Max is in the thick of things, carrying out the trestle tables from the garage with Didier and Eliott. They set up the legs and lay on the wooden tops, while laughing and betting on how long it'll take before someone trips over the extension power cord winding through the edge of the garden, and cause a blackout.

"It's still wobbling," Max calls, as they balance the largest table top on precarious detachable legs. "There'll be hell to pay if the roast chicken ends up in the dirt."

Didier gives a dramatic sigh. "Ah, Max, the pessimist. Have a little faith?" He waves a hand in the air, then tries the table, sees how wobbly it is and begins tutting that it won't do.

I help Fleur smooth out a plastic cloth over the table for the children, and Annie brings out linen, candles, and napkins. The fairy lights twinkle in the trees, casting a golden glow around us, and a sea breeze carries the scents of the evening—rosemary, garlic, and lavender.

Fleur starts arranging napkins into origami animals while I set up the plastic plates and cups for the kids.

Blossom sets down a tray of wine glasses and cutlery next to her sister. "Stop wasting the napkins," she says in French. "Just put them on the plates."

"I'm making swans," Fleur pouts.

I float a beige linen cloth over the second trestle table, and Max catches the other side, smiling at me as we finish the job together. He holds eye contact, and I hold it back and we end up grinning at each other. Being with Max is surprisingly easy now I've gone past the point of getting nervous every time I look at him.

"Okay," Blossom says, "the cloth goes on the table, guys."

"As you wish," Max says. And I laugh, remembering his impersonation from The Princess Bride. Blossom, aware that she's missed a private joke, but not understanding, rolls her eyes and walks away.

Maybe I should feel guilty, but I don't. Max and I lay the cutlery and wine glasses, sensing each other's moves as we go, working together as though we've done this a hundred times.

I glance over at Annie, still bouncing Miles on her hip while effortlessly running the entire operation. When Josh was two, I could barely get it together to go out to the cinema or a meal, let alone entertain.

Pierre and I lived in a tiny flat in Paris. He was at work all day, and we didn't have any family in a four-hundred-mile radius. I barely knew anyone at home with a baby, certainly none of the casual friends I'd made through Pierre. Annie's organizing sophisticated get-togethers while I was trying not to lose my mind.

Fleur puts one of her white swan napkins on a plate.

"Beautiful," I tell her.

She smiles at the compliment. "Everyone will have one!"

Annie stands on the terrace steps. "Max," she calls. "Can you come to the kitchen?"

Max responds to his sister's request and I decide to follow rather than remain with Blossom. I don't want her asking questions about Max and I unless Max is there to hear the answers.

Half-way across the lawn, Max waits for me to catch up, holding out his hand. I reach for it and our fingers intertwine as we walk side by side. Neither of us says anything, we just share glances and smiles, but I'm struck by the intimacy of it. Even if it is pretend.

Holding hands is a strange thing. Like trees transmitting information through their roots. I feel as though Max is speaking through his skin, not with words, but another kind of language. It makes me aware of him in a whole new way.

In the kitchen, Annie gives Max the enormous platter of roasted chicken dripping in butter and thyme, and I take the bowl of fresh green beans tossed with garlic. Another friend, Heather, who I've been briefly introduced to, carries the golden gratin potatoes in big oven gloves, and her husband, Roger, brings the box of Bourgogne Pinot Noir.

It's as if Annie's running her own mini-restaurant, effortlessly juggling the chaos without breaking a sweat. She carries Miles down the steps behind us, and places him at the children's table on a booster seat. The other parents organize their offspring pouring juice and serving food while Max lights the candles in their pretty glass holders, and Roger opens a bottle of wine.

As everyone sits down, Max drops into the chair beside me, leaning back in a relaxed slouch. I smile to myself, surprised by how pleasant it is to have him at my side. Even if it's fake. This evening's beginning to feel like I've stepped into someone else's life. Twinkling lights, the soft hum of conversation, the sound of clinking glasses, laughter, and a famous actor pretending he's my boyfriend.

