“I find that hard to believe. The Everly empire didn’t exactly build itself in a vacuum,” she said, tossing her blonde hair behind her shoulders.

Normally I appreciated when someone recognized my family’s little bit of hypocrisy, but the tone in her voice was just a little too familiar with people she’d never actually met. For some reason it rubbed me the wrong way.

“So today’s going to be a blast. Have you ever heard of Simone Allard?” Kate said, shifting the subject.

The name didn’t ring any bells. “I don’t think so.”

“Me either,” she joked, “but she’s supposed to be one of the best interior designers in Provence, specializing in château restorations. She’ll be here filming the next couple of days.”

“Interior design? Shouldn’t we be worried about the state of the estate first? The château’s a mess. Half the rooms are missing walls and the other half, floors.”

“Don’t worry about that. I made it clear to René that he needs to make sure the facades of the library, kitchen, drawing room, two bedrooms, and the grand salon are complete by the end of this month. The magic of television will take care of the rest.”

The magic of television. I’d heard that phrase before. Bastien said the very same thing to me the first day he showed me around the house. “Filming wraps in what, eight weeks? There’s no way the house is going to be anywhere near habitable by then.”

“Either way, the publicity Château Mirabelle generates from the show should help it sell in no time, and then you can use that money toward a down payment on a house in the Valley complete with walls, floors, and flushing toilets.” Kate glanced down at her phone. “Simone’s here. Want to walk to the front of the house with me to meet her?”

“Sure, let me grab a cup of coffee first, and then I’ll be right there.”

I set off for craft services hoping I’d spot Bastien somewhere along the route, but he was nowhere to be found. I took a paper cup from a large stack on the edge of the table and filled it all the way to the top. Just as I put the steaming brim to my mouth, Bastien came up behind me, his lips settling firmly at the base of my neck.

“Bonjour, ma chérie,” he purred.

I turned around to face him. “Hey, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“I asked Madame Archambeau if she would open her shop early for me.” He pulled a gorgeous bouquet of red poppies, white peonies, lavender wisteria, and bright-yellow sunflowers out from behind his back and pushed a stray hair behind my ear. “You know, the other morning when you were asleep in my arms, you looked like an absolute angel. If Kate wasn’t in town, I would have tried to convince you to play hockey with me.”

“Hockey? You wanted to play hockey? Ohhhhh, do you mean hooky?” I giggled.

His cheeks streaked an adorable beet red. “Ah yes, hooky,” he said, giving an especially cute ooh sound when he pronounced hooky.

I pushed up on my toes and kissed him softly on the mouth.

Bastien’s name came crackling through his walkie-talkie. He unclipped it from his belt and answered the page in rapid, unintelligible French. “Les poutres en bois ne supporteront pas le poids. Nous avons besoin des poutres en acier.” He lowered the walkie-talkie to his side. “I have to go, duty calls.”

“Maybe I can convince you to stay, just a little while longer?” I pleaded.

“There’s no maybe about it, you could convince me with the tiniest crook of a finger,” he said, kissing each of mine. “But I really should get going. I have a big, beautiful house to finish building for you. I’ll find you later, I promise.”

I set out for the front of the château and found Kate and a woman I assumed was Simone Allard standing in the foyer, deep in conversation. Kate spotted me and waved me over to them. Simone was the epitome of boho chic, pairing a multicolored peasant skirt with a high-end denim crop top I was pretty sure I’d spotted hanging in the Dior section of Le Bon Marché. She jutted a perfectly manicured hand forward, her bouncy beach waves landing softly on her delicate shoulders.

“I’m Simone. Lovely to meet you,” she said in a surprising British accent.