That was the one job we weren’t willing to try ourselves, lest we made an amateur mistake and burned the entire place to the ground.
They shook their heads. “None around here. Not since Jules Delmont retired.”
“Didn’t his son take over the business?” I tried.
Madame Martin huffed. “He took it, all right — all the way to Dijon, where the high-paying customers are. It’s the same with anyone else in the business — their fees are too high or they’re impossible to book.”
Darn. That was what my sister had said, but I’d been hoping she was wrong. We were on Jules Jr.’s waiting list, but we’d be lucky if we got new wiring before the first Starbucks opened on Mars.
“And how are your sister and that beau of hers?” Madame Martin went on with a knowing grin.
The subtext onthatcomment was X-rated.
“Mina and Marius are fine. They send their regards,” I fibbed, giving the wholemeal loaf a significant look. Couldn’t she hurry up and give me my order?
“Veryfine, no doubt,” Madame Fontaine insinuated, totally missing my hint.
The two women chuckled. I sighed. As happy as I was for my sister, it was hard to be around blissfully mated lovebirds — especially when those lovebirds were dragons who were constantly touching, kissing, and cooing, not to mention soaring side by side over the château.
Only slightly jealous, I swear.
On the bright side,beauwas an upgrade for Marius, who’d gone fromdangerous bad boytoenchanting new citizenof Auberre. All it took was marrying my sister and staying mostly out of sight.
“Isn’t Jules’s grandson getting married?” Madame Martin asked Madame Fontaine.
She nodded. “Yes. He’s just praying the bride doesn’t invite too many guests.”
“Oh? I’d love to get in touch with her,” I said, sensing an opportunity.
But Madame Martin took off on a totally different subject.
“How are those houseguests of yours?” She practically waggled her eyebrows.
Subtext:Those four hot men you’re scandalously living with, doing who knows what with.
The floor creaked as Madame Fontaine leaned in to listen.
I nearly laughed. Yes, we lived together, but in a château — hardly the kind of tight quarters that made hanky-panky inevitable. The guys were all the way over in the west wing, while I lived in the east wing, making for a very, very long walk of shame if one were so inclined.
Which I absolutely wasn’t, because I’d sworn off men. Those men, especially.
And if I were to eye anyone, it would be a totally different man. A man I’d secretly loved since I was a kid.
The bell over the door chimed, and six feet of magnificent man-flesh stepped in.
“Clement!” the women cried in happy greeting.
He doffed his hat to each of them. “Madame Martin. Madame Fontaine.” Then he turned to me and added, “Geneviève.”
My ears strained for a drop in pitch that signaled powerful emotions, but if there were any, they were hidden — and hidden deep.
“Bonjour,” I said a little breathlessly.
In my defense, Clem had that effect on a lot of people. He was that effortlessly gorgeous. So effortlessly, he even made a police uniform look good. Not a given, as his portly colleague, Monsieur Blanchet, proved. Hell, Clem even made that boxy police minivan they drove around in look cool.
An image of being handcuffed and hauled away zipped through my mind, and not in a bad way.
I tried very, very hard to recall why I was not in the market for another relationship.
