Page 73 of Kissing for Keeps
It rings and rings, then finally goes to voicemail. I leave a slow, clear message, asking them to confirm they’ve got everything they need for Thursday and offering my phone number and email in case they have any questions.
Troy, Rémy, and two guys I don’t know come out just as I’m finishing up.
Rémy introduces me to his friends, Vincent and Jean-Paul, and we all climb into the rental van together and head to the restaurant.
While it’s not the most exciting bachelor party I’ve been to, the dinner is really enjoyable. The food is good, and Jean-Paul and Vincent are cool dudes with surprisingly good English.
When we get to the chateau for our tournament, we’re led downstairs by a middle-aged guy explaining the different types of competitions we’ll be engaging in: jousting, archery, and sword-fighting.
He opens a closet of medieval gear—tunics and plastic helmets,breastplates, and pauldrons spray-painted to look like metal. It’s a lot more juvenile-looking than I had anticipated, and the size of everything tells me this is something more often done by teenagers, but no one seems to mind. In fact, everyone embraces the goofiness of it.
Apparently, donning medieval gear is in Frenchmen’s blood, because Rémy, Jean-Paul, and Vincent finish pretty quickly. They start talking and joking in French, testing out the swords while Troy helps me clip the front of my breastplate to the back.
“So,” he says as one piece snaps into place, “what’s going on with you and my sister?”
I turn my head, wondering if Siena talked to him or something. “What? Nothing. What do you mean?”Real smooth, Jack.
He laughs and comes to my other shoulder, working on that side. “The awkwardness between you two was reaching radioactive levels at the castle.”
I scoff but can’t find the words to respond.
“I know my sister, Jack. I’m just wondering how wellyouknow her.” He lifts a brow. It’s a teasing expression, but there’s something in it that tells me he’s not just playing around with this conversation.
“I know her better than I did two weeks ago,” I say evasively, fiddling with the belt around the bottom of my breastplate.
“How much better?”
I glance at Rémy, grateful to see he’s still talking with his friends instead of listening to this.
Troy raises his brows. “Oh, is this a secret, then?”
“There’s nothis,” I say.
“The way she was looking at you begs to differ.” He steps in front of me, most of the humor gone. “Look, man, I know a bit of your reputation. Just don’t mess with Siena, okay?”
His comment hits me square in the chest, and this plastic breastplate doesn’t shield me at all. “I’m notmessing with her.” I can’t blame Troy for taking me to task. If I were him and knew anything about me, I’d do the same. But how do I defend myself against his insinuations when I can’t admit what’s happened—or what I want to happen?
“Good,” he says, grabbing one of the weapons from the wall next to us. “Because if you do, I’ll run you through with this.” He holds up the lance, and even though it’s made of plastic, and some of the color has rubbed off, I kind of believe him.
“That would be impressive,” I say. “But, like I said, unnecessary.”
“Yeah?” He shoves the lance into my chest, his eyes half-playful, half-serious. “Prove it.”
Apparently, we arefullyembracing a return to adolescence, right down to the insults and comebacks. I’d like to say I’m above it, but when you put on a tunic that fits more like a crop top, and when your phony plastic breastplate is pressing uncomfortably against your pecs, there are things to be proven.
Hey, if Troy Sheppard needs me to pummel him in jousting to believe I’ve got Siena’s best interests at heart, that’s what I’ll do.
The arenais upstairs, a decent-sized hall with ten-foot cardboard paintings along both walls, depicting our imaginary audience. In the front of the paintings on either side of the hall are a half-dozen folding chairs.
Our guide, Laurent, comes over and hands me a stick.
“Your mount, my liege,” he says in his thick accent.
I stare at the stick and the stuffed horse's head at the top. Apparently, I will be pummeling Troy from the imaginary saddle of a hobby horse.
Troy is laughing until he realizes thathismount has seen better days—the mane is tangled, and the stuffing is coming out of a spot just under the nostril, looking a lot like boogers.
Laurent asks us our names, then announces us in his best French medieval MC voice as “Sir Jack Allred” and “Sir Troy Sheppard.”
