I hang up the phone.
“Your mother?” Nicolette asks as I reach for her arm and we head to the doorway.
“My aunt and grandmother wind my mother up so tightly she almost inevitably snaps. It’s like clockwork.”
“Oh, boy.”
“You’ll see.”
“Will there be wine?”
“Of course.”
“Good,” she says with a sigh. “Sounds like we’ll need it.” A wicked gleam glints in her gaze. “Or do I need to ask permission?”
Threading my fingers along the hair at her scalp, I pull her over to me. I love the way she feels, the way she tastes, the way her body melts against mine. “You do. Good girl knowing the rules. So let’s go over this one more time.”
When we both have it perfectly memorized, I kiss her one more time to seal the deal.
“Fabien,” she says on a throaty whisper. “We’d better get downstairs before your mother sends out a search party.”
I grunt and open the door. I suppose she’s right.
Anticipation hangs in the air when we step outside into the hallway. I can’t remember the last time we hosted an event of this magnitude, but I know that Lyam was still in school.
Lyam.Jesus.
Have they lied to us that he’s safe?
I have to focus on what I need to do next.
There isn’t a speck of dust on the furniture, there are still lines in the carpet from the track of the vacuum, and I swear it looks like Maman even had the crystal chandeliers that hang from our cathedral ceilings shined to sparkling. Our kitchen staff’s likely been working around the clock for days in anticipation of tomorrow’s main event. If Lyam were here, he'd have already dipped his fingers in the whipped cream or sampled an hors d’oeuvre.
I’ll get him back, and I’ll find whoever did this.
“I read all about the differences between American and French weddings in a magazine,” Nicolette explains as we head downstairs. “I’m looking forward to the wedding procession.”
On the day of a wedding in Paris, the groom typically picks his bride up from their future home before the ceremony. The procession is led by musicians, the bride, and the bride’s father. As they head toward the church, children lead the way with white ribbons they stretch across the road, a would-be barrier for the bride. She cuts the ribbons with scissors as she heads to the church, symbolizing her cutting her way through obstaclesthat could threaten the wellbeing of their marriage. When my cousin Ambre was married, she used a blow torch, but her younger sister Céline ducked under the ribbons.
Ambre is the one still married.
“I’m looking forward to the croquembouche,” Nicolette says with a wink. “We have cake in America, but a pyramid of cream puffs sounds so much better. Oh! Did they decide to do something more modern like macarons instead?”
I shrug. I have no idea. “My family’s pretty traditional.”
“I gathered that.”
I don’t like that I’ll have to share her this evening, that others will get to feast their eyes on her. Before we enter the ballroom for the rehearsal, I tug her into the doorway to my father’s study. I frame her face with my hands as voices come closer. Instead of admonishing me or flushing with embarrassment, she grins in excitement.
“Kiss me, then.”
I tip her chin up, my mouth a mere breath away from hers. I relish the way her lips part and her eyes flutter closed like the batting of butterfly wings. I kiss one lid then the other. The voices draw nearer. I brush my lips across her cheeks. She tenses. Just as the sound of voices seems nearly upon us, I close my mouth over hers.
Then…nothing.
“Where’d they go?” Nicolette asks, her eyes wide and probing.
“To the entrance to the hall, which is right….” I point my finger over her shoulder. “Before you get here.”
