ChapterOne
Laughter bubbled up out of Hattie’s mouth as she turned off the car engine and sat for a moment staring up at the building in front of her. It exceeded every expectation, dazzling her in the brilliant sunshine of the early afternoon as bright light bounced off the pale stone walls and the white coping, making her squint even behind her sunglasses. In truth, she hadn’t been sure what to expect but it had definitely been more crumbling ruin than the rather magnificent façade of the Château St Martin. Gorgeous, grand, fairy-tale and her home for the next two months.
It seemed a miracle that this morning she’d set out from a very grey overcast Surrey and in just six hours, here she was in the bright sunshine, with everything around her blooming full of life. It felt as if she were coming out of hibernation herself and the spontaneous laugh was surely a good omen. Laughter had been in short supply in recent months. She’d been too busy wading through the weighty business of living.
Itching to get out and be in the moment, she opened the car door and stepped into warm, fragrant air. She had that instant punch to the senses that she wasn’t in England anymore. A row of cherry trees along the drive were bursting with pink pompoms of blossom, the odd petal fluttering in the air like confetti as if to say: this is the perfect place to hold a wedding. It was tempting to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. This last week had been horrendous and she still wasn’t sure she’d done the right thing leaving Chris and her job, but the minute the train left Folkestone and she’d crossed under the Channel, it was like a physical parting from her old life. She had to focus on the now, even if she was going to have to work extremely hard for the next few weeks. She had a hell of a lot to prove. Entertaining the prospect of failure was not an option. She might not have been her cousin Gabby’s first choice as wedding planner but she’d got the gig now. This was going to be a triumph, even if it killed her. It had to be. For the last few years she’d been a mere assistant, learning the ropes of the wedding planning business – she might have exaggerated a little to her uncle about her experience but she’d learned a lot answering the phone, arranging meetings and paying invoices.
She took a deep breath and smelt the fresh tang of rosemary and marjoram in the flower beds beside her. Fresh start, Hattie. Fresh start. She lifted her chin and looked at the château again.
If the inside was as spectacular as the exterior, Gabby was going to have one amazing wedding. The setting was quite, quite beautiful, as was the gorgeous countryside that she’d driven through from Reims to St Martin. The lush rolling hills were covered in uniform rows of bright green vines that undulated across the contours of the land. The never-ending lines marching across hill and field into the distance were punctuated by gnarled stumps supporting the fledgling canopy of leaves.
Hattie was fascinated by them. The vines were much shorter than she’d imagined – but then what did she know about wine apart from it was made from grapes and she liked it? Maybe while she was here she could learn a bit about it, although she’d always been quite intimidated by wine. Her Uncle Alexander owned a half share in a wine company in London and was always very generous, bringing the posh stuff to her parents’ house.
Although she’d almost spat her tea out when she’d seen the amount of money he’d deposited in her bank account. The number of zeros made her feel slightly sick and euphoric at the same time. It seemed money was no object for his daughter’s wedding.
Alexander had told her that she had free rein in the château for the day of the ceremony, although he had booked an entire hotel for the guests and the bridal party. She’d also been told that there was a housekeeper in situ but she could hire any additional staff as she saw fit or bring anyone else in. Hattie had never hired staff in her life and although the thought didn’t worry her – she knew she’d be more than competent at doing so – it was more that she didn’t want to have to responsible for anyone else at the moment. She’d been doing that for too long.
As she was standing marvelling at the house, the front door opened and a tall man stood in the doorway.
‘Are you going to knock or just stand there all day, hoping the door will open by itself?’ His English was perfect but the French accent was unmistakable and by the amused expression on his face, he found her gauche admiration of the splendour of the house entertaining.
Hattie blushed and then raised her head with a regal lift. She wasn’t going to be intimidated by anyone. She was Hattie Carter-Jones and she was here to do a job.
Then she blushed some more as her heart literally stopped in her mouth. Oh my goodness, what on earth did they put in the water here? The man had the most amazing blue eyes with the thickest, darkest lashes she’d ever seen and a head of swept-back curly hair. He wore dusky pink shorts which revealed long, muscled legs. Her mouth opened but nothing came out.
‘Can I help you? Are you lost?’
The man raised an eyebrow and she knew without a doubt he knew exactly the effect he was having on her. She must look a right lemon standing there staring at him.
‘Hi,’ Hattie said. But in trying to control her voice, it came out an octave lower than her usual voice. ‘Bonjour. I’m Hattie.’
‘Hattie?’ A smirk crossed his face as he dropped the H making it sound adorably sexy and sending a shiver through her. ‘Cute.’
Did he mean her name or her? It flustered her even more.
‘Well, it’s really Harriet, but most people call me Hattie which I much prefer because … I don’t know, don’t you think Harriet sounds a bit like a maiden aunt or something quite stuffy? I do.’ Now she was babbling and he wasn’t even trying to hide his amusement at her verbal outpouring. Then she realised she was probably talking far too quickly and about something that didn’t translate terribly well.
She strode forward and held out her hand.
He took it and she gave his hand a firm, no-nonsense shake, trying to claw back some dignity, which was a bit hopeless given his hand completely dwarfed hers. That bloody smile of his deepened as if he knew exactly what she was doing. She felt a bit like a small flea being swatted by a newspaper.
‘Luc Brémont.’
God, just his voice, saying his name in that divine accent, made her go mushy inside.
Once again she stood there looking like a gormless idiot. She really did need to pull herself together. It was as if she hadn’t been out in the real world for a long time and was adjusting from captivity. Which actually was quite a good analogy.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked again.
‘I’m working here … I’m the wedding planner.’
‘The wedding planner!’ He stared at her with a mystified look.
Didn’t they have such things in France? ‘L’organisateur de mariage?’
‘I do know what a wedding planner is,’ he said with a look, making it clear that he wasn’t a halfwit. ‘I would have expected to be given some notice that you were arriving.’
‘I phoned.’
