As I admire the wedding venue, which is a sumptuous hôtel particulier in the heart of Paris, I wish I had my phone to take a selfie. I would send it to Noah, just to show off. Only, my phone has gone missing since yesterday lunchtime. I’ve turned the office and my apartment upside down, and called myself from Dad’s phone multiple times, but nada.

It was probably stolen from my purse during lunch.

I’m not too upset, though. All my data is backed up on the cloud, and the phone was an old model with a cracked screen. Dad announced he was buying me the newest and coolest model tomorrow. Because he feels guilty. Beats me how choosing the restaurant where my phone got stolen makes it his fault, but hey, if Mr. Bander needs a pretext to pamper his princess, I won’t stand in his way.

The maître d’hotel directs us to the patio where pre-dinner drinks and sophisticated-looking snacks are being served. I understand the church wedding was held yesterday, in Alsace, where the bride’s mother is a pastor. It was only family and closest friends. This morning, a bigger ceremony was held at the town hall of their arrondissement, and now it’s the dinner party for a much larger circle.

Which—lo and behold—includes Dad and me.

A good-looking French woman in her fifties approaches us with an adorable little girl in her arms.

“Ludwig! I’m so glad you could make it.” She tilts her head toward the baby. “This is Lily, my granddaughter, courtesy of the newlyweds.”

Dad points to me. “This is my daughter, Sophie.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sophie,” the woman says. “I’m Marguerite.”

Noah’s mom is called Marguerite, too. Must have been a fashionable name for that generation.

I smile. “Enchantée. And congratulations on your son’s wedding!”

“Thank you, darling.” She looks at Dad. “I’m happy to be here, but I’m also anxious to get back to work.”

“I know what you mean,” he says.

She turns to me. “I run a charitable foundation. The manager and staff are perfectly competent, and yet… You see, I’m a very hands-on philanthropist.”

She smiles and eyes me up and down.

“Magnifique,” she says to Dad, giving him a meaningful look.

His nod is cursory but just as meaningful. “Yes, she is.”

Why do I get a feeling they’ve included me in some game they’re playing without explaining the rules?

“Have you met Raphael and Mia yet?” Marguerite asks.

I follow her gaze to the stunning couple surrounded by a group of guests across the room.

“Not yet,” I say. “But I’m looking forward to it.”

A boyishly pretty young woman with a professional camera around her neck, is walking toward us. A step behind her is a handsome albeit aloof man holding a baby boy in his arms.

“Will you excuse me for a moment?” Marguerite gives us a perfunctory smile and scoots off.

The woman with the camera halts next to us. “Hi, I’m Diane, the unofficial photographer of this wedding.”

She holds out her hand.

I shake it.

“Chéri,” she says to the man holding the baby. “Will you and Tanguy stand over there for a quick pic?”

The man goes to the designated spot and poses.

When she’s done, Diane turns to me again. “I hope we can chat later, when I’m done with my official and unofficial duties.”

The stiff man passes the baby to a middle-aged woman—a nanny, I guess—who takes him out to the garden.

He extends his hand. “Sebastian d’Arcy.”

I shake it, after which he shakes hands with Dad.

Dad turns to me. “This young man is Count Sebastian d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice, owner of one of the most successful businesses in Europe.”

I’ve never seen a count—or any aristocrat—before.

Am I supposed to curtsy?

Nah. He isn’t the Queen of England, after all.

Weird how Dad stressed the man’s title and fancy name. Is he so impressed he forgot he’s American, and a conch to top it off? In Key West, we aren’t given to formalities. Dad usually calls everyone by their nickname, regardless of status or position.

Something else bugs me.

It’s the last part of count d’Arcy’s long name. For some reason, those words sounded familiar… Wait a minute! The chateau Noah took me to in September was called Thouars-Maurice. And its owner was called Sebastian. This cannot be a coincidence. No effing way. Count d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice is Noah’s buddy Sebastian.

Fancy that!

“I visited your amazing estate last month,” I say to him with a smile.

His eyebrows rise from which I deduce Noah hasn’t told him he’d asked me to give him a hand selling the property.

Then again, why would he? It’s not like either of us is getting a commission.

