I lean back in the chair with a glass of the sauvignon. My team knows how to read me by now.
“I like this wine,” Paige says. Her fingers go to the stack of cards in front of her. She hid it behind a cloth napkin for the pictures. “It’s smooth.”
“It’s one of our best. What’s on those cards?”
“Intrigued?”
“Cautious,” I say.
“I made us a list of questions earlier.” She glances over her shoulder, back inside. “Do you think we’re…”
“Safe? Yes. Wren will make sure the photographer gets out of here.”
“Good. Because you and I don’t know each othernearlywell enough. In a few days we’ll be swamped by family, friends and the media. My uncle is still trying to counter-sue. Wren wants us to do a sit-down interview!”
I knock back the rest of my red wine. It’s not the way it’s meant to be drunk, and it’s an offense to the vineyard that makes it. “I know. I’m trying to talk her out of it.”
“Or we do it, but we just have to know what we’re talking about.”
“Doesn’t stop you from making up what my favorite cake is.”
“What’s the real answer?”
“I don’t have a favorite cake. I’m not twelve.”
She scoffs and pours herself another glass of wine. “Wow, that’s a depressing response. You can have fun as an adult, you know.”
“I’m aware.”
“Are you sure? Because you never seem to have fun.”
“That’s because you’ve only seen me when I’m aroundyou,” I say sharply. It’s harsh, but it’s also true. I’ve never let down my guard when she’s near.
A slow smile spreads over her face. “I make you miserable?”
“I should have known you would like hearing that.” I run a hand over my face. “Tell me what you have on those cards.”
She doesn’t. She pulls her legs up instead, tucking into the side of the terrace chair. “I don’t know very much about you,” she says. “If I’m asked almost any question by people at the wedding or a journalist, I will fail. I only know what I’ve read online.”
“Or what you’ve listened to. Since you’ve watched all my interviews.”
She smiles like she knows exactly how to ruin me and where to begin. “Don’t let that go to your head. I research most of my husbands before I marry them.”
“I find the word ‘most’ very interesting in that sentence,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “Let me tell you what I know about you, and you’ll fill in the blanks. Correct me if I’m wrong. Okay?”
“Nobody’s going to quiz you about my life,” I tell her. Still, I can see the value in what she’s suggesting. We might have to pull this off in front of people more difficult than my designers or the press, especially if her uncle truly contests her inheritance. “But sure. I’ll play.”
“Okay. So I know you’re thirty years old and that your father was Swiss and your mother’s American. She was an actress, right?”
“Yes. Minor soaps, a few movies.”
“I watched one of them. She’s good,” Paige says, in an uncharacteristic display of either kindness or sincerity, I don’t know. “But you were mostly raised in Paris, where your dad headquartered Maison Valmont. He inherited Artemis, the watch brand, and decided to use it to expand his portfolio. But I don’t know what Valmont stands for. Maison, I get.”
“Valley by the mountain,” I say. My hand tightens around my glass. “It’s a reference to the village in Switzerland where he grew up.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh. And Montclair,of course.”
