The clients relax, switching between French and English as Remy walks them through technical specifications with the same ease Breck showed with the sales pitch. She anticipatestheir concerns, addresses their questions, and by the time we’re shaking hands an hour later, I can see we’ve got the deal.
In the car, on the way back to the hotel, I turn to her. “You speak French.”
“I do.” She doesn’t look guilty; she seems amused.
“What else are you hiding?”
She shrugs. “I kept up with French after college. Languages are just another kind of code.”
Breck leans forward from the front seat. “Why didn’t you say anything? I’ve been translating menus for you all week.”
Her expression softens. “Because I loved that you were taking care of me. That you were handling everything and making me feel special. I didn’t want to interrupt that.”
“You let me show off.” Breck’s voice is rough with emotion.
“You were very impressive.” She reaches forward and squeezes his hand. “My handsome, multilingual boyfriend.”
Boyfriend.The word lands between us, casual and monumental all at once. She said it without hesitation, without qualification. Not “whatever we are” or “the guy I’m seeing.” Boyfriend.
Breck catches my eye, and I raise my eyebrows in approval.
Remy notices the exchange. “Too soon? I can take it back.”
“Don’t.” I pull her closer. “Don’t take it back.”
“Good.” She settles against my side. “Because I meant it. You’re my boyfriends. All three of you. Even Ansel, even though we haven’t…” She trails off, a slight flush creeping into her cheeks.
She doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Ansel’s the only one who hasn’t taken her to bed yet—not from lack of wanting, but from lack of opportunity. Every time they’ve seen each other lately, it has only been for a brief moment. There’s always a meeting, a crisis, or a plane to catch. The anticipation is probably killing them both.
As if summoned, my phone buzzes.
Ansel:How did the meeting go?
Me:We got the deal. Remy impressed them by speaking perfect French. Which she’s been hiding from us all week.
Ansel:Of course she has. Send her my congratulations. And tell her I expect a full explanation when you get home.
Me:Will do. How are things in Singapore?
Ansel:Exhausting. But productive. I’ll be home in three days. Take care of her until then.
Me:Always.
I show Remy the messages, and she smiles. “He worries too much.”
“He worries the right amount.” I put my phone back in my pocket. “We all do.”
For our last night in Paris, Breck chooses a restaurant in the Marais. It’s intimate and romantic. The food is exceptional, the wine is better, and Remy is radiant in one of the dresses we bought her.
She’s telling a story about her semester in Montreal, something involving a miscommunication with her host family and accidentally agreeing to cat-sit for a month. Breck is laughing, and I’m watching her animated expression, memorizing this moment.
This is what I want. More of this. More nights where we can just exist together without threats or complications. More moments where Remy’s laughter fills the space between us.
The dinner stretches late into the evening. We’re the last customers, the staff politely hovering but not rushing us. Finally, reluctantly, we settle the bill and head back to the hotel.
Remy is quiet in the car, leaning against my shoulder, her hand in Breck’s. The contentment radiating from her is palpable.
Back at the hotel, she heads to her room to change while Breck and I pour nightcaps in the living area. I’m thinking about joining her when I hear her voice.
