Page 35 of My Best French Wedding

The atmosphere was closer to the reptile house at a zoo (creepy things watching you from all sides) than your average florist. Instead of pink-and-white, the preferred palette ranged from bloodred to gothic black, with plenty of swampy green and midnight purple in between. Walter had the distinct impression that if he touched one of the stabby-looking arrangements, he would lose a finger—but not before the poison took him out.

So this was where the race to make your wedding utterly unique led. Maybe the next hot trend would be cakes that weren’t sweet, or flat champagne. Although that would just be wine, so possibly it wasn’t avant-garde enough. When Walter told his editor he wanted to expand his horizons, he should have been more specific. Sinister wedding décor was not the departure from the norm he had in mind.

He wandered down the center aisle, waiting for something to catch his eye. There was always a choice with trend pieces: Go with the most outrageous example to get people talking, or give a morebalanced view? According to the paper’s market research, the majority of Walter’s readers were in it for the voyeuristic thrills, so he felt less of an obligation to focus on practical centerpieces people might actually choose for their wedding.

At the next booth, a stark white tablecloth was completely bare. Walter assumed they were still setting up, until a woman in a black suit rose from her stool to greet him.

“Striking, isn’t it?” She gestured at the table. “Did you notice the monogramming?”

“No,” Walter admitted.

“White on white,” the designer said, as if she were sharing a secret. “Nothing to distract the eye or destroy the harmony of the whole. It’s a place for the mind to rest. I call it Tabula Rasa.”

Walter had questions—many of them—but before he could ask, another voice caught his ear.

“Yes, we were hoping for something that really says ‘raw’ and ‘danger.’ When you think about it, marriage is a pretty big risk. And who doesn’t love feathers?”

A few booths farther down the aisle, Hildy was chatting up an exhibitor whose display featured a life-size peacock constructed of melon halves, eggplants, and purple fingerling potatoes. He nodded his thanks at the minimalist designer, tucking a business card into his pocket as he turned to go.

“My fiancé’s favorite color is puce,” Hildy was saying as Walter came to stand behind her. “I’d like to honor that if possible.”

She had to be joking, and not just about the puce. He leaned closer, trying to peer over her shoulder. No press credentials that Walter could see. Hildy’s dress was soft and swishy, but he had no idea whether that qualified as a work outfit. Could she have gotten engaged since the last time he saw her? His gut said no. Forcefully.

“He’s also fascinated by cryptids,” Hildy continued. “If that sparks—” She broke off mid-sentence, slowly turning to face Walter.

“Nice,” the floral designer purred, lifting his oversized pinkglasses to give Walter a once-over. “Are we talking Nessie? Bigfoot? El Chupacabra?”

“That’s not my fiancé.” Hildy gave a theatrical shudder, as if the idea of being engaged to Walter was too horrifying to contemplate.

The designer’s lips plumped in disappointment. “I could have sworn I was picking up an energy.”

“We do know each other,” Walter admitted. “But it’s more of a professional relationship.”

“‘Relationship’ is a strong word.” Hildy leaned forward. “He mostly just follows me around.”

“I had a stalker once,” the designer informed them. “It didn’t go anywhere.”

It was unclear whether he expected condolences. “I’m paid to be here,” Walter said, before Hildy could sell him down the river.

“Don’t tell me.” The designer gave him another head-to-toe examination. “Not a driver. Or an assistant.” His voice dropped. “Private security?”

“Yes!” Hildy clasped her hands together as if she’d been hoping he’d guess. “You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but he’s lethal in three separate martial arts.” She tipped her head back to smile up at Walter, one hand lightly caressing his arm. “Do you want to demonstrate?”

“Demonstrate what?”

“One of your deadly moves.” She turned back to the designer. “He can snap someone’s neck with his quads.”

The designer’s hand flew to his cravat. “How exciting! I read a book like that.” He leaned across the front of the booth for a better look at Walter’s thighs.

“I’m not her bodyguard,” Walter said.

Hildy winked at the designer. “That’s what he’s supposed to say. Keeping a low profile is important in his line of work. He’s probably thinking about a dozen different ways he could off someone right now.”

“How did you guess?” Walter locked eyes with her, making all kinds of silent promises. “Actually,” he told their new friend, “I’m part of her wedding team.”

“Hair?” the designer guessed.

“Yes, Walter.” Hildy crossed her arms, her smile razor-sharp. “Tell him exactly what you do for me.”