Marrying Mr. Darcy (Love Manor #2) - Kate O'Keeffe Page 0,1

Sebastian’s kid sister. My eyes land on her fake moustache.

“Non non non. I am ze Chef Henri Carron of ze renowned restaurant, Chez Henri,” she replies in a fake French accent that sounds thoroughly convincing to me. “But ’ooh-ever this Zara is, she sounds extremely attractive.”

I let out a laugh. “Well, Chef Henri, it’s great to meet you, and Zara is extremely attractive in that fake moustache kinda way.”

Sebastian shakes his head and laughs. “My sister should be on the stage, don’t you think?”

Zara—sorry, Chef Henri—takes my hand in hers and plants a kiss on it. Her moustache promptly drops to the table. She snatches it up and tries not to giggle as she replies, “Ah, mademoiselle. Bien sur, ze pleasure is all mine.”

I begin to giggle myself, and it ends in an unladylike snort.

“Would you care for some-sing to drink, mademoiselle?”

“Sure. Whatcha got? Let me guess. A bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape?” I eye Sebastian as I name his favorite wine, the one we drank in his family library as we got to know one another away from the cameras on Dating Mr. Darcy.

It’s also the place he delivered the then devastating news that he wasn’t choosing me on the show, so I’ve got some seriously conflicting emotions about the room. I’m working through them, especially since I’ve moved over here on an extended working vacation. Yup, you heard it right—as of today, I’m going to be spending a lot of time here at Martinston, Sebastian’s family home.

“Actually, I thought we’d forgo the wine and go with a Brady family tradition instead,” Sebastian says. “Since you and Frank have moved here for an extended period, I thought it only right.”

I think of Frank, my prickly but lovable tabby cat, resting up in the house after his long journey today. I didn’t want to leave him behind in Houston. A girl needs her cat, you know, even when that girl is currently dating a hot British aristocrat.

Zara places a bottle covered in beads of water on the table in front of each of us.

I look up at Sebastian in surprise. “You got Budweiser? Oh, I could totally kill for a beer right now.”

Sebastian picks up his bottle, and we clink. “I thought it might go well with the special meal I have planned for us.”

I lift the bottle to my lips and take a grateful swig. Although I love Sebastian’s choice in wine, a girl can’t go past a good old bottle of Bud every now and then, even if our surrounds at Sebastian’s family’s manor house are a lot more champagne and caviar than beer and chips. But then, that’s the way we are. Opposites. And yes, we definitely attract.

Zara returns holding a plate covered in one of those silver bubbles that keeps the food warm (Sebastian tells me it’s called a “cloche” but I prefer “silver bubble” because it sounds a lot cuter, plus I can pronounce it, which is a major plus). She places it in front of me and says, “No peeking, mademoiselle, or else you may lose ze fingers.”

“Lose my fingers? Wow, Henri’s a bit harsh,” I say to Sebastian.

“You know Henri,” he replies with a laugh.

Zara returns with another plate and places it in front of Sebastian. “And now, ze great unveiling of ze masterpiece.”

She lifts both silver bubbles off with dramatic flair. I fully expect to see some obscure dish that Sebastian’s father’s father’s father once enjoyed after a jousting competition with the King of England or something, complete with enough saturated fat to clog everyone’s arteries.

Instead, I’m met with a sight from my childhood.

I blink at my plate. “Mac and cheese?” I say in delight. “Seb, you know how much I love mac and cheese!”

“I do know. I also know you put on a brave face with all my family traditions, and I thought we could create a new one of our own.”

I beam back at him. “Any tradition that involves mac and cheese is all right by me.”

“Well, tuck in before it gets cold. We wouldn’t want to upset Chef Henri. Fingers, remember?” He waggles his fingers at me.

I dig my fork into my meal and take a bite. It’s creamy and cheesy and totally delicious. “Did one of you make this?” I ask with a mouthful as I look from sister to brother and back again.

“We had some help,” Zara admits after a beat, her fake French accent dropped in favor of her everyday English one. “You know neither of us can