Page 55 of The Marriage Clause

I’ve been talking to Margaux for almost an hour when a shadow falls across the table.

"Margaux, there you are."

I look up.

Everett is standing beside a man—tall, silver-haired, impeccably dressed. Pierre Matisse radiates the quiet authority of someone who signs contracts that move markets.

Margaux lights up. "Pierre! Come, sit. I’ve made a friend."

Pierre Matisse turns to me, and I watch the recognition land.

This is the client.

The man Everett has been trying to impress all evening. The acquisition Sienna has been cultivating for four months.

His wife is sitting with me in the corner drinking Sancerre and laughing about French bakeries.

Pierre extends his hand. "Pierre Matisse. And you are?"

"Aria Taylor," I say. Then, because the ring is right there catching the chandelier light, "Everett’s fiancée."

Pierre’s eyebrows rise. He glances at Everett.

Everett is looking at me. Not at Pierre. Not at the table. At me. His expression opens—just for a beat—surprise giving way to something warm before the composure slides back into place.

"You speak French?" he says.

"Fluently," Margaux answers for me, beaming. "She rescued me from a waiter who thought I wanted Chardonnay. We have been talking for an hour. She is wonderful."

Pierre turns to Everett with a look that falls somewhere between amusement and judgment. "You didn’t know your fiancée speaks French?"

Then Everett’s mouth curves—just barely, just enough —and he pulls out the chair beside me.

"It turns out my beautiful fiancée has many talents," he says, sitting down, "and I have a lifetime to learn them all."

His hand finds my knee under the table.

Everett doesn’t need to close anything—Pierre stopped being a target somewhere around the second glass of wine and became a person. He tells stories about his vineyard in Provence. Margaux corrects him in French and he pretends to be offended. Everett contributes more than I’ve ever seen him contribute to a conversation that doesn’t involve contracts or quarterly projections.

At one point, Pierre leans back in his chair and says to Everett, "I’ve had fifteen meetings about this deal. Sienna is excellent—sharp, thorough. But tonight is the first time I’ve actually enjoyed myself. This deal means I will have to travel back here more. It would be nice for my wife to have a friend when she is here."

He looks at me when he says it.

"I have to go back to France tomorrow. Let's talk when I get back."

"We'll be in Cannes next week. Maybe we could come by your office." I tell him.

Everett shoots a look over at me and his smile pulls at his lips when he realizes that I'm helping. "That's right... we will be, won't we?"

"For our honeymoon," I tell Margaux

"You'll be in Cannes next week?" Margaux asks. "Oh I love it there, and there is a great little bakery you must visit. Better than the stuffy office, let's do dinner. We can leave the men to talk business and you can tell me all about the wedding and the honeymoon," she winks. “Oh to be young and in love.”

I glance over at Everett who’s staring at Margaux. He hears it too. Young and in love. If only that’s what this is. It would make things a lot easier.

We agree to get in touch once we're there and I can see Everett's shoulders are lighter now.

The waiter turns to our table to get our coffee order to go with dessert. Sienna, who has rejoined the group and positioned herself in the chair on Everett’s other side, orders first.