Chapter Four
Birdie stood by the tall French windows, staring out at the garden with its neat, sunlit rows of olive trees and cypresses reaching skyward.
She spotted marigolds, hollyhocks and poppies swaying lazily in the soft breeze.
Clusters of bright nasturtiums spilled over the edges of the gravel paths, and delicate cornflowers, bushes of rosemary and thyme dotted the garden.
Their tiny flowers glowed in shades of purple, pink, and white.
She could hardly believe she was actually here. Here. On The Sapphic Match. Her brain kept flashing back to the email: Congratulations, you’ve made it through round three. Pack your bags; you’re headed to Provence for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to fall in love.
Birdie was still in shock. She’d survived the auditions and the interviews. She’d even endured the ridiculous video prompts—the tell us why you deserve love on national television nonsense. And now she was actually here in Provence, France, about to meet the bachelorette.
She pressed her forehead against the glass for a second, inhaling the faint scent of lavender oil burning from a little brass diffuser on the sill, and tried to convince herself that everything was fine. That she didn’t have to be nervous. That the bachelorette would—
“Beautiful garden, isn’t it?”
Birdie turned. A woman stood just a foot away. She had long dark hair and eyes so brown they almost looked black. She wore an ivory sundress that matched perfectly with her ivory skin so that it looked like she’d been carved out of marble and accidentally brought to life.
“It is,” Birdie agreed, nodding. “Whoever is in charge of it knows exactly what they’re doing.
” She wasn’t a gardener herself. She’d only ever managed to keep houseplants alive, but she did absorb flower names from the novels she devoured as if reading about roses and lilacs and lemon trees would one day make her capable of growing them.
The woman glanced over Birdie’s shoulder to the garden and nodded her head before flicking her gaze back. She stuck out her hand. “Hi. I’m Louise. I’m from Vermont, and my sister signed me up for the show after my divorce. She said I need a little shake-up.”
“Birdie,” she said, introducing herself. “My dad was a pro golf player, and he and my mom bet that if he won the Sunshine Valley Open, they’d call me whatever he wanted. I don’t think she ever expected him to win.”
Louise laughed. “You should use that for the introduction.”
“Right,” Birdie replied, pushing her bangs out of her eyes with the side of her hand. “Because nothing says romance like being named after a golf score.”
“Hey,” Louise said, smiling. “At least it wasn’t something worse. Imagine if your dad had gone with Eagle or Bogey.”
Birdie snorted, then clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Oh goodness, can you imagine—” She cut herself off just as the door swung open, and a gorgeous woman swept in.
She was wearing a deep red pantsuit and had short ice-blonde hair.
Her full lips took up a surprisingly large amount of space on her face.
“Welcome, ladies. I’m Vivian, your host and guide for this once-in-a-lifetime adventure. Let me just say, if love doesn’t bloom here in Provence, surrounded by lavender fields and vineyards, I’m afraid it might not bloom anywhere,” the woman announced, her voice filling the room like a drumroll.
A few women giggled nervously. Birdie clapped her hands together but realized she was the only one. She quickly shoved them into the pockets of her dress and bit down on her lip, willing the heat rising up her neck to back the fuck down.
Vivian didn’t seem to notice. And if she did, she didn’t mind the awkward clap.
“Now, here’s how this works,” she went on, clasping her hands together and letting them hang at her waist. “Tonight, you’ll each step out of the villa’s grand front doors and cross the courtyard.
Picture this: lanterns glowing, cypresses framing the path, the scent of lavender in the air.
And at the end, waiting under the archway of climbing roses, you’ll meet our bachelorette for the very first time. ”
Birdie’s stomach plummeted to somewhere around her ankles.
Her entire world would soon revolve around the bachelorette.
The mysterious, unnamed woman on whom Birdie’s entire future was suddenly supposed to hinge upon.
She didn’t know anything about her. No one did.
Not where she came from or what she did for a living.
Not what she looked like or what she wanted in a woman.
For all Birdie knew, she could be allergic to cats.
Birdie had a cat. A very clingy one called Sebastian.
Vivian’s grin widened as she scanned the room. “You’ll be called one by one. So, take a deep breath, adjust whatever needs adjusting, and when you hear your name, that’s your cue to go find your potential destiny.”
Louise flicked Birdie a sidelong glance, the kind that said, Oh shit, are you ready for this? To which Birdie shook her head. She wasn’t ready. Not even close.
“Bianca,” Vivian called, zoning in on a woman standing by the mantel. “You’re up first.”
A tall brunette, with cheekbones sharp enough to slice bread, smoothed the sides of her hot pink blazer and slipped through the door without hesitation.
Birdie felt her stomach drop even further.
