Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
After dessert and coffee, we said our goodbyes in the entryway.
I thanked his mother for dinner even though she’d done nothing to prepare it—except pay for it.
“It was lovely to meet you, Fleur.” The night started with a handshake, but this time, she gave me a hug and squeezed me tight.
I didn’t expect her affection, not because she was a stiff woman, but because I didn’t deserve it. I was practically a stranger to her, a woman who was still technically married to someone else while shacked up with her son. “You too, Mrs. Dupont.”
“It’s Delphine.” She pulled away and gave me a smile. “I expect to see you again because my son wouldn’t have brought you over if he didn’t want you around for a long time.” Her smile remained, enduring and kind. “And I’m sorry if I asked too many inappropriate questions. When you get old, your mouth has a mind of its own.”
“It’s okay,” I said with a chuckle. “And you aren’t old. When I first saw you, I couldn’t believe you were Bastien’s mother.”
She lit up like a firework at those words, giving a laugh as she patted me on the shoulder. “That’s sweet of you to say. But I can’t take all the credit—not when my doctor and my aesthetician deserve it more.”
“Bye, Mom.” Bastien kissed her on the cheek before he grabbed my hand. “Thanks for dinner. Set up a meeting with Pierre so I can interrogate him the way you just interrogated my girl.” He winked as he guided me to the car and opened the back door. He gave me his hand and helped me inside before he shut the door.
Delphine remained in the thirteen-foot-high entryway, watching her son walk around the vehicle with a slight smirk on her lips.
When Bastien got into the back seat beside me, the driver went through the gate and entered the quiet street that was devoid of traffic. The pavement shone from the rain that had fallen sporadically in the last few hours.
The stress was gone from my shoulders, and I suddenly felt light, like the worst had passed.
Bastien looked out the window, relaxed in the leather armchair, the ink from his tattoo visible past the end of his sleeve. “She likes you.”
“She does?” I asked.
“You would know if she didn’t.”
“She seems too classy to be confrontational.”
“She’s the daughter of an arms dealer, the wife of a heroin distributor, the mother of two criminal sons. Trust me, she has no problem being confrontational when she needs to be.” He turned away from the window and looked at me. “All you had to do was be yourself.”
“I don’t think she liked the fact that I was married…that I am married, technically.”
“She doesn’t,” he said. “But that’s not a reason to dislike you.” He looked out the window again, and we spent the rest of the drive in comfortable silence. We passed the historic buildings with Napoleon’s mark still present in the stone. Passed the cathedrals and the statues that made this city the most beautiful on earth.
We arrived at his home ten minutes later and took the elevator to the top floor so we wouldn’t have to endure the insufferable walk up the three flights of stairs. The second he walked inside, he changed out of his street clothes, always wanting to be in his sweats or naked whenever he was home.
I was the same way, so we had that in common.
But the pajamas I used at his place were his t-shirts and sometimes his socks if I was really cold. I helped myself to his drawer like it was mine, pulled out a black t-shirt that smelled like it had just been laundered.
He was on the couch in his sweatpants and his ink was his t-shirt. He had the game on. It was the second half, and the score seemed to be tied. He’d already made himself a drink and lit up a cigar like he’d been itching to do that all night but would never do it in front of his mother.
He was too focused on the TV to notice me.
To notice the way I stared at the side of his face…and wanted to stare at it forever. The way my heart had slipped past my ribs and attached to my sleeve like a flag that blew in the wind. The way I missed him even when he was just feet away.
But he didn’t notice any of that—and I was glad he didn’t.
Chapter 13
Bastien
It was the shortest week of my life.
Fleur never felt like a visitor in my home. Habits and routines were formed almost immediately. She set an alarm every morning and let it snooze three times before she finally got out of bed. She never had breakfast, just had Gerard make her a coffee to go in one of the thermoses I’d never used in my life. He made her lunch too, and she told me she looked forward to lunch every day because she knew she had a gourmet meal waiting for her in the fridge.