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"Non."
"The idiot," she said harshly. "He wouldn't have married you if he wasn't in love. I'm telling you this because, obviously, he won't be getting his head out of his ass to do that. I know you're pregnant, but Duncan is—"
"Hi, Elsa, this is Tate, I'm your father-in-law," a low male voice interrupted Marcella. "Please don't let my wife bully you. Marcella, cut the crap. Stay the fuck far away from their marriage."
"Bonjour, Monsieur Archer," I managed to say on the phone.
"Oh, call me Tate, darling. I hear you're a baker. I'm a big fan of apple mille-feuille. Do you think you could make that for me?"
"D'accord."
So, I madepomme mille-feuille, a dessert consisting of thin layers of apples and sugar, baked to perfection, and served with vanilla custard.
"I should serve filet mignon with truffle sauce," I blurted out. "Cassouletis so plebeian."
Duncan chuckled. "Ma douce, you've had that fucking thing cooking for days; no way we're eating anything butthat. Mom lovesconfit de canard."
"Maybe I should've made duck then," I whined. "They'll think my apartment looks shabby, and I'm stingy. Just look at that table."
I pulled at him so we both were facing my table. "It's not…ah, how do you saysophistiquéein English?"
"Sophisticated," Duncan supplied.
"D'accord, that."
He kissed the side of my head. "They'll think this is loving and beautiful, just as I do. Whenever I eat your food, I feel like I'm at a grandma's country kitchen—it's warm, cozy, and fucking awesome. You make food with love, Elsa, and that's what matters, not if you're serving it on Limoges porcelain plates."
"I bought my plates for a euro each at Village Saint-Paul."
Nestled in the heart of the Marais, Village Saint-Paul offered a maze of interconnected courtyards filled with antique shops, art galleries, and vintage boutiques. You could find something from the court of Louis XIV or from some dusty attic in a two-hundred-year-old apartment in Paris.
"Those are beautiful early 19th-century Creil-Montereau faience plates."
I quirked an eyebrow. "In English,s'il vous plaît?"
He kissed my nose. "Creil-Montereau was a renowned French pottery manufacturer that began producing high-quality faience, tin-glazed earthenware in the early 19th century. Your plates feature delicate floral motifs, which they were known for. Despite costing you just a euro each, these plates have historical significance, and the craftsmanship is impeccable."
I narrowed my eyes. "Did you make that up?"
He laughed, and no man looked as sexy as Duncan did when he let go. "My father is an expert in earthenware and pottery. You can ask him. He'll confirm."
"But he'll knowils sont bon marché," I said sullenly. They’re inexpensive.
"Baby, they want to meet you. They're thrilled you're cooking. Emilia also cooks and insists that she and Damian live in a fucked up loft apartment on the wrong end of Market in San Francisco. Their neighbors are drug dealers."
I smiled. From all that I'd heard about Duncan's sister-in-law, I had a feeling I'd like her. He'd shown me some of her paintings, and she wasverytalented. His brother's wife was an artist. His wife was a lowly baker whose father was a mob boss. I felt deflated.
Duncan groaned. "Alright, fine, I'll fuck you, so you'll be distracted from how shabby your table setting is."
"Quoi?" What?
He picked me up, bridal style. "Duncan, I have to check on the food."
"No, you don't.Cassouletcooks for fucking forever and is doing just fine." He took me to what I'd started to think of as our bedroom and dropped me on our bed. "Wow, you're putting on some weight, woman."
I glared at him, putting my hand on my stomach. "I can't believe you just called me fat."
"Good, you can worry aboutthatinstead of your food."
