He meets my eyes. “Because you’re making it hard to pretend this is simple.”
My smile falters.
I open my mouth to say something, but the sound of a key turning in the lock at the front door cuts me off.
Footsteps echo across the foyer. Then a voice: “Papa, how do you feel about brunch at Zia?”
His son.
My heart jumps straight into my throat.
Gustave presses a kiss to my forehead. “Easy. He said he might stop by—I didn’t expect him this early.”
“Should I…should I….” What?Hide in the pantry?
He smiles at me, calm as ever. “Stay,” he murmurs.
Then he raises his voice.“Aubert! Je suis dans la cuisine, mon garçon?*!”
I try to step away, but he holds my hand briefly before letting me go.
“It’s fine. You’ll like him,” he promises.
“But….”Does he really want me to meet his son?
Gustave moves toward the kitchen entrance as I do the world’s most useless thing—smooth my hair and tug down his shirt that thankfully, comes to the top of my knees.
But no matter what, I look exactly like what I am: a woman who spent the night in Gustave’s bed and hasn’t yet gone home.
Aubert walks into the kitchen.
He’s exactly as I remember from his photos, both here and in Pommard. Handsome. He has Simone’s fine-boned features. Dressed casually, messenger bag slung across his chest, he carries the kind of effortless poise that comes from never having to try.
Gustave greets him with a hug, and Aubert looks over his father’s shoulder—straight at me. Then he side steps his father and walks to me with a massive grin on his face.
“Bonjour, je m’appelle Aubert—le fils de Gustave?*.”
My heart is pounding so hard. I can barely breathe.
Gustave steps in between us. “Aubert, this is Tara. Tara, my son, Aubert,” he introduces us in English.
“Nice to meet you,” I manage, trying to sound normal when all I want to do is melt into the floor.
Aubert sniffs the air. “What smells so good?”
He strides toward the kitchen counters.
“I need to put some clothes on,” I whisper to Gustave.
He nods, but his arm stays around me, holding me to him. “Tara made a proper Mexican breakfast.Huevos rancheros,” he tells his son, his tone casual, but his eyes are on Aubert, gauging his reaction.
“Better than Zia!” Aubert lifts the lid off the pan where the salsa simmers. “And—wait—fresh tortillas?” He lifts the towel, eyes wide with delight. “If he doesn’t marry you, I will.”
The tension snaps like a thread, and I laugh—loud, surprised, relieved.
Gustave chuckles, giving my backside a light, proprietary pat. “Go get dressed.”
I hold his gaze for a beat, heart still racing.