Count d’Arcy opens his mouth as if to say something, shuts it, and gives me a polite smile. “I’m glad you liked it. The estate is my brother’s, actually.”

“Raphael’s?”

“No, my other brother’s.”

Curiouser and curiouser.

I’m sure Noah said the owner of the estate was his friend Sebastian, not his friend Sebastian’s brother. But why on earth would he lie about it? Why would anyone bother lying about such an unimportant, minor detail?

I must’ve misunderstood.

But why didn’t he mention his friend was a count? Probably because Sebastian’s title doesn’t mean anything to Noah. It doesn’t define Sebastian in Noah’s eyes.

Fair enough.

What I really can’t explain is why Noah told me his friend was in need of cash, when Sebastian d’Arcy clearly isn’t.

Maybe Sebastian’s other brother is. I’ll have to ask Noah—

Who’s right here, barely a dozen feet from me, chatting with the bride. And with Uma.

What is he doing here? What is Uma doing here?

D’oh! This is his friend’s brother’s wedding. Noah was invited.

And he chose to come here with Uma.

“Excuse me,” I say to Dad and Sebastian, and begin making my way toward Noah.

“So, should I call you Dr. Mia Stoll, PhD?” I hear him ask the bride.

“That would be overkill,” she says.

“Dr. Mia Stoll then,” Uma suggests.

The bride shakes her head. “Too pompous.”

Noah cocks his head. “How about just doctor, like in Doctor Who?”

The bride grins. “How about just Mia?”

Noah and Uma exchange a comically dubious look and nod in unison. “Yes, doctor.”

I join the trio amid peals of laughter.

Noah’s smile slips and blood drains from his face the moment he sees me.

“Sophie!” Uma gives me a hug. “So nice to see you here!”

I mumble something. Mia says something and I respond to her. Hopefully, my autopilot is using context-appropriate expressions.

Uma hooks her arm through Mia’s and walks away with her.

Noah and I stare at each other.

“Sophie,” he says. “I feared this would happen… I tried to call you all day yesterday—”

“I lost my phone.”

He swallows. “I went to your place, and I waited, but you didn’t come home…”

“Dad took me out, and then I slept over at Mom’s.”

“That’s what I thought.” He draws a breath. “Has he… Has he told you about me?”

A sense of foreboding seizes my chest. “What do you mean?”

“I guess he hasn’t, then.” Noah’s lips compress into a hard line. “He just brought you here instead.”

My chin begins to tremble.

“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” Noah says.

I stare at him and, suddenly, I know.

All the jagged pieces of the puzzle fall into place, forming a picture that explains everything.

“You’re Count d’Arcy’s other brother,” I say.

He nods.

“You’re the owner of the estate you took me to last month.”

He nods again.

“Why?”

Before he can respond, I lower the pitch of my voice and say mockingly, “I’m Noah Masson, a goalie and a pizza delivery man.”

The muscles on his face are so taut they look like they might snap at any moment.

“Why the charade?” I ask.

He grabs my hand. “It wasn’t a charade, Sophie. I am Noah Masson, goalie and pizza delivery man. That’s who I’ve chosen to be.”

“And yet,” I smirk. “Your brother is a filthy-rich count and you yourself are worth at least fifteen million.”

He says nothing.

“You never even mentioned you had a brother,” I say. “Two of them!”

“I didn’t mean to—” he begins.

I fake a male voice again. “I’m renting a tiny apartment from you and helping my friend sell his estate. Oh wait, it’s my estate! My mom volunteers for a charitable foundation. Oh, wait it’s her foundation. Uma is just a friend. Oh wait, she’s actually my fiancée with whom I came to my brother’s wedding.”

“She isn’t!” Noah almost shouts. “It’s not what it looks like.”

A few heads turn toward us.

“With you, nothing is what it looks like,” I say.

“Sophie, please, can we go somewhere private, so I can explain my reasons… and apologize properly?”

“Don’t bother.” I yank my hand from his and look around.

Dad is leaning on the wall near an elaborate flower arrangement, watching me anxiously.

I run to him. “Will you take me home?”

He nods, and five minutes later we’re in a cab, zooming away to my apartment.

When the mansion vanishes from sight, I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and turn to Dad. “Will you take me home to Key West?”