Mix 'N Match (No Match for Love) (16 page)

She was never going to understand Mitch—he scolded her for being late one minute and made sure she wasn’t hungry the next. Did he care about her or not? Trying to figure it out made her head swim. “I ate an omelet, so I’m good.”

“I meant to tell you last night that Luke and I usually place our breakfast orders with the chef the evening before, then plan out our day over breakfast. I think the same format would work well for us.”

“Okay.” Zoey couldn’t stop the wry smile from curling her lips. They’d discussed their plans for the day yesterday evening—was it really necessary to go over it again ten hours later? It wasn’t like anything had changed.

The elevator ride to the car was silent, the tension still thick between them, even after three days. Usually, Zoey would try and break the silence—maybe ask about Jasmine—but this time she was staying stubborn. Mitch’s complete and utter lack of confidence in her still stung.

She’d prove to him how levelheaded she could be.

She climbed into the car and greeted Phillipe, who barely waited for Mitch to close his door before peeling into traffic. Zoey caught herself just before tumbling into Mitch’s lap. He reached out to help her, but she jerked away, quickly buckling her seatbelt.

“I confirmed with Juliette and the string quartet just before leaving, so they’re expecting us,” Mitch said. “I also spoke with Brooke on the phone. She said she wants nontraditional pieces—”

“Yeah, I know. I talk to her, too.”

Mitch cleared his throat and looked away, gazing out the window. “Then we’re on the same page.”

If by
same page
he meant
in completely different books
, then sure.
“Fine.”

Mitch opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head, turning to gaze out the window. The silence screamed between them, louder than an L.A. nightclub. Zoey couldn’t believe she’d ever fantasized about Mitch. He was one of the most difficult-to-please, unreasonable men she’d ever met.

French pop songs and Phillipe’s off-key singing filled the silence. Zoey glanced at Mitch, not sure what she hoped for. After five minutes of him staring out the window while she stared at him, she gave up and looked up floral arrangements online, since it was too loud to listen to music clips in the car. Brooke had emailed Zoey a few pictures, and the style would be easy enough to replicate—classic, elegant, and very Brooke.

“That motorcycle’s been following us since we left the high-rise,” Mitch said.

Zoey dropped the phone in her lap and whipped around to peer out the back window. “What?”

“I’ve been watching him in the side-view mirror. He always stays a few car lengths behind, but yeah, he’s been with us since we left the apartment building.”

The eggs from the omelet curdled in Zoey’s stomach. “It’s probably just a coincidence. This is a busy road, and there are lots of people who live at those apartments.”

Mitch leaned forward. “I think we’ve got a tail, Phillipe. The motorcyclist. Do you see him?”

Phillipe peered in the rear-view mirror, then nodded. “
Oui, monsieur.
”

“Can we try to lose him?”

“Say no more.” Phillipe yanked the wheel to the left, cutting across three lanes of traffic and nearly giving Zoey a heart attack in the process.

“If I die in this car, I’m coming back as a ghost to haunt you, Mitchell Harris,” Zoey hissed.

“We’re fine.”

Phillipe made a sharp turn into a narrow alleyway, earning him three blaring horns and an obscenity screamed out a window. Zoey glanced behind her again, her shoulder brushing Mitch’s at the movement.

“He’s still following us,” Zoey said.

“Hold on,” Phillipe said. He cut across traffic and took another turn, this time left. The motorcyclist was now only one car length behind them and keeping pace.

“Shoot,” Zoey muttered.

“It’s got to be Alan,” Mitch said.

“Do you think he’s renting an apartment in the same building as us?”

“I doubt it—it’s pretty expensive for a pap. He’s probably staying at a hotel nearby. Might even be sleeping on the street as he stakes us out.”

“Vultures. He’s nothing but a freakin’ vulture. Why won’t they just leave Brooke and Luke alone?” Zoey had her phone out, ready to dial the police and give an anonymous tip about a motorcyclist she’d just seen break into a car—whatever lie made them take her seriously—but paused, the number only half-dialed.

Today she was channeling Brooke. Calm, rational Brooke.

“Those wedding photos would make his career,” Mitch said. “I guess he’s decided being discrete isn’t getting him anywhere.”

Phillipe turned down another corner, and Zoey grabbed onto the door handle to avoid slamming into Mitch.

“We can’t let him ruin their wedding,” Zoey said.

“At least we agree on one thing, then. He’s still with us, Phillipe.”

A light turned yellow ahead, then flicked to red. Phillipe gunned the engine and sprinted through it. Horns honked and tires screeched. Zoey bit her tongue, fighting back the scream begging for release. They made it through the intersection, but barely.

Zoey looked back. The motorcyclist was stopped behind another car at the light.

“We lost him,” Mitch said. “Quick, make a few more turns so he can’t find us again once the light turns green.”

“
Oui
,” Phillipe said and turned down another road. He made four more turns at random intersections before finally slowing his pace. “I don’t think he’ll be finding us now,
Monsieur
Harris.”

“I think you’re right,” Mitch said. He glanced at his watch. “That little detour cost us twenty minutes. We’d better hurry, or we’ll be late for our appointment with the string quartet.”

Phillipe nodded. But even with the motorcyclist gone, Zoey couldn’t make her shoulders release the tension she held there.

There was no doubting it now. Alan was a reporter, and he was hot on their trail.

