Joy, even. Because I’ve missed him.
How do you miss someone you barely know? Someone who insults you, mistrusts you, makes you question your own judgment?
And yet my heart aches in a way that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the man waiting for me under my window.
* Still life (French)
* Sweetness of life
* Hot (Spanish)
* Paradise (Spanish)
CHAPTER 8
Gustave
She hesitates when I suggest we sit, her eyes narrowing, lips curved in exasperation. “Not worried about the paparazzi?” She lowers herself onto the edge of the chair. “Catching the great Count de Valois slumming it on Rue de Buci?”
I wince because she’s not wrong. “Iamworried,” I admit. “And I’d like to explain why.”
Something flickers in her gaze—anger, but curiosity, too. She weighs me for a long moment before saying, “Fine. But not here.” She nods toward the stairs above the café. “We can talk in my apartment.”
It’s an indulgence to follow her up those narrow steps. I’ve walked past this building dozens of times, but I’ve never set foot inside.
Ironic because my family owns it.
The apartment is part of the package we offered aspart of the Carriera restoration, a gesture meant to smooth relations between the museum and us.
I signed the papers, delegated the details, and never thought of it again—until now.
Her door opens into a space that is wholly hers.
The apartment came furnished, I know, but she has transformed it.
Bright blankets and cushions thrown over chairs, candles pooled with wax, shelves cluttered with books in both English and French.
There are photographs on the fireplace mantel.
I drift closer, unable to resist peeking into her life, getting to know her better.
In one photograph, Tara’s family gathers around a long table, plates piled high with food. In another, she’s in a pink dress, eyes bright with joy, a banner behind her readingFeliz Quinceañera, Tara. There’s a picture of her with a younger woman—her sister, I assume—both laughing, heads tilted together. These are her roots, unmistakably Mexican, vibrant, and full of life.
She clears her throat, reminding me what I’m doing here.
When I turn, she’s watching me carefully, arms crossed. She’s guarded. Braced for impact. I hate that she’s expecting this conversation to be as unpleasant as the one at the Pyramid. It’s my fault, and I have to fix it, make amends, right the wrongs…but more than all that, I want her to feel safe with me, like she had that night in the hotel suite.
“Thanks for…talking to me after”—I shake my head in self-deprecation—“I was so rude to you.”
She raises both eyebrows.
“I owe you an apology.” The words taste strange in my mouth because contrition isn’t something I indulge in often. “I was unfair. Suspicious. And…cruel.”
She gives me nothing in return. No words, not even a sliver of emotion. She’s waiting for me to finish.
I let out a long exhale. I’m a private person, not inclined to share how I feel, but I feel compelled to with Tara.
I don’t want her to hate me because of what animbécile?* I was.
