She rounds on me, eyes blazing. “You had no right. You can’t wave your magic Count wand and fix my life!”
“Would you rather I let you waste your talent waiting tables?” I counter. “You belong in a conservation studio, not scrubbing salsa off tile.”
“You don’t get to decide where I belong!” she shouts.
“I’m not deciding. I’m giving you a choice!” I throw at her.
She presses her palms against her temples, breathing hard. “You don’t…youcan’tfix everything…you just can’t.”
Her voice cracks on the last word, and I soften, feeling my love for this woman, bright and loud.
“I know,mon amour,” I say gently. “I’m trying to make amends. To give back something I took. You love this work. It’s who you are.”
Her chin trembles, but she holds my gaze. “Why? Out of guilt?”
“Oui, I do feel guilty,” I admit. “But I’m going the extra mile because oflove.”
She looks at me, as if trying to decide whether to believe me. Then she exhales shakily. “I don’t know what to say.”
I smile faintly. “I’m sure you’ll figure that out.”
Outside, the clatter of dishes and her father’s voice rises over the hum of the restaurant.
In here, it’s just us—her perfume lingering between us.
“I…Papi is counting on me, Gustave.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? It’s like you’re buying my future…like I’m one of your paintings!”
“I didn’t buy a damn thing.” I hold her gaze, wanting to make sure there was no room for a misunderstanding here. “I opened a door. You’ve earned every step through it.”
“I don’t want it. I’m committed to my family, to thisrestaurant. I don’t need you swooping in like some white knight.”
“What do you mean?”
“Papi is short servers. He needs me.”
I nod slowly and roll up the sleeves of my dress shirt. I left the suit jacket in the sedan.
“What?” she asks, brows knitting in confusion.
I kiss her lips because I can’t help myself. It’s been so long. I want more, but I stop myself. Now is not the time.
“Then I’ll work here instead of you. Show me what needs to be done.”
She looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “You…you can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
I open the pantry door and step out into the bustle of the kitchen. “Juan,cómo estás?*?”
Tara follows, still holding the crumpled Getty letter in her hand. Her father looks from me to her, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
“I have some good news,” I say, smiling. “Tara got a new position at the Getty Museum. I know you’re short on staff. If it’s all right with you, I’ll take over for her.”
“You can’t work here!” Tara protests, pushing infront of me.
