I squinted at him, unsure if he’d feel a need to lie. I wasn’t sure why he would, but I was almost certain that I’d noticed them getting more and more chummy over the weeks we’d been here, ever since that first night in Avignon. “There isn’t?” I urged, “But that night at the club, she seemed so into you? And all those afternoons I spied the two of you sharing a bottle of wine out in the garden at the inn, it sure looked like there was.”

He paused before answering, maybe catching how much I must have been paying attention to have noted so much of their interactions. “She was going through a difficult breakup, and I was a shoulder to cry on—a convenient shoulder. She isn’t interested in me like that.”

“It sure seemed like it was more than that,” I said and then realized that, again, I was showing him my hand.

He tilted his head and said, “Maybe, in the beginning, there was a little playful flirtation between us, but that fizzled out quickly. She wasn’t a formidable enough sparring partner . . .”

He lowered his gaze to mine, and at the intensity, my stomach bottomed out, and suddenly my breath caught in my chest. Locked in an unspoken conversation laden with undeniable tension and respectful hesitation, it was as though the bustling market around us had momentarily ceased to exist, leaving only the gravitational pull that kept us focused on one another. For a fleeting heartbeat, it seemed as though we might surrender to the magnetism between us, but as quickly as the moment arose, it passed, leaving us standing there, hearts pounding.

I cleared my throat and took a step back. “Wow, I am positively melting,” I announced as I fanned myself with my hand and shifted my eyes from his.

“What do you say we get out of the sun for a few minutes?” Elliott asked.

I looked around the market. There wasn’t an umbrella or awning anywhere in sight. “What do you have in mind?”

Elliott took my hand. “Follow me.”

I trailed him through the crowded market to the antique carousel. He knocked lightly on the ticket window and held up two fingers before handing over five euros in exchange for our tickets.

I stopped him in his tracks. “Elliott, you know I get motion sickness.”

“Still better than sunstroke, right? We won’t ride anything that goes up and down, promise.” He held up his fingers in a scout’s honor salute and winked.

Elliott passed the tickets to the barker, and we stepped onto the ride. I popped up on my toes, looking for a free space. “Over there,” I called, and we squeezed into a weathered enamel carriage that looked like the half-transformed pumpkin from Cinderella. Moments later, the lively sounds of an organ piped out of the center as the platform started to spin beneath us. Round and round we went, taking in the sights from every possible vantage point—children gripping bright balloons, friends sipping coffees, and couples strolling hand in hand through the long aisles of the marketplace.

Elliott glanced over at me. “You okay? The spinning and everything?”

I nodded. “Actually, I’m great.”

Elliott smiled and stretched his arm up and over the top of our tiny carriage normally intended for children—or at least an adult shorter than six foot four. We were sitting so close I could smell his aftershave, clean and crisp against the muggy warmth of the air.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ridden a carousel, maybe ever?” I said to distract me from the closeness of his body next to mine.

“Really? Isn’t that a childhood rite of passage?”

“I didn’t have the most typical childhood, remember? Don’t misunderstand, I’ve lived a wonderful life, and my parents are good people. They didn’t know what EVERLYday would become, nobody did. But being here in Provence, I’ve grown to appreciate the slower pace of life. People here don’t just sip their coffee or wine, they immerse themselves in it. It’s a whole goddamn experience for them.” I shook my head. “No, I can’t go back to the way my life was before. Flitting from place to place and thing to thing, existing but not really living. I won’t do it. I can’t.” Just saying the words out loud made my throat squeeze tight—a desperate desire to convince myself that my future would be different.

“So then, what is it you do want?”

“You know, nobody’s ever asked me that before. I guess, deep down, I want you.” I almost choked on my blunder before fumbling to correct myself. “Um . . . to be you . . . I mean.”

Elliott pretended not to hear the error, but by the sweep of blush that rosied his cheeks, it was evident he did. “You want to be me?”

“Well, a less grumpy version, maybe,” I teased. “Seriously, though, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I’ve spent my whole life on the wrong side of the camera.”

“So turn it around—the camera, the narrative, your life. It’s up to you, you know?”

I nudged him playfully and said, “Easy as that, huh?”

“You know, you keep surprising me . . . and I don’t usually like surprises,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

“Oh, I do?” I breathed back and adjusted myself to face him. “And you don’t?” I pressed.

