Page 64 of My Best French Wedding

And was it really any worse than what Hildy had done to him?

Even as he told himself these things, the thrum of excitement in his blood saidliar.

He thought of the last time he’d seen her, when she walked out of a room as soon as he entered, as if she didn’t want to breathe the same air. Walter had been too afraid to follow, choosing instead to torture himself with what-ifs. This time, he wouldn’t back down.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

22Hildy

THREE DAYS BEFORE THE PRESCOTT-SCHAFER WEDDING

TAMNIÈS, France—While the other guests napped, worked on their tans, or paid an emergency visit to their nail tech, Hildy and Corinne strategized damage control. It wasn’t the fingernail itself so much as the overall harmony of the proceedings that had them on edge.

The good news was that Hildy had a plan to smooth things over. The bad was that it required Walter’s participation.

“Do whatever you have to do to guarantee buy-in,” Corinne advised. “If that means banging it out, no judgment. Although I reserve the right to say I told you so.”

“Sure. I’ll take one for the team.”

“Try not to suffer too much,” she deadpanned, sending Hildy off with an ironic salute.

As usual, when Hildy wanted Walter there was no sign of him. She had no choice but to confront him in his room. If only the walk were longer, so she’d have more time to pump herself up. Her enthusiasm ebbed even further when she ran into Maude in the covered passage outside his door.

“He’s in there,” Maude helpfully volunteered, before Hildy could trot out an excuse. “I’m sorry I misled you about the situation with the two of us.”

“Trust me, I get it.” Sometimes a fake relationship was the shortest distance between two points. “And you were right about it not being any of my business.”

“That’s not how Walter made it sound.”

“Oh?” Speaking of phony, Hildy was not quite selling nonchalance. It was generous of Maude to overlook the bad acting and answer in good faith.

“He told me a little about your history. I didn’t realize the two of you were so—”

During the epic pause that followed, Hildy tried to guess where Maude was heading. Rude? Immature? Fucked up?

“Entangled,” she finally said.

“I suppose that’s accurate.” Hildy Johnson, queen of understatement. “How much did he share?”

“Not much. Reading between the lines, I gather there’s been… conflict.”

“That’s one word for it.” A memory struck, of running into Walter outside a theater. She’d been seized by a rush of pleasure—there he is!—as if her nervous system had forgotten they didn’t like each other anymore.

And then he said, “Who are you with?” and a flash burst in her eyes. That was how she found out he was working for a tabloid.

The worst part wasn’t that he’d used her life as a professional foothold. Hildy had made a deliberate choice to be seen with high-profile dates in public places to keep her name out there while she got ready to launchLife, Styled. The problem wasn’t the press; it was Walter. He’d made her feel silly and forgettable, as if their time together meant nothing to him. She was an assignment, not a friend or a fellow journalist—much less anything more.

“But you were close? At one point?” Maude asked.

Hildy shrugged, as if that was a stretch. Maude didn’t need to know about the brief interlude during which Hildy would haveshouted from the rooftops that she liked Walter more than anyone she’d ever met. Trusted him, admired him, wanted to kiss him—the whole enchilada.

“Maybe you could talk to him—”

“How’s Loïc?” Hildy interrupted.

“Fine, I assume.” Maude looked down, fiddling with her earring, but she could take a hint. Which was good, because it was past time to set aside the Walter of it all and get down to business.

“Listen, I’m sorry we upset your sister. I’m going to fix this. Not just the fingernail but the whole thing. I know that wasn’t how she wanted the day to go.”