Page 10 of My Best French Wedding

“Wild guess,” Corinne deadpanned. “Unrelated to your general obsession with wedding coverage, which I’m pretending not to notice.”

“Fine. It’s a wedding. But not justanywedding.” She let the pause expand until Corinne looked up, then treated her to a double-barreled brow lift.

“Fiona Freaking Prescott’s wedding.”

Corinne stared at her for several beats. “Are you fucking kidding me. You got it?”

“One hundred percent in the bag.”

“Hell yes.” Corinne savagely ripped off a bite of bagel with her teeth, chewing like it was the flesh of her enemies. “What kind of clambake are we talking?”

“The social event of the century.” As she spoke, Hildy imagined the words in bold type, splashed across a two-page spread. Maybe they’d do a bleached-out effect, give it a retro feel. Or saturate the whole thing with a golden glow. “An American take on the royal wedding. The most hush-hush, closely guarded, A-list-only gathering of one-percenters and corporate titans since the Rockefeller era. TheVanity FairOscar Party of the business world, only a hundred times more exclusive.”

“Are you going to wrap this up today or should I get more coffee?”

“Do you know how hard it’s been to keep this inside? I’ve been bursting to tell someone.” Hildy spun her chair in a quick circle, releasing some of the pent-up energy. “This is the culmination ofmonthsof scheming. The lunches, the brunches, drinks and DMs, hitting up friends of friends, the aunt of a cousin’s roommate’s yoga instructor, working my way closer and closer to the center of the web.” She held up a clenched fist. “Sometimes I amaze myself.”

Corinne sighed with what Hildy chose to read as affection. “So what’s the deal?”

“The party starts in two weeks, at an undisclosed location in France. Mysterious, no? A full slate of prewedding events, and then the big day itself. Secrets within secrets.” Hildy made woo-woo fingers. “Which we will exclusively share withLife, Styledsubscribers one month postwedding. They get privacy on their big day, we get a massive circulation boost.” And permanent bragging rights over their main competitor for wedding coverage. She wasn’t going to letanyoneforget that part.

“I’m going to need maps, flight schedules, weather data.” As the tiny calculator that lived inside Corinne’s brain whirred to life, Hildy zoned out. She was picturing Walter’s face when he realized she’d beaten him to the punch. The tight jaw, flushed cheeks, hands digging through that thick dark hair in frustration… if only she could see it for herself. But that would be hard to swing without surveillance, and she’d promised Corinne not to do anything legally compromising. It was the high road all the way: making him cry for mercy from a safe distance.

“Earth to Hildy.” Corinne snapped her fingers. “Are we talking vineyard? Riviera? Cathedral? Shit, is it Notre-Dame?”

“Country, not city,” Hildy corrected. “I’m thinking remote and private. Secluded yet lavish. Apparently it’s going to be verySleeping Beauty–core.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

Neither did Hildy, but she was willing to roll with a vague aura of fairy-tale magic, presuming tiaras would be involved. She gave Corinne the few establishing details she’d managed to wheedle out of the bride. “We fly into Bordeaux, and then they transport us to the destination. That’s all they’re telling us so far.”

“Are we going to be blindfolded?”

“The vibe I’m getting is less ‘sex cult’ and more ‘European refinement.’ The word ‘terroir’ was used.”

“Wines of the Bordeaux region,” Corinne voice memoed herself. “Should we start researching tonight?” She mimed tipping back a glass.

“I booked a hot oil treatment.” Hildy fluffed her curls. “Might do a little shopping on the way home. I’m thinking linen everything, definitely a new straw hat.” She shivered with anticipation. “This is a major turning point for us. It’s going to putLife, Styledon the map. You want to know the best part?”

“Securing the financial future of our magazine?”

Hildy shook her head. “Fiona said I’m the only one she trusts to do the story justice. Which means no Walter Burns lurking around like a fox, or—a wolf. No, a weasel.” Because foxes and wolves suggested a certain level of charisma, and the only thing Hildy wanted to imply was that Walter was underhanded. “The point is, he may have won a stupid award, but that doesn’t mean anything except the judges are probably misogynists.”

“In your unbiased opinion.”

“As a journalist,” Hildy agreed, hand to heart.

“Let’s hope you’re right.” Corinne rapped her knuckles against the surface of the table. “Knock on fake wood. We can’t afford another episode of the Walter and Hildy show.”

“That was not my fault. You know I never back down from a challenge.”

Corinne blinked in mock confusion. “What exactly was thechallenge? ‘Hildy, I bet you can’t lick my tonsils.’ Or no, ‘Hildy, I dare you to show up at the awards ceremony in an itty-bitty silk dress that leaves nothing to the imagination.’”

“It’s called cross-promotion. We feature the designer inLife, Styled, I wear their work at a high-profile public event. Representing our brand is part of my job description.”

“What’s our brand again—eat your heart out, Walter Burns?”

“Presenting a glossy package so alluring and fresh no one can look away.” That was the genius of a bias-cut slip dress with a daringly low scoop in back, if you knew how to move.Feast your eyes on this, journalists of the tristate area!And yes, that list happened to include Walter, but as far as Hildy was concerned, her only mistake had been letting him get close enough to touch.