Jack holds my gaze, like he’s trying to decide whether my word choice was intentional or coincidental. “That little hand kiss said otherwise.” He cleans the knife with a dish towel. “I also couldn’t help but notice His Royal Highness didn’t offer a private tour of the chateau to Madi and Rémy, despite the fact thatthey’rethe ones getting married here.” He cocks an eyebrow.
“I’m sure he will once they’re settled in. He probably doesn’t want to overwhelm them.”
“Uh-huh. So, where’s he taking you? The Court of Napoleon? The ruins at Amboise?” He wags his brows.
“Maybe if it were the Middle Ages orEver After. But since it’s the 21st century, we’re going to a restaurant.” I leave off the part about how it’s incredibly exclusive and almost impossible to get reservations at. “Like I said, not a big deal.” I don’t know why I’m highlighting that part yet again. Am I reassuring myself or Jack? If it’s the latter, I’m an idiot. He clearly doesn’t care—at least not beyond how fun he finds it to tease me about Philippe. Jack was the one who told him to ask me out, after all.
Most importantly, though, none of this matters. Jack is and always has been off-limits. The momentary lapse in common sense that led me to kiss him last night was just that—momentary. The best thing about all of this is that now I can skip the part where we spend a month hanging out and then he throws up deuces just like every other guy I’ve dated. I’d pretend to be fine even though inside I’d be crushed and resenting him so hard, and Madi would be furious with both of us, and Madi and Jack’s relationship would be back in the dumps, and the earth would explode. Trust me, the sequence of events is crystal clear.
So, you see? This is for the best. Jack’s cool. I’m cool. We’re all just the cool emoji. There’s nothing at all weird about kissing your best friend’s brother twice, seven years apart, and not telling your best friend so her wedding can be perfect, all while you share living quarters with her brother.
Standard issue situation here. DEFCON 5.
I’ve just gotta stay focused on what matters. What matters isnotogling Jack while he cuts more strawberries andnotremembering how his kiss tasted like said strawberries andnotsuddenly having a craving for strawberries despite having eaten twice my body weight in them over the past couple of days.
Glad we’ve got that all cleared up.
* * *
“Guys,wereallydon’t need to divvy up tasks so I can go on this date. I’ll manage; it’s only going to last two hours, tops.”
“Unless it doesn’t,” Madi says significantly.
Rémy flips his laptop around so it faces me, my colorful spreadsheet staring back. “Whether the date lasts ten minutes or seventeen hours—”
“Over my dead body,” I interject with horror.
“—this bloodbath of a spreadsheet is evidence that divvying up the tasks is absolutely necessary.”
“Agreed,” Madi says. “I never intended for you to sacrifice your entire life for this wedding, Siena.”
“I’m not! I’ve been having a great time. I’m inFrance, Madi.” I refuse to glance at Jack or to think about what Madi would say if she knew about last night. But I can’t stand for her to think I’ve been working nonstop when the truth is… different.
Ugh. I am the worst maid of honor in history, and no amount of work can make up for that fact.
Snacking on the strawberries Jack cut, we discuss the tasks that have to be accomplished this week, everything from seating charts to payments and checking with vendors. It’s simultaneously a relief and added stress because when I delegate a task, I have to relinquish control over that task, and after the election debacle, that ain’t easy.
Oh, man. Just listen to me—I’m a massive control freak. I didn’t used to be like this, I swear. Heck, I was the girl who showed up at a stranger’s partyalonethe first weekend of college. Now I’m the girl who won’t even consider a party that’s not on her meticulous schedule.
“Um, hi,” Jack says after about ten minutes of planning, giving an abrupt wave of the hand. “Not sure if you guys saw me here. Despite appearances, I’m not just here to be eye candy. Icanhelp.”
“You are helping,” Madi says. “You’re doing the bachelor party and going with Rémy to his tailoring appointment.”
“Basically running the show,” Jack says.
“The bachelor party is a big responsibility,” I say.
“Yeah, as big as the bachelorette party, which you’re doing in addition to…” He starts counting up the red cells.
“Okay, point taken.” I’m oddly reluctant to give Jack tasks. Relying on him doesn’t feel conducive to my goal of feeling entirely and completely neutral toward him.
“How about this one?” He points to a random cell, then leans toward my laptop to squint at it. “Follow up with the band.”
“That’s my assignment,” Madi says.
Jack puts his palms up. “Hey, no need to get territorial. Just figured you might want less things to worry about the week of your wedding. The thought of marrying this guy”—he elbows Rémy next to him—“has got to be as much as any woman can bear.”
Rémy chuckles, and he and Madi share a look that has anticipatory-newlywed-bliss tattooed all over it.
