Page 21 of My Best French Wedding

“That’s not what I was going to say.” Nor was it something he believed. Once upon a time, before he realized their worldviews were fundamentally incompatible, Walter had imagined sharing an office with Hildy. Even now, he maintained a grudging respect for her editorial skills, however much she annoyed him personally.

“Good, becauseLife, Styledis a fantastic place to work. We have an awesome time. In a serious professional way. And it’snota vanity project.”

Walter raised both hands in a show of innocence. “I never said it was.”

“My sources beg to differ.”

“What sources?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not here to talk about that because I don’t need your approval.”

“What do you need?”

“From you? Nothing. Except to stay out of my way.” She squinted at him. “Do we understand each other?”

“Um,” he hedged. Had they ever really, even at the beginning? “Signs point to ‘No.’”

Hildy squared off with him, posture pure belligerence evenas her lower body shifted like she was on a StairMaster. Walter’s pulse kicked up a notch.

Before she could unleash her tirade, a procession of clowns bounced through the entrance, laughing and shoving each other. It was a terrifying parade of white makeup and lurid red mouths. Walter could feel a brand-new phobia developing in real time.

The clowns jounced and collided, setting the floor beneath them into violent motion. It felt like trying to surf on a damp sponge. Hildy toppled to her knees, one hand grabbing Walter’s thigh on the way down.

A few inches to the left would have put them in a far more compromising position, though Walter was trying not to think about that possibility. Crouching, he reached for an elbow or a shoulder to help her up.

“Stop it,” she hissed, when he accidentally brushed one of her curls.

Something dry and leathery crunched between his fingers. It was too solid to be styling-product residue, which left one possibility.

“There was a leaf,” he informed her, in case she thought he was copping a feel.

Hildy’s fingers tightened warningly against his quad. “That’s because I had to crawl through a freakinghedge.”

Her voice rose in anger, which had the unfortunate effect of alerting the nearby clowns to their presence. The beam of a flashlight washed over them.

“Shit, sorry!” a clown sporting a candy-red pompadour called out, swinging the light up and away. “We’re totally leaving.”

“And don’t worry, we didn’t see anything,” another member of the party assured them, attempting to tiptoe across the heaving surface in a pair of giant yellow shoes.

As the first clown ducked to enter the tunnel leading fartherinto the castle, the smallest member of the party paused, plucking at her neck ruff. “Be careful. Somebody could get hurt.”

“What was that about?” Hildy asked, frowning as the tremors from the clown parade faded.

Walter hesitated, hoping she would catch on before he had to say it. He raised his eyebrows at her, but she shook her head.

“A misunderstanding.” He cleared his throat, fully intending to leave it at that.

Hildy frowned at her hand—still clutching his thigh—and then Walter’s crotch, conveniently located in front of her face. After an agonizing silence, she tipped her head back to look at him. “Did they seriously think I was going down on you in a bouncy castle?”

As if the location was the improbable part. Walter made an unsuccessful attempt to laugh.

“Your fly isn’t even open. Not even speaking of the logistics.”

“I think your hair was blocking that area,” he pointed out. “They couldn’t see—you know.”

“Whether Little Walter had come out to play?” She was enjoying herself now, in inverse proportion to his discomfort. “You could have been permanently incapacitated. One bad bounce and that’s all she wrote.”

“Can we stop talking about this?” It would have been a painful subject even if Hildy wasn’t speaking to his zipper.