“What happened to your expert eye?”
“Expert eye. Not hands.” He wiggles his fingers, doing jazz hands.
“Jack,” I say. “You’re helping.”
“Siena,” he says, matching my tone, “I’ll ruin it, and I don’t want to ruin Madi’s wedding. I can consult and be the company credit card, but stuff like this…?” He shakes his head.
I grab him by the arm and pull him into a chair. “I’ll guide you through it. You’ll do great.”
“Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He reaches for a handful of Jordan almonds, and I smack his hand.
“We don’t have enough of those for snacking. There have to be five in every favor bag.”
He rubs his hand dramatically. “Why five?”
“Trust me. It’s a thing here—a French wedding tradition. Each almond represents a specific wish for the couple’s future. So, unless you’retryingto curse your sister’s marriage…”
“Well, Iwasn’t, which is why I told you I don’t want to help with this. But now that you’re forcing me to”—he picks up a spool of ribbon—“all bets are off. What exactly are they supposed to represent? Pleasure, cavities, and obesity?”
“Yes, Jack. You nailed it.” I shut my eyes and think on my research, ticking each one off on my fingers. “Health, riches, happiness, fertility, and long life. You don’t want to mess with any of those.”
“No, I don’t. But why should Madi be the only one who gets those things?”
I put a hand on his shoulder, looking down at him with mock pity. “Aww, worried about your fertility, Just Jack?”
“I was thinking more about the riches and happiness, but good to know you’re thinking about my fertility, Sheppard.”
Well,nowI am.
And he knows it, which is why he’s wearing that satisfied, mischievous grin.
* * *
It’sa sizzling day at Chateau Vidal, and the wall-mounted air conditioning units are only in the bedrooms, which means it’s hot as Hades in the kitchen and living area. When we take a break to make some dinner—a truffle pasta like the man at the market suggested—it only intensifies the heat.
But I’m a woman on a mission, and we get right back to work on the bags after eating. More than once, Jack tries to sneak some almonds when he thinks I’m not watching. But Iamwatching. Purely for supervising purposes.
“Hey,” I say at one point, “how did you get to the parking lot yesterday? Uber or something?”
Jack laughs—the sort of laugh that tells me there’s a story there. “No. Though, I did try that. Apparently, Uber’s only in Paris, so if I waited for my driver to get here, you’d still be in that parking lot.”
“So, what did you do?” He got there too quickly to have walked.
He pulls the ribbon into a bow and tweaks it. “Hitchhiked.”
My brows shoot up, and I wait for him to grin as evidence he’s joking. But the grin never comes. He doesn’t even meet my eye.
Jackhitchhikedto get to me?
“Nearly got myself killed for you, Sheppard. These roads don’t have shoulders. Hence my desire for long life and good health.” He reaches for the almonds again, and I smack his hand.
Of course Jack hitchhiked, andof coursehe found success, because he’s Jack. “Lemme guess. A hot young Sabrina type picked you up in her vintage convertible.”
He shakes his head, lips tucked in like he’s trying to keep from smiling.
“Who, then?”
“Take a guess.”