He closed the few inches between us, pressing his full lips against mine, igniting the fibers of my body like a wildfire. But I’d been burned by fire before, and I wanted to believe that after all the scars and ash, I’d learned my lesson. I pulled away from his embrace—my lips still tingling, my heart pounding so hard against my chest I was sure it was going to break a rib.

“Elliott, I can’t do this,” I said, placing my hand to his chest to put as much distance between us as I could in the carousel car. “Maybe I shouldn’t feel this way, and we haven’t put a label on things yet, but I know how I’d feel if I found out Bastien kissed somebody else.”

“Of course. You’re right,” he said, his voice breaking. The ride began to slow, and Elliott rose from the metal carriage seat. “This is our stop.”

“Hey, wait . . . Can we talk about this?” I pleaded.

“There’s nothing to talk about. I . . . I really shouldn’t have done that. You’re right—I must have just gotten swept up in the moment, that’s all. Chalk it up to the heat. Maybe I do have sunstroke after all,” he joked before glancing down at his phone. “I have like half a dozen missed calls from the crew. I should really check in with them. Don’t bother waiting for me, I’ll catch up with you back at the château, okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Okay.”

I watched Elliott hop off the still-rotating platform and disappear into the crowd. The ride’s turntable finally ground to a halt, but I couldn’t move. In Cinderella’s tiny fairy-tale carriage, I was left paralyzed—my body buzzing and my head still spinning.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Simone was running late to another appointment, so Gervais dropped her off at the inn before driving me and Elliott over to Château Mirabelle. According to Simone, the market trip was a rousing success. In addition to the chairs, she negotiated for an antique white rococo headboard, a small settee upholstered in a lavender Schumacher linen, and two English chinoiserie mirrors from the 1880s she thought would be perfect in the bright entranceway, all of which would be delivered over the next few days.

Gervais stopped the van at the front gate and let me out. The château seemed eerily deserted. I glanced down at my watch: 3:00 p.m. The hottest point of the day. The crew was probably taking a break. When Elliott climbed out of the van, he mumbled something about having some paperwork to do and stalked off in the direction of video village. Now, left pretty much alone, I decided to go in search of Kate and Bastien by making my way through the vineyard to craft services, where René and a few of his guys were sitting at one of the long picnic tables drinking beer.

He took a long swig and set the bottle down on the table. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Everly, come, have a drink with us.”

I sat down beside him as an invitation to pass me one.

He chuckled and said, “We really should not be drinking on a worksite, but when it is this hot, you sweat it out anyway, n’est-ce pas?”

“‘N’est-ce pas’ means ‘do you not,’ right?” I guessed.

His eyes beamed. “Bien joué, your French is much improved, Plum.”

“Pascal Sauveterre has been tutoring me a bit in the evenings,” I shared.

“Ah, Pascal Sauveterre. I did some work on La Cigale Chantante not too long ago.” He shook his head, fishing around in the cooler for a beer from the very bottom, deep in the ice. “They have some very serious foundation problems. The inn on top of the hill will be the inn at the bottom of the hill in not too long if they cannot get it properly fixed.” He popped the top off with his hand effortlessly and passed me the frosty bottle with an easy smile.

“Merci,” I said and clinked my bottle to his before taking a long sip. The hoppy tang was surprisingly refreshing, and I relished in the cold chill working its way down my chest and into my stomach. “Have you seen Bastien or Kate at all?”

“Oui, they were in le château earlier.”

“Oh, it’s been deemed safe to go inside now?”

“Almost, so long as you stay on the rez-de-chaussée . . . um, ground floor. The last of the mold was removed earlier today, and the second floor should be secured by tomorrow evening so filming inside can safely resume.”

I nodded, and we sat for a few moments enjoying the cold beers as the sun continued to beat down from high in the blue sky. The condensation from the bottle dripping down the skin on my fingers mirrored the beads of sweat rolling down the small of my back, and I enjoyed another long pull of the crisp but mildly bitter beer, cooling me from the inside as it snaked its way down to my stomach. I finished my beer as we sat in comfortable silence, and after swigging back the very last frothy sip, I thanked him, clinking my empty bottle once more to his, and set off to look for Kate and Bastien for an update.

I stepped into the grand foyer and called into the house. No answer. I inched a little farther into the hallway, but still no answer. There was a light knock on the front door.