Page 19 of Kissing for Keeps
“It seemed like you were aiming to kill us both.”
“It may haveappearedthat way to the inexperienced eye, but I was very much in control the whole time.”
“Itwasa long time to be in control.”
“Hey, none of your sass, Sheppard. I was trying not to scare you.”
“I was mostly afraid we would spend the rest of our lives in that roundabout.”
We make our way along the Seine, and amidst her backseat driving, Siena points out some of the landmarks she recognizes—the Obelisk, the Tuileries Gardens, the Louvre, Orsay Museum, and so on. We discuss and decide against stopping for food in the city. We can find a place with less intimidating parking en route to the chateau.
Siena chooses a playlist, and I’m pleasantly surprised at the number of songs I know and like. We cruise south, and even though I’m tired, the music, the scenery, and joining in with Siena’s unabashed singing whenever I know the song, give me enough energy to stay awake.
When our stomachs start rumbling, Siena does some research and chooses a place just off the freeway for us to stop for gas and lunch. It’s a quaint little cafe in a small village where minimal English is spoken. We stumble our way through the interaction with the waiter and order two decent meals, then head out for the second half of the five-hour drive.
As we near the chateau, the landscape changes, transforming from wide, flat fields to hills, forests, vast fields of bright yellow flowers, and finally, hilltop castles overlooking the valleys below. One of them even has a sign on the side of the road offering medieval tournaments for birthday parties and events.
“I thought you’d been here before?” I say as Siena lowers her head to look through the window at yet another chateau perched above the road.
“To Paris, yeah. Not to this region. No wonder Madi and Rémy want to move here.”
The GPS takes us onto smaller roads that pass through picturesque villages with rivers winding through and purple wisteria hanging from warm-stone houses.
The roads become narrower as we delve deeper into the countryside until we finally reach the drive leading up to Chateau Vidal. It’s gravel and lined on either side by trees as we wind up a hill.
When the chateau comes into view, my eyebrows shoot up. I don’t know what I was picturing when I found out Madi and Rémy had plans to have their wedding at a chateau, but this was definitely not it.
It’s got towers and turrets and enough windows to give a salaried employee work. For a split second before the hedges block them, I get a glimpse of meticulously manicured gardens and a fountain. It looks like something out of a fantasy novel.
“Holy cheese snips,” I say as I press the brakes and stop the car in front of the entrance.
Siena’s head whips around.
It came out by accident, but I don’t let her see that. I act like I did it on purpose because part of me thinks it would be weird if she knew the ridiculous phrase she saidonceseven years ago has stuck in my head ever since.
“Don’t let Madi hear you say that,” she says. “She knows that phrase of mine all too well.” She turns to admire the view outside the van. “But holy cheese snips is right.”
As I put the van in park, a couple in their late fifties comes out of the chateau and start walking toward us. I open my door and step out of the van, which is so completely out of place among the Mercedes and Aston Martins that it would be laughable if it wasn’t so embarrassing. I don’t belong either in my gray joggers and black hoodie.
Behind the couple comes a young man dressed like a bellhop. It occurs to me that he should probably be tipped, but in my urgency to change my ticket and take a spur-of-the-moment trip to France, I overlooked getting any euros.
There’s no time to stress about that because the couple—the chateau owners, I can only assume, based on how they hold themselves—are here, smiling at us.
“Bonjour,” the man says. He’s graying near the temples, and his glasses have solid, dark rims. I’m guessing he was a heartthrob in his younger years, especially if he owned a chateau. Or maybe owning a chateau in France is like owning a second car in the States.
I let my gaze run over the clothing he and his wife are wearing. It’s the type of understated attire that screamsI’m made of so much money, I don’t have to worry about looking flashy.
“Bonjour,” Siena says.
“You are here for the Allred/Scott wedding?” the woman asks in such a heavy accent, I think she’s speaking French at first.
Siena and I nod simultaneously, and the couple smiles again.
“We are the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Vidal,” the man says. “We welcome you warmly to our home.” He gestures behind him. “We are very pleased you have chosen Chateau Vidal for your wedding.”
Siena and I glance at each other, both of us trying to understand if they’re under the impressionwe’rethe couple getting married. I smile mischievously.
“Oh, we aren’t getting married,” Siena clarifies, shooting down my idea like she’s in a standoff in the Old West. “I’m Siena Sheppard, the maid of honor—or one of the witnesses, I guess?”