Bianca was radiant. She looked like she had a personal trainer, a trust fund, and a huge following on her Instagram account.
How the hell was Birdie supposed to compete with that?
Louise leaned toward her and murmured, “If I were the bachelorette, I’d quit the show right now and just hand Bianca an engagement ring and be done with it.”
Birdie almost choked on her own spit. “This feels way more nerve-racking than I thought it would be.”
“Really?” Louise asked, her eyes wide and dancing skittishly across the room. “I always knew it was going to feel like this, like I’m about to pass—” Her words were cut off just as Vivian clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention.
“Claire,” she said, her voice loud. “You’re up next, darling.”
A petite woman with coppery curls and a scattering of freckles across her nose gave a tiny wave before vanishing through the door.
Then it was “Danielle.”
Then, “Nina.”
Then, “Harper.”
Each one disappeared in a flurry of perfume, heels clicking against the hardwood floors, and to Birdie’s horror, gifts.
Danielle carried what looked like a jar of homemade jam.
Nina held a tin of cookies tied up with a ribbon.
Harper had a hand-painted card in one hand and a bouquet of lavender in the other.
Birdie’s stomach lurched. She had been this close to bringing a copy of The Ten Thousand Doors of January by Alix E.
Harrow, a book she adored for the way it cracked open the world and whispered that love, magic, and new beginnings were always waiting just beyond the next door.
She’d even wrapped it in butcher paper and twine and had written her name at the bottom in curly letters so the bachelorette wouldn’t forget who it was from.
But then she’d panicked.
What if the bachelorette wasn’t a reader? What if she hated books? What if she opened it and thought, Oh great, homework. Birdie had shoved the book back into her suitcase at the last second, and now here she stood, empty-handed with a faint taste of panic at the back of her throat.
Vivian called out more names.
“Isabelle.”
“Kinley.”
“Lyra.”
“Louise.”
With each name called, Birdie’s palms got sweatier. She pressed them against her dress, grateful for having chosen the forest green midi Jade had suggested, and willed her nerves to behave.
They didn’t. In fact, they roared. She was the only one left.
The last contestant. She was the only one who hadn’t made an impression yet, which sent a whole new flurry of flutters to her insides.
What if the bachelorette had already been so wowed by the other contestants with their little gifts that Birdie was simply forgettable?
Maybe she would be just another face to meet but not really see where anything could go.
“Birdie,” Vivian called suddenly, and Birdie nearly jumped right out of her skin. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her dress again and put one foot in front of the other.
“Good luck,” Vivian said.
But Birdie barely even smiled in her direction as she stepped nervously out of the room. She had to focus. Now wasn’t the time to trip over the ornate rugs or the studio lights dotting the villa’s hallway.
By the time she reached the villa’s grand doors, Birdie realized she had been holding her breath. She let out a little puff that sounded like a sad balloon deflating and shoved the doors open, embracing the fresh air and delicious countryside smells.
The courtyard was gorgeous. Lanterns hung from wrought-iron hooks. The fountain at the center was a weathered lion with its mouth open in mid-roar. Water spilled from the lion’s mouth into the sun-bleached basin, which was lit up by a soft, golden spotlight standing out against the night sky.
On the sides were flowerbeds spilling over with lavender and rosemary.
And beyond that, there were production tents.
Birdie barely even noticed the cameras set up from every angle and the crew scuttling about behind them, adjusting lights and whispering into earpieces.
She barely noticed any of it. All she could focus on was the gravel trail ahead, leading to the bachelorette whom she needed to impress.
Birdie crossed the courtyard and stepped onto the path. She was so close. Yet the archway felt impossibly far. Then, impossibly close again. Still, she couldn’t quite see the bachelorette just yet, which made it even more thrilling, but also scary, since she was completely out of her comfort zone.
This was now or never. A chance at love. Real love. Not some hookup at a shady—it wasn’t shady, it was actually quite lovely—hotel.
Birdie’s heart suddenly thundered at the prospect.
Her legs wanted to run forward, and her mind wanted to turn back.
The petrified part of her wanted to go back to her bookshop in Portland, where everything felt familiar and safe.
At this moment, more than anything, she wanted to be in a place where she wasn’t about to be put on the spot, potentially make a fool of herself, and most importantly take a chance on someone she really didn’t even know.
Birdie froze.
Under the archway of climbing roses, bathed in golden lantern light, stood someone she had met before.
Someone she could never forget. Someone with golden hair spilling over her shoulders, and a form-fitting, champagne-colored gown that made her look impossibly tall, impossibly real, impossibly everything.
Birdie’s hand flew to her mouth. “Lexi,” she muttered into her fingers.