Philippe:And the girl?
Me:Still not. But her parents don’t hate me.
Philippe:So…just her, then?
Me:Something like that. Aubert was there tonight. He learned how to make tortillas.
Philippe:Why weren’t you with him?
Me:Work.
Philippe:You’re the CEO. Let someone else handle it.
Me:I can’t do that.
Philippe:Gustave, you’re the Comte de Valois. You can do whatever the hell you want.
I stare at the message as the lights from the City of Angels flicker against the floor-to-ceiling windows like impatient stars.
I see the wisdom in Philippe’s words, but I’ve been raised and trained my whole life to take care of the family business and to never evade my responsibilities. I don’t know another way to live.
But maybe it’s time to change. And Philippe is right: I am theComte de Valois, and I can do whatever I choose—and often accomplish what others cannot.
So, the next day I go about securing Tara’s career. I talk to my contact at the Getty Center and, once he looks at Tara’s CV and portfolio, he’s more than happy to send her an offer to restore Jean-Étienne Liotard’sThe Lavergne Family Breakfast.
One of the finest museums in the world, the Getty’s conservation institute is legendary—a sanctuary of patience, precision, and devotion to art. A place worthy of her brilliance—and close enough that she can accept it.
I also decide that I’m going to go spend the day with Tara…or rather at Mi Tierra, while she glares daggers at me. It feels like I’m cheating, but it gives me time with her. I can eat a good mealandconvince her that I’m not the asshole I behaved like.
So, the hell with work.
I ask my assistant to cancel all my meetings for the next several days—and give her a list of colleagues who can handle the work for me.
As soon as I step into Mi Tierra, she’s on me—angry as a hellcat, waving a piece of paper like it’s Exhibit A.
“Did you do this?”
“Do what?” I take the paper from her hand. It’s a printout of an email from the Getty.
“Congratulations,” I say, giving it back. “Jean-Étienne Liotard is as prestigious—if not more so—than Carriera.”
Her eyes narrow. “You did this. I know you did. I was blacklisted?—”
“By Giselle, who no longer works at the Louvre,” I finish evenly.
A flicker passes through her eyes—first surprise, then confusion, and finally, fury rekindled like a match catching flame.
Across the dining room, a woman at a nearby table calls out, “Hey, Tara! If you don’t want him, I can take him off your hands!”
“You’re married,” Tara snaps.
“So?” the woman replies with a laugh.
Tara lets out a sound halfway between a groan and a growl, grabs my arm, and hauls me toward the kitchen.
“Hey, Gustave,” her father greets, ladle in hand, “Your son?—”
She pushes me into the pantry and slams the door shut behind us, cutting Juan off.
