“Clip-ons are for losers.” Charlotte grasps the two ends of silk, flips and twists them, pulls tight, then turns me toward the mirror. She tucks my shoulder-length hair behind my ears. “There. You look handsome. But, if we don’t leave right now, we’re going to be late.”

I grab my jacket, shrug it on, and give myself one last glance in the mirror. It’s the first time I’ve ever worn a suit. Although it feels as though I’ve dressed as a grown-up for Halloween, I can’t help but be pleased with the effect.

Ambrose is waiting for us in the jeep, drumming his hands on the steering wheel along to jazz music blasting out of the windows. Catching sight of us, he hops out and jogs around to open the passenger door for Charlotte, helping her sit without wrinkling her dress. “You get more beautiful every single day,” he murmurs, closing the door carefully behind her.

Seeing me watching, he loses the lover-boy look and tries to look dignified. “That comment was not meant for you,” he says, “though I gotta say, thanks to the last month of workouts, you’re almost filling out that suit jacket.” He gives me a friendly punch on the shoulder. I make a mental note to check the spot later for a bruise.

Ten minutes later, we’re pulling up in front of La Sainte Chapelle, the tiny church at the middle of Ile de la Cité, barely a stone’s throw from Notre Dame Cathedral. Ambrose tosses the key to a parking valet wearing a white rose on his collar.

Got to hand it to Georgia, I think. For her event-planning business to arrange valet parking in the center of Paris, she must have some great connections.

Ambrose whisks Charlotte out the passenger side and places her hand atop his arm. “Shall we?” he asks.

She leans up to give him a peck on the cheek.

“I don’t get a real kiss?”

She shakes her head. “Nope. Lipstick.”

Ambrose laughs his ground-rattling baritone laugh and takes his wife in his arms, quite likely squeezing the life out of her and probably wrinkling the dress at the same time.

“Don’t mind me. Third wheel,” I murmur, following them through the security checkpoint. We walk into a courtyard festooned with flowers and ribbons and join a short line of stragglers who are as late as us.

I know everyone from sight, if not by name. A couple of bardia from the Mouzaïa house as well as some from further abroad. I hear a British accent and a couple speaking German. La Sainte Chapelle is a small space, so these guests must have been hand-picked. As I understand it, a larger reception is planned later today.