Page 42 of My Best French Wedding

It seemed the crisis had been averted, until Fiona abruptly stood.

“Where are you going?” Robbie asked. “Fee?” He hurried to catch up with his fleeing fiancée.

Corinne strolled up, licking the back of a spoon. “Should I be worried?”

“They’re fine,” Hildy replied, with more confidence than she felt. “Or they will be, once Robbie has a snack.”

“Maybe he needs a juice box and a nap too.”

Don’t we all, Hildy thought, watching Walter smile at something Maude said. He’d probably letherchoo-choo him all day long.

“I’m sure it’s just normal prewedding nerves.” Behind her back, Hildy crossed her fingers. “Lots of couples get them.”

“As long as we don’t make it worse.” Corinne reached for the last piece of bread. “And by ‘we’ I mean ‘you.’ And Walter.”

15Walter

TWO YEARS AND THREE MONTHS AGO

NEW YORK—It wasn’t the first interview Walter had bombed, but the feeling never got more pleasant. And considering how many strings he’d pulled to get a sit-down with the hottest chef in New York, returning to the office empty-handed was not an option. Although if worse came to worst, they could run a photo spread instead, since Stellan Cubillo’s reputation for hotness seemed to owe as much to the young Swedish-Spanish chef’s looks as it did to his cooking.

You’d think a celebrity pâtissier who was also one of the town’s most eligible bachelors would be primed to talk about his process, his vision, his fitness regimen, what he had for breakfast, and so on. Unfortunately, Stellan appeared to be the tortured-artist type, who preferred to keep his thoughts to himself. Walter pitched him a softball about learning to cook in his grandmother’s kitchen—a subject on which he had written an entire cookbook—and all he got was a mumbled, “She was a special woman.”

Okay, then. Another few minutes of this and they’d be reduced to playing word association games. Walter looked down at his notebook, hoping for inspiration. So far he’d written the date and the location.

The door to the kitchen swung open, bringing the welcome promise of an interruption.

“There you are!”

Walter stiffened at the sound of Hildy’s voice. By the time he turned his head, she’d swept across the room like a miniature tornado, making a beeline for Stellan. If the trailing edge of her presence was enough to make Walter unsteady, he could hardly blame the chef for looking dazed.

“I’m Hildy,” she said, arm extended.

“Enchanted,” Stellan murmured. Was he playing up the accent, or had he just been too monosyllabic for it to register before?

“What are you doing here?” Walter asked Hildy, when it looked like the chef was going to keep holding her hand indefinitely.

“Did you think I’d let you tackle something this important alone? Don’t be silly.” She extricated herself from Stellan’s grip, using that hand to boop Walter on the nose.

They absolutely were not on booping terms, but since when did Hildy care about boundaries? She looked delighted with herself for making Walter scowl.

“The two of you are together?” Stellan asked, not bothering to mask his disappointment.

Hildy gave an understanding nod. “It surprises a lot of people. We’ve got sort of a grumpy-sunshine thing going.” She waggled the fingers of her left hand. “I thought we might be getting our hands dirty, so I didn’t wear my ring.”

She was an astonishingly smooth liar, as Walter knew better than most.

“Scoot.” After knocking him out of the way with a swing of her hips, Hildy propped her elbows on the counter. “What did I miss? Are we sampling yet?”

“I would be happy to feed you,” the chef rumbled. “Perhaps a coffee first?”

Funny. He hadn’t offered Walter a beverage.

Hildy gave a gasp of delight. “I’d love to try your coffee.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Walter feigned concern. “You know how you get.”

“I think I’m capable of choosing what I put into my body,” she replied, with equally false sweetness.