Mitch was pretty sure he was dying of boredom. He’d never realized there were so many different types of flowers, in so many different shades of colors. Zoey and Juliette had been discussing them with the florist for two hours, debating the merits of lilies versus calla lilies, white versus cream, long-stemmed versus trimming the stems. Zoey frequently snapped pictures and texted them to Brooke for an opinion. Apparently the wedding was important enough Brooke was willing to sacrifice sleep for middle-of-the-night questions.

When Luke first asked Zoey to go to France, Mitch had been certain the whole thing would be a disaster, and that Zoey would be the proverbial millstone around his neck, dragging him down to hell. But now he realized he would’ve been totally lost—and would’ve screwed up everything—if she hadn’t been here.

He needed Zoey. Talk about terrifying.

Juliette said something to the florist in French, then turned to Zoey and Mitch. “I think we’re done here. We’ll meet at four o’clock to review table settings. Is there anything else you need help with today?” Juliette asked.

“Brooke asked me to go see her dress right now, but I don’t think we need any help with that.” Zoey pulled Juliette into a hug. “Thanks again for everything. Brooke will love those arrangements, and that bouquet will make her cry tears of joy. It’s a perfect match for the dress.”

Mitch said his goodbyes and followed Zoey to the car. She climbed in and handed Phillipe her phone. “Do you know where that address is?” she asked. “There’s a wedding dress shop there we need to stop at.”

“
Oui
,” Phillipe said. “It’s maybe twenty minutes from here, if traffic is good. Not far.”

“Perfect.” Zoey took her phone back and buckled in.

Mitch did the same. “Brooke asked us to go to the dress shop?”

“Oh, yeah. I thought I mentioned it? She texted me while we were at the florist’s, freaking out that she’d made a mistake going with the champagne-colored dress instead of white. She’s worried it’s going to look dirty instead of elegant. So she asked me to stop by the shop and assure her that everything’s perfect. Is that okay?”

Since when did Zoey ask permission? Maybe she really was trying out the demure thing. She’d definitely been more subdued the last few days.

He wasn’t sure he liked it.

“It’s fine,” Mitch said. “We’re here to help Brooke and Luke however we can.”

“Okay.” Zoey pulled out her phone and tapped away. She didn’t look up again until they stopped in front of the bridal shop.

The shop was smaller than Mitch had expected, with glass-fronted windows displaying mannequins wearing wedding dresses.

“This is it?” he asked in surprise. He’d been expecting a sleek and expensive shop, maybe on the Champs-Élysées
.
But this small boutique was tucked away in an obscure alley, with only a tiny sign above the door proclaiming
Madame Rosseau Robes de Mariée
.

“Charlotte recommended it,” Zoey said, referring to the French owner of Toujour. “There’s this fantastic designer that works exclusively with the boutique. Brooke saw one of her designs online and fell in love. She custom-designed a dress just for Brooke. I’ve seen pictures, and it looks absolutely gorgeous.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Mitch seriously doubted he’d have an opinion one way or the other on the dress. But if Brooke wanted them to check it out, they would check it out.

Zoey pulled open the heavy wooden door, and a small bell tinkled above it. The shop was lined on both sides with more mannequins, but the floor and reception desk were both empty.

“Hello?” Zoey said into the silence. “Crap.
Bonjour
?” She stumbled over the word, her
j
much harder than the soft French pronunciation.

Why was everything she did so unbelievably adorable?

A woman appeared from the back room, glasses perched on the edge of her nose, a gold chain hanging from both sides. “
Bonjour. Comment puis-je vous aider?
”

Zoey looked at Mitch, a
help me
expression on her face. He shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. He didn’t speak any more French than she did.

“I’m sorry. We don’t speak French. I’m Zoey, Brooke Pierce’s maid-of-honor. I think she called to tell you we were coming?”

“Oh,
oui
!
Zo
é
.” The woman was short and rather round, and her arm wiggled back and forth as she pointed to Zoey. “Brooke call. You see dress?”

“Yes, that would be wonderful,” Zoey said. Mitch was glad the woman had finally understood. His sign language wasn’t up to par.

“Come, come.” The woman motioned with her hands, and they followed her down a small hallway that opened into a large room filled with sewing machines and more mannequins, these ones wire. Dresses in various states of assembly were on the mannequins. In a corner sat a dress that looked almost completed.

The woman walked over to the dress and smoothed the silky folds of fabric. “Brooke,” she said, the pride evident in her voice. “It’s . . .” She squinted, as though trying to come up with the right word. “
Désign personalisé.
”

“It’s beautiful,” Zoey said, letting out a sigh. She leaned forward, examining it. “Are you Madame Rosseau?”

The woman nodded, smiling widely. “I make.”

“You did an excellent job. The lace work is exquisite.”

Mitch didn’t know about the lace work, but something about the dress was definitely off. “Are you sure it’s right?” he said, his voice low. “It’s not white.”

Zoey rolled her eyes. “Do you even listen to me when I talk? It’s champagne-colored, and it’s absolutely perfect. Brooke is going to be a vision in this dress, and it fits the venue perfectly.”

“A dress has to fit a venue?” It was like Zoey had started speaking French. Mitch was in way over his head.

“Men.” Zoey motioned to the dress, directing her attention back to Madame Rosseau. “Is it finished?”

The woman put her fingers together, mere centimeters apart. “
Bientôt
.” She stood back, eying Zoey critically, then smiled. She took the dress off the mannequin and started speaking in rapid French. She held the dress up to Zoey. “You try.”