After a few hours of sleep tucked in the crook of Bastien’s arm, the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee floating through the apartment woke me before I’d even opened my eyes. I squinted against the light streaming through the large bedroom window and reached for Bastien, whose side of the bed was empty. I sat up just in time to see him enter the room holding two steaming mugs and wearing nothing but a smile.
He handed me a cup and climbed back into bed, nuzzling in close and giving me a kiss on the cheek before taking a sip of his coffee.
I moaned against his kisses and nudged against him playfully. “As much as I’d love to stay in bed with you all day, we’d better get going. This château is nowhere near ready, and if we—”
“Non, non, non,” he interrupted. “We have a common phrase here in Provence, ‘Il ne fait pas bon de travailler quand la cigale chante.’ Meaning, ‘It’s not good to work when the cicada is singing.’” He took my cup from me and set them both on the nightstand before rolling over to snuggle me close. His dark hair smelled like rosemary shampoo and rich, bright notes of citrusy bodywash. He smelled good enough to taste. As if reading my mind, he tucked his head in the crook of my neck and slid his hand across my stomach until it curved to cup my hips, pulling me close to kiss me again.
I sighed against his mouth. “It’s hard to believe that yesterday I was in Paris with Rhys, and now, as if by magic or time machine, I’m here with you.”
He propped himself up on his elbow. “You didn’t tell me much about what happened. Actually, we didn’t talk much at all last night.” He smirked. “Do you want to tell me about it now?”
I stared at the ceiling, not sure if I wanted to get into it. “Yes and no. Long story short, somehow Rhys showed up at the same hotel where we were staying, which I know in my bones was no coincidence. We had a very public and very awkward encounter with his new fiancée, and Elliott captured it all on camera.” I didn’t want to allow it to work me up, but by the anxiety building in my chest, I knew it was already too late. My throat tightened, and I felt the threat of tears.
Bastien stayed quiet for a moment. I looked over at him to make sure he didn’t doze off during my rant. He was awake, just thinking. “Honestly, Plum, I know you’re upset, but if you take your emotion out of it, I don’t think Elliott did anything wrong. He did his job. It’s what he’s paid to do. To film you, non? I don’t think it was personal.”
I sprang up onto my elbow and said, “I’m sorry. You’re defending him?”
“Well, yes, I think I am. He was asked to go to Paris for work to capture candid moments of you around town as promo for the show. It’s exactly what he did. I don’t really see the problem.” He pursed his lips together and shrugged. “Maybe give Elliott a break. At least he cared enough to text me to make sure you got home safely in the middle of the night. That has to count for something. Really, if anything, you should thank him. I shudder to think what could have happened to you at an abandoned train station all alone at that hour.”
“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.
