Page 15 of Grudge Match

We lie beside one another, catching our breath and smiling as we stare at the ceiling. I’ll remember this day always. It’s the day I made Elodie Bernard mine.

Chapter 16

Epilogue

Two months later

“Ican’t believe that’s one of the books I bought you for our honeymoon,” Deacon teases, then fastens his seatbelt before the flight attendant returns and repeats the instructions a third time. He’s not being difficult. He’s just excited about his first vacation in years. Deacon is on a two-month sabbatical from the law firm and only now settling into his temporary life of leisure.

After our secret honeymoon, Deacon will stay in Paris while I study at the French Culinary Academy for my six-week internship. I worried the long time off would affect his job, but his boss, Lincoln, is so pleased we’ve decided to wait two years before moving back to Vermont that he encouraged Deacon’s long vacation.

“Didn’t you read the summaries when you were in the checkout line? It’s romance. What else have you ever seen me read?” I huff, annoyed by his current judgment, though he continually requests private readings before bed.

“That’s not just romance, little girl. It is pure, unadulterated smut. And as long as you read your favorite parts to me, I’ll happily be your porn supplier,” he whispers in my ear, then requests a drink from the attendant, who is finally satisfied he’s complied with TAA regulations.

I wrinkle my nose and hide my book beneath my blanket, keeping it out of Deacon’s reach while I order a glass of wine. We have a seven-hour flight before we land in the city of love. There’s no telling how frisky this man will be when they dim the cabin lights. I smile and lean into his biceps, blissfully in love and deliriously happy.

We should have taken this trip last month—those were the rules. Fortunately, Madame Colette was so over the moon that our match was a success, she cut us some slack and recommended we use her trip as a honeymoon instead. She’s one of the few people who knows we’re officially married. Our families believe we’re only engaged. That’s a drawback to growing up in a small town. No matter how discreet you try to be, everyone is always in your business.

Our mothers are busy planning a July wedding in Maple Ridge, believing it will be the first time we say our vows. Due to our extended stay in Paris, Ramona will be my eyes and ears on the ground, ensuring I don’t have twenty bridesmaids or wind up wearing my mother’s wedding gown. For heaven’s sake, she chose a hat over a veil.

We expected pushback, especially from Deacon’s parents, but they surprised us with unbridled elation. Our mothers have been friends since childhood and always dreamed of combining our families. Our wedding has become their only concern since we shared our news last month. Last I checked, the entire town is invited.

The only person who doesn’t share our joy is Devon. It’s understandable, but we won’t let him steal our joy. Deacon broke the news over a late-night phone call and then promptly blocked him after he threatened violence. It’s silly. Devon and I were together in high school but were never intimate.

Deacon and I just hope he doesn’t make a fool of himself at our wedding. Lincoln Kent, Deacon’s boss, has volunteered to hire security, and we may take him up on his offer.

“Tell me again what my bad girl is reading? Is he a billionaire CEO or a billionaire cowboy?” Deacon jokes, tickling my abdomen to snatch away my book. When he goes too far and almost wrinkles the cover, I put an end to his shenanigans.

“If you must know.” I clear my throat and do my best to appear like a mature woman discussing classic literature. “It’s about a billionaire priest,” I say, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Deacon takes a sip of his drink, his expression suggesting he’s searching for the right words. “That doesn’t seem possible, baby. They take a vow of poverty.”

I blow out an exaggerated breath, shaking my head like he’s the one who’s off his rocker. “He’s a former priest, smarty-pants. The protagonist, Galen, was born rich but gave up his wealth to become a priest. Until he sees a girl on the subway and falls madly in love. It’s very steamy, so I won’t discuss details publicly.”

Deacon wags his eyebrows and smirks, leaning his head against mine and kissing my cheek. “Do you still imagine me as the hero?”

I don’t know why I confessed such a personal thing. Deacon's head gets bigger and bigger every time I bring home a new book. “Don’t I always?”

I’ve long heard that April in Paris is utterly divine. Songs and poetry are written about it. Movies are made in the height of spring to highlight the pink cherry blossoms and mild weather. Expositions and fairs crop up and bring people into the streets to enjoy life, food, wine, and culture. They’re not wrong. It’s a feast for the senses.

But it’s so much more than iconic landmarks and elegant architecture. As soon as Deacon and I set foot on the cobblestone streets and took in the romantic ambiance of the city of lights, we fell in love all over again. That was the easy part. Truth be told, I fall in love with Deacon every day.

“What do you think this is about?” Deacon stares at a painting, angling his head from side to side as he desperately tries to figure out the meaning of it. It’s a modern work, abstract, and, if I were to guess, meant to shock the observer. After spending all day in the Louvre yesterday, where most works of art are straightforward, abstract pieces leave us far less impressed.

“Never mind that. We’re here to see Monet’s Waterlilies on the second floor,” I mutter, afraid we’ll look as uncouth as I feel. We may live in New York, but deep down, we’re small-town folk who sometimes miss the subtleties of life. I take Deacon’s hand and lead him through a thin crowd gathering by a marble staircase. Everyone in our group is here to see Monet. That’s what this small museum is known for.

“Flowers.” Deacon stands at the entrance of the oval-shaped room and states the obvious, attempting to be a comedian.

We’ve planned to come here for this for weeks. I’ve kept a high-quality print of Monet’s Waterlilies 1916 since I first moved into my apartment in New York, and Deacon had Water Lily Pond and Bridge in his college dormitory. It’s one of the many things we have in common.

It’s a soulmate thing.

“If you and I are blessed enough to have children,” Deacon whispers over my shoulder and encircles me in his arms, “I want to wallpaper one wall in the nursery with this painting here.” He points to Reflection of the Clouds, one of my favorites from this collection. My heart flutters and leaves me breathless.

Deacon always knows precisely what to say and when to say it. Two months in and I can’t imagine my life without him.

“Where are we going?” I follow him through the crowded streets of the 7th Arrondissement, questioning his sense of direction at every turn. This isn’t the way to the restaurant we selected for dinner, but I keep silent and allow him to take me to his destination. I trust him implicitly, but just to be sure, I make a mental note of our path, fearing we’ll need to backtrack in the end.

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