The conversation flows easily, mostly about the food and the children, until Annie clinks her wine glass and stands at the head of the table to make a speech.

"As you all know," she says, a little flushed, eyes alight with happiness, "we have been trying for years now to get Max to one of our summer gatherings. Finally, his gigantic head has shrunk enough to make it through the door and he's been able to join us."

Annie's words are met with laughter around the table and a few cheers.

"Max," she says, turning to her brother and raising her wine glass. "We know you're doing a very important job saving romance in this modern, swipe right, cynical world, but we're all delighted that your recent career crisis means we're finally able to have you with us to share this beautiful evening in Etretat, where we all met over thirty years ago."

"Not all of us!" Didier corrects.

"Respective partners and children excluded," Annie says, grinning.

"To summers in Etretat!" Roger says.

Glasses are raised and clinked, and 'to summers in Etretat,' echoes around the table.

Max catches my eye and smiles, though there's an edge of embarrassment to it which surprises me. Even if he doesn't enjoy being the center of attention, with his line of work, I would have thought he'd be supremely used to it.

Over at the children's table, Miles starts crying. "The speech wasn't that bad, son," Didier jokes.

"Could someone give him his sippy cup?" Annie asks the children. A little girl with ringlets and big eyes, reaches for the sippy cup that's rolled out of Mile's reach and gives it to him. He takes it and throws it to the ground, continuing to screech while attempting to get out of his booster seat. Didier jumps up, catching his son just before the whole thing turns over.

"Miles, my man, you've gotta pace yourself!" he says with mock seriousness. "You've got a long evening ahead. Don't peak too early."

"I think," Blossom says, wine glass tipped to her lipstick red lips, "you might be projecting, Didier."

"Me? Projecting?" He unstraps Miles from the seat and holds a hand to his chest, feigning offense. "I know how to pace myself, don't I, darling?" he says, addressing his wife.

Annie chuckles as Miles kicks to get down. Didier lowers him, and a bottle of orange juice is knocked over and ends up down the front of his trousers.

Max snorts, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

"No problem," Didier says. "Everyone, please serve yourselves. I'll be back in a minute." He half jogs towards the kitchen terrace, leaving Miles running off to the sandpit.

"Looking wobbly there," someone shouts after Didier and everyone laughs. For a flicker of second, I wish I really belonged here, among this warm crowd of close friends.

"So, Max," Blossom says, seizing the moment to shift the conversation. "When are you going to tell us how you met Louise?"

A rush of nerves hits me and my mind goes blank. In the grand scheme of things, I know pulling this off isn't important, but I don't want to mess up for Max and Annie.

"Let's not put Louise in the spotlight," Max says, his tone light but firm. Something sharp passes between him and Blossom. I glance at Blossom's husband, a svelte, handsome man in his early forties. Apparently, he's sublimely unaware of the undercurrents between his wife and the movie star.

"She's with you," Blossom says. "Which already puts her in the spotlight."

Fleur claps her hands together. "Why don't we guess?"

"In a supermarket!" shouts Roger.

"Film stars don't go to supermarkets!" Didier retorts. "Okay, three guesses, but that one doesn't count."

"Wait," Blossom says, "they each have to tell someone separately beforehand, otherwise they could pretend there's no winner."

"So competitive," her husband says, squeezing her shoulder in approval.

My pulse quickens at how 'not-fun' this guessing game is about to get. But Max, better at remaining cool under pressure than I am, simply says,

"Fine, if you must know all the details, we met on a film set." His eyes flick across to me and my pulse settles. I could swear in that look I see him remembering the moment we first lay eyes on each other, surrounded by cameras and lights, catering trucks and Winnebagos.

I wish.

"Where?" Blossom asks, her lips curving into a suspicious smile.

"London," I say, a little breathless. "I was visiting a friend. I used to work in set design."

