“They are, but her wedding is in the country and I hate the country.” He shuddered, emphasizing his point. Bella took this as an invitation to offer comfort, and she hopped up and licked his chin. “Also, I loathe her fiancé.”

“That is problematic,” I agreed.

“Do you think if I pretend not to see her, she’ll go away?” he asked.

I glanced over his shoulder. Piper May was on the move, jogging on her tiptoes and dodging pedestrians, bicycles, and moms with strollers . . . er . . . prams, as the locals say, to get to Andre.

“Not a chance,” I said. “That is a woman on a mission, and if you try to escape, she’ll run you to the ground.”

“Blast!” Andre muttered beneath his breath.

We rose to our feet, resigning ourselves to the unavoidable meeting.

“Piper, how are you?” Andre greeted the woman as she hopped up onto the sidewalk. They air-kissed each other’s cheeks, and then she stepped back and narrowed her eyes.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she accused. She had a long waterfall of dark brown hair, and thick eyebrows that had been shaped into arched accent marks that highlighted her big brown eyes, high cheekbones and dainty chin. She was a very attractive woman, but I wondered how much of it was dependent upon the thick coating of makeup she wore.

“I would never,” Andre declared in a flagrant fib. “Nick and I have just been so busy with his vineyard in France, I haven’t had a minute to myself.”

This was true. Nick Carroll, Andre’s life partner, had recently invested in a friend’s vineyard in Provence and when he wasn’t busy with his dental practice, Nick was off tending his vines, taking Andre with him. Nick had big dreams of retiring to the South of France to pursue a second career as a vintner. Andre was dubious but kept his reservations to himself and to me. Lucky me.

“Piper May, this is my friend and neighbor Scarlett Parker, one of the proprietors of Mim’s Whims.”

“Hi—” I began but Piper interrupted.

“Mim’s Whims?” she cried. “Then you know Vivian Tremont.”

“She’s my cousin,” I confirmed. “We inherited the shop from our grandmother Mim.”

“That’s right,” she said. She looked me over from head to foot in an assessing glance, as if trying to place me on the social food chain. “You’re the American who bagged Harrison Wentworth.” Before I could confirm, she wagged a pointy acrylic nail at me and continued, “The one who went viral as the ‘party crasher.’ ”