Page 38 of My Best French Wedding

“Can I get a hint?”

“Sure. It starts with ‘were you dating her’ and ends in ‘when you had your tongue in my mouth behind the coatrack.’”

He had the nerve to blush, as if he was a sweet, innocent schoolboy. Ha! Schoolboys didn’t kiss like that.

“I seem to recall your tongue in my mouth too.”

Seemto recall? Like it was a faint memory? Hildy could still feel the ghostly echo of his hand cupping her ass at inconvenient moments, such as right now. The idea that she was doing involuntary Kegels over something that was barely a blip on Walter’s radar made her want to sharpen her claws on his shoulder. “SinceIwasn’t dating Maude at the time, my conscience is clear.”

Walter’s mouth fell open, as if it had finally dawned on him what she was getting at. “No—me neither. There’s no overlap.Zero connection between the two.” He shook his head, in case the double denial wasn’t emphatic enough.

Hildy did the math in her head. “Then this is a recent development. Like,really,really recent. You figured what the hell, third date, let’s go to her sister’s wedding in France?”

More head shaking. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Huh.” She pursed her lips, pretending to think it over. “Because itlookslike you’re getting ready to write about someone you’re also dating. Even though you allegedly don’t do that.”

“I can’t really talk to you about this,” Walter said after an uncomfortably long pause. He was staring at his hands, avoiding eye contact.

“Fine. Have it your way.” Springing out of her seat, she headed for the back of the bus.

“Hildy,” he said.

She tuned him out. It was none of her business if Maude cheated on Walter and they went through a big messy breakup that meant he had to leave before the wedding.Life, Styledwould be there to pick up the exclusive and run with it. And what could be more important to Hildy than the future of her magazine?

The destination for today’s outing was a small agribusiness nestled among the rolling green hills outside the medieval city of Sarlat. The Fauvard family had been producing foie gras and other duck-based delicacies for generations. The actual food preparation took place behind the scenes, far from the tourist-facing tasting room inside a charmingly rustic converted barn.

While the proprietors described the delicacies they would be sampling today, Mr. Prescott beckoned at Walter to join him.

With the grace of a panther, Hildy prowled into eavesdropping range. It sounded like standard male bonding about all the meat they were about to eat, because God forbid anyone subsiston cheese and bread. Clearly Mr. Prescott was clueless about the magnificence of Girl Dinner.

Possibly she was being too harsh, but Fiona’s father had rubbed her the wrong way from the beginning, when he’d dropped several sledgehammer hints about his familiarity with her business. Circulation growth (steady, if not astronomical); chief competitors; who among his “friends” had deigned to advertise in the pages ofLife, Styled.It could have been the mark of a polite host who studies up on his guests so he can make small talk, but to Hildy it smelled like a power play. Mr. Prescott wanted her to know he had her number, in case she was thinking of printing something less than glowing about his daughter’s wedding.

She wondered if Walter had gotten a similar speech, or if his connection to Maude was enough of an insurance policy.

“Listen, I wanted to touch base about the wedding coverage,” Mr. Prescott was saying now. That was her cue.

Hildy deftly inserted herself between them. “I’m right here. Go ahead.”

“Good,” Mr. Prescott said, as if he’d summoned her. “Just making sure we’re all on the same page.”

“In what sense?” Walter asked.

“There’s no need to mention any of the fuss with this historic preservation person. Loke or whatever his name is. About the castle.”

Walter shot Hildy a look that saidyour turn.

“Which fuss would that be?” Hildy tried to sound like she already knew everything and was merely narrowing down the list.

“Red tape.” Mr. Prescott waved this off as if it were a gnat circling his lunch. “You know how these European bureaucracies operate.”

From the gravity of hishmm, you would have thought Walter routinely contemplated that very thing. Imports, exports. Embargoes. Shipping lanes. More business words.

“Are you worried it’s going to interfere with the ceremony?” Hildy asked.

“If it does, I know who to blame.” Mr. Prescott scowled through the open doors of the barn, shooting eye lasers at a mud-spattered car from which Loïc had just emerged. “He’s given poor Maude a hell of a time. Not to mention the money he’s cost me.” He clapped a hand onto Walter’s shoulder. “I’m glad she has you to lean on.”

“Yes,” Hildy cooed, burying the sarcasm under a layer of sugar. “Isn’t she just so lucky? To have such a dependable and unwavering source of support.”