Page 23 of My Best French Wedding

“Yes. So don’t fuck with me.” Hildy pressed a finger to the slight divot at the base of his chin. “Are we clear?”

He gave a slow nod, careful not to dislodge her hand.

Her gaze locked on his mouth. “Is that a smile? Are you laughing at me right now? You should be taking this a lot more seriously, Walter.”

“I’m not laughing at you.”

“Don’t lie to me either.”

He wasn’t. But he also couldn’t admit that he was glad not tobe alone in the freaky darkness, even if she was here to deliver an ultimatum. “I’m afraid you’re not as frightening as the clowns.”

Hildy grunted, unable to argue. “Next time I’ll do the makeup.”

“Don’t forget the wig.”

“I never forget anything, Walter.” She paused to let the barb strike home before lurching to a stand. He watched her sway drunkenly toward one of the exits.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“You’re not staying for the paintball rave?”

“Hell no. I’m just here to mess with you.”

“Seriously?”

“Like you said, not my scene.”

“Too scared? Don’t want to sully your shiny brand with something edgy and dark?”

“So what if I like pretty things? You can pretend that makes me a lightweight, but the truth is that I choose where to put my focus. Which means nightmare on emo street is all yours.”

After she bounced out of sight, Walter let his head flop back against the floor. He always needed recovery time after a run-in with Hildy, and tonight was no different.

His thoughts swarmed like bees. Jealousy that she’d left while he had to stay. Annoyance that Hildy got the last word. Confusion as his body replayed every scrap of physical contact, like a miser counting the contents of a piggy bank.

If what she’d told him was true, he was looking at a lot more encounters like this one—minus the bouncy castle and (God willing) the clowns.

And here he’d been worried the wedding beat might be getting a little stale.

9Hildy

ONE WEEK BEFORE THE PRESCOTT-SCHAFER WEDDING

TAMNIÈS, France—“What do you mean, he loves castles?” Fiona rounded on Hildy with eyes so wide she looked like a horse catching the scent of smoke. “Has he covered a lot of castle weddings? Are castles the new hotel ballrooms? Is it totally tired to get married at a castle?”

“A mysterious castle in the forest that no one has seen for decades?” Hildy sniffed at the improbability of such a thing. “I think not. You are the Belle au Bois Dormant, okay? A total legend. Bespoke to the max. Trust me.”

Beneath the soothing smile she was giving Fiona, Hildy sent a silentthanks a lotto Walter for adding another bridal insecurity spiral to her to-do list. Luckily, Hildy excelled at stopping a meltdown in its tracks. It was one of the most valuable life skills she’d picked up during her sorority era, right up there with eyelash curling and planning a seated dinner for forty.

“Which I promisedyoucould write about.” It sounded as if Fiona was reminding herself along with everyone else.

Granted, she had a lot of details to keep track of this week; some forgetfulness was understandable. Fiona also had a wedding planner with two assistants plus staff, a wedding designer who traveled with his own retinue, and a dedicated beauty team. Itwasn’t like she was going to be stuffing Jordan almonds into three hundred mesh gift bags with her own hands.

Or whatever the table favors turned out to be. Hildy was thinking maybe a sachet of raw gems, judging by the lavishness of the welcome hamper that had been waiting for her at the hotel. Local wines, foie gras, a picnic blanket featuring a limited-edition toile print created specifically for the occasion (according to the glossy wedding guide)—Hildy might have never left her room again, if she didn’t have a story to protect.

“I don’t see why that precludes Walter from doing a piece on the castle,” Maude argued. “Think of the exposure. He’s anaward-winningreporter.”