Blossom tilts her head, looking almost pleased with herself. "But Max hasn't worked on anything in the England for three years."

"I didn't know you were keeping tabs," he answers, helping himself to gratin potatoes.

She pulls an awkward smile but falls silent. Her husband, still failing to notice the tension between his wife and Max, happily assists their five-year-old daughter whose spilt potato down her dress.

"Actually," Max continues, passing me the gratin, "I wasn't working. I was visiting a friend, too."

Blossom's eyebrows shoot up. "Quite the coincidence."

"It was," he agrees, reaching for my hand. "A happy, lucky coincidence." I smile back at him, recalling the non-existent moment when the gorgeous Max Waters noticed me across the location parking lot. Remembering his spontaneous, unforgettable, dazzling smile as our eyes first met. Except I stop. All at once it hits me: I'm confusing our imagined meeting with the moment he got out of his Jag and took off his sunglasses.

"And what do you do now, Louise?" Roger chimes in.

"Oh, um..." For a moment, I'm slightly lost in the moment Max and I really first lay eyes on each other. "I'm a writer." For something to do, and hoping to distract everyone, I serve myself beans.

The usual imposter syndrome rears its ugly head: a writer whose only ever sold two scripts and neither of them were actually made into movies.

"Have you written anything we would have heard of?" Blossom asks.

"No," I say breezily. "But I'm working on it. My career stalled out a bit, raising kids. However, they're older now, which means I can refocus my energy on the writing."

"Kids?" Blossom asks, surprised.

"How old are they?" Heather enquires.

"Josh is fourteen and Ellie's twelve." My revelation brings everyone to a halt. Annie coughs, trying to cover up the awkwardness. Heather and Roger start eating, as though suddenly remembering their plates are full of delicious food. Blossom gives Max a deeply puzzled look, while Max just sits smiling goofily at me.

"Have you met them?" Fleur asks Max innocently, probably vocalizing the question on everyone's mind.

"God no," I laugh. "Not yet. We're not rushing into any of that." I prod my fork into a few buttery beans. "This is delicious, Annie. Thank you."

"You haven't got any chicken."

"I'm a vegetarian."

Again, the table comes to a stand-still.

I feel my throat closing up and watch Didier, who has reappeared on the terrace and is now hurrying down the steps toward us. Knives and forks scrap against plates. Roger and Heather sip from their wine glasses.

"Max didn't tell me," Annie says eventually.

I take a sip of wine and wipe my slightly damp hands on my napkin. "I prefer to just roll with whatever's on offer. Don't want people having to change their plans for me."

Annie smiles, but it seems forced. Something I haven't quite grasped has altered the atmosphere around the table. I look over at Max. Maybe I'm so far off from his type that they're all questioning how deep his current personal crisis really goes.

Didier sits down, breaking off some baguette. "What 'appened?" he asks. "What did I miss?"

"Louise is a vegetarian," Blossom shares.

"Well then, you will be right at home in California," he responds. "Isn't meat practically illegal there?"

"Actually," Max says, "I'm thinking of moving back to England."

I feel a small flush of happiness at this revelation, and wish I didn't. Everyone else looks shocked at the news. Even Annie. I chew my food slowly and struggle to swallow. Stress is taking its toll on my appetite. Is he still acting? Or is he really thinking of moving to England? Is this part of his career crisis? It seems Blossom thinks I'm the cause, because her dismissive regard toward me is replaced by a cold, steady examination.

"Oh my God, Max," Annie says, "That's amazing! Have you told The Parents?"

"Not yet. Not until things are a bit clearer."

"Well," Blossom says, sitting back in her chair and gulping down the end of her wine, "this is a night of surprises."

SORRY THIS WAS LATE! THINGS ARE A BIT HECTIC RIGHT NOW SO I'LL BE UPDATING ONLY ON FRIDAYS FOR A WHILE. Thanks for reading!