Page 2 of My Best French Wedding

“She broke your heart?” Dean guessed.

“Not like that,” Walter replied, a shade too quickly.

He could tell from theirmmkayexpressions that his denial had been less than convincing, even though it was mostly true. Hildy had shredded Walter’s trust and his professional prospects, but he’d built back since then—entirely on his own, without handouts or shortcuts.

“Who told you that?” he asked Derek. “About Hildy. And me.” If Hildy ever mentioned Walter, he assumed it was to curse his name. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t perversely satisfying to get under her skin—metaphorically speaking.

As opposed to the real thing, so abundantly displayed in that dress.

Derek shrugged. “I heard what happened at that wedding in the Catskills, with the mud wrestling. Seemed like a safe assumption the two of you had some baggage.”

Not Walter’s proudest moment, though there had been extenuating circumstances. What did people expect when they held a wedding at a summer camp, complete with crafts, campfires, and guided nature walks? Messiness went with the territory—especially after a certain magazine editor showed up in her white jean shorts and immaculate hiking boots.

If you were going to point fingers, how about the wedding planner who’d had the brilliant idea of sticking Walter and Hildy on opposite sides of the grown-up tug-of-war?

“We tend to compete for the same stories,” Walter explained. Surely fellow journalists would understand how chasing a story could become all-consuming, until it was hard to think about anything else. “It’s a professional rivalry.”

“Sounds very professional,” Dean murmured.

“You must see that all the time in sports. Like Duke and… that other team.” Walter’s usual facility with metaphors seemed to have deserted him.

“UNC,” Derek supplied.

“You’re saying the two of you are like the Packers and the Bears?” Dean glanced at Hildy, so naturally Walter had to follow the direction of his gaze. What was holding that dress up anyway? The straps looked as structurally sound as cobwebs.

“It’s not like the Super Bowl or anything.” Walter tried to sound casual, and also like he knew about sports, despite the fact that the only one he’d watched with his mom growing up was figure skating. “There are plenty of weddings to go around.”

Although they didn’t all cast the same spell as the over-the-top celebrations he and Hildy vied for. The general public seemed to have an insatiable appetite for reading about the nuptials of the ultrawealthy, the glitzier the better. It wasn’t necessarily the kind of journalism he’d dreamed of doing as an idealistic teen, but those stories got so much traffic, businesses fell over themselves to buy ad space. His beat might lack world-changing impact, but it was hard to top for job security.

“Hey, Wally.”

He’d been too caught up in not staring at Hildy to notice Corinne’s approach.

He stood to give her a hug. “You look nice.”

“Thanks.” She slid her belt to one side, centering the buckle. “Do you like my dress as much as Hildy’s?”

Walter opened his mouth to deny any knowledge of Hildy’s whereabouts, much less what she was wearing, but Corinne heldup a hand. “It looked like you were trying to read the care instructions on the label. From across the room.” She pretended to nudge Walter’s jaw back into place with the tip of her index finger. “She smells incredible too. And I can tell you her moisturizing game is on point.”

“Good for her.” Good for both of them, letting bygones be bygones. He wondered what that would be like. Not that he was envious of Corinne’s relationship with Hildy. “Did you bring a date?” he asked, casually counting the number of remaining seats at their table.

“Besides Hildy?” Corinne gave him her most patronizing smile, which was saying something. “No. Although I am seeing someone. She’s not in the biz, thank God. Some of us know better than to lust after our colleagues.”

Walter forced a smile. “You were always the smart one.”

“Someone has to be.” She studied his face. “Glad to see you’re keeping it classy tonight.”

He resisted the urge to check his hair. “Is that more sarcasm?”

“No, Mr. Sensitive. You look fine. I mean vis-à-vis you-know-who.” She tipped her head in Hildy’s direction.

“It’s ancient history.” Walter rearranged his silverware so he wouldn’t have to look Corinne in the eye.

“You’re both super over it,” she said with a faux-wistful sigh. “It’s inspiring.”

Derek cleared his throat. “Incoming.”

Hildy’s dress was closer to gray than silver at this distance, like dolphin skin—or the sky before a storm. What a useful observation, when Walter should have been bracing for impact. Somebody needed to slap some sense into him.