“Depends.” I take the chair opposite him, exhaling slowly. “I’m going to marry her.”
For a long moment, he stares at me, then he breaks into a grin so wide it reminds me of him as a boy. “About time!”
His easy approval disarms me. “You don’t think it’s too soon?”
He shrugs. “You’ve known her long enough to screw everything up and still come back, right? That’s plenty of time.”
I chuckle at his assessment.
He sobers then, leaning forward on his knees. “Papa, she makes you happy. You don’t look like you’re carrying the whole family name on your back when she’s around. I like it. I like her.”
That warmth, his blessing, that’s all I need.
“I don’t deserve her,” I murmur.
“Yes, you do.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “You’re allowed to be happy.”
I cover his hand with mine. “But Tara in Paris…it’s going to be….”A mess!
“She’ll get used to it. I’m not worried. Tara is tougher than she looks.” He grins mischievously. “I can run interference. Play the charming son. Everyone likes me.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“Congratulations, Papa.”
My throat tightens. I nod once, unable to speak for a moment. “Merci, mon fils.”
CHAPTER 33
Tara
Ialmost don’t get on the plane.
If it weren’t for Aubert—who marched me to the gate while I groaned about this being a bad idea and that I didn’t have the right shoes for a freaking ball—I would’ve stayed in Los Angeles.
“He’s accepted your world, Tara, now you need to accept his,” Mama had been on Aubert’s side when he insisted that I surprise his father with an impromptu trip to Paris.
“And it’s a ball,hermana. What is your problem?” Marisol was now completely Team Gustave.
“I don’t have a dress,” I mumbled.
“I think we can fix that,” Tia Camila said and added, clapping, “Let’s go shopping.”
So now I’m here. In Paris. In a gilded salon steeped in old perfume and expensive history—for the famed and historicBal des Beaux-Arts. I’m wearing a dressthat cost more than I want to think about, and still, I might as well be holding a sign that says ‘outsider’.
“But is this the right dress?” I asked Mama, Marisol, and Tia Camila as I looked at myself in the dressing room of the boutique.
“For you or this party you’re going to?” Mama asked.
I slumped. “This is me…but these parties are fancy, Mama.”
“You be you,” Marisol insisted. “I say buy the dress, and fuck the Paris elite.”
Thanks to that advice, I am the only person in the room in a flowing bohemian dress, hair loose, wrists stacked with the silver bracelets my mother made. And what a room it is! The chandeliers drip light like molten glass, scattering it across gilt mirrors, marble statues, and an audience of people who look like they’ve stepped out of a Fragonard painting. Every man is in tailored midnight, every woman glitters.
“This is your bad idea!” I pinch Aubert’s arm.
“Ouch.” Aubert rubs the area. “Relax! It’s going to be alright.”
