“You know what bothers me?” She frowned. “When I go see my therapist, all she ever wants to talk about is you. You, you, you. She says you’re a fascinating case study, and she’d really like to meet you. Meanwhile, what do you think that does to my psyche that my own therapist would rather talk about my sister?”

Maybe I should give this whole double wedding thing some more thought.

However, I had other things to worry about first. Could Sébastien, too, give it all up for love and a woman who could cook but didn’t know what side of a plate to set a wineglass on?

“I told you that I would,” he said over the phone. He sounded slightly impatient for someone who had only answered this question twenty times the past week. There you go, impatience—I’d found a third flaw. “And the wineglass issue isn’t really as important as you think it is.”

“Oh, so left or right, it doesn’t matter?”

He sighed heavily. “I’ll set the table.”

“See, here’s the thing. You’re so gorgeous and so sweet and so French, and you’re going to give up everything to come to the land that invented Twinkies? For me? Why? It doesn’t make sense.”

He laughed. “I’d explain it to you, but it’s pornographic, and making you blush over the telephone is just an exercise in frustration.”

“That’s such a nonanswer. That doesn’t explain anything. Do you know one of my sisters thinks you’re just using me to get a visa?”

He laughed until he choked. “What, because this is one of America’s immigration problems? The horde of French people just dying to live there?” He laughed so hard he started to wheeze. “Excuse me, I’ve got to get some water.”

“Well, I know it’s ridiculous.” My siblings had obviously never lived in France. “I’m just trying to explain how incredible it is, even to the people who know me best, that anyone like you would do something like that for me.”

“I’ve always had a weakness for women who are chiante.” Chiante means a pain-in-the-ass. “My mom’s that way, too, so I must have imprinted.”

“Your mom is not chiante!” I said incredulously. “She’s a sweetheart. Just like me.”

He laughed.

“Well, at least Americans are normal,” I pointed out. “And easygoing. It will be much easier for you to adapt to my country than it was for me to adapt to France.”

“That’s what you say,” he agreed. “That Americans are so polite and friendly and welcoming.”

“Yes,” I said confidently. “So have you bought your ticket yet?”

A moment of silence. “No.”

A longer silence.

“I’m waiting for my paycheck,” he said defensively. “So I can afford it. Don’t start crying.”