Lord at First Sight (The Montevor Royals Saga #8)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

LAURA

D ad’s voice reverberates through the room, “It’s him or me.”

Breathe, Laura. Inhale. Exhale.

It takes all my willpower not to say the answer on the tip of my tongue. I spin around and dart to the exit. My mind is made up. But before I tell my parents that it’s him, I still hope to find a way out of this deadlock without burning the bridges with the people I love dearly.

As I step out of my parents’ bubble tea shop, Belleville hits me with an explosion of summertime smells, sounds, and colors. I’m in a weird mood, angry and elated at the same time. Dad’s ultimatum was devastating—but also liberating. It pushed me to make a choice.

The scent of sizzling skewers from a street vendor tickles my nose. That aroma, combined with the tang of the rain-soaked asphalt, is the smell of my childhood summers. This stretch between our building and Aunt Mei’s shop was my turf. It’s been two years since I moved to the Left Bank to be closer to my place of work. But Belleville, the “little Asia” of Paris, will forever be home.

Calmer now than five minutes ago, I weave through the crowd on the narrow sidewalk with my messenger bag bumping against my hip. There’s a file inside that I must read when I get home tonight for the meeting tomorrow morning. I’m just a lowly bank teller, but our branch manager insists that everyone at the agency be familiar with the main files and take part in important meetings.

While his intentions are commendable, I wish he had a more classic top-down approach. Those files—especially those meetings—suck out all my joy and energy faster than a Dementor ever could.

I catch Line 11 at the Pyrénées station. As I stand on the platform, Mike’s face floats into my brain. Laura, babe, you should worry less and chill more. He often says that. And he leads by example.

The one thing he isn’t chill about is calling him by his given name, Michel. Personally, I like how the old-fashioned sound of it clashes with his hip personality. But he prefers Mike, so that’s what I call him.

I whip my phone out and send him a text:

Can I come over? Is this a good time?

The train screeches in, brakes wailing. I squeeze into a corner and grab the pole. Vitry isn’t that far, but this ride always feels endless because of the change at Chatelet, the Métro’s busiest and messiest stop. The guy next to me smells like socks. I inch as far away from him as I can and stare at the ad between the car’s windows of a grinning woman no older than me holding a jar of wrinkle cream. According to the ad, it can turn back time.

I roll my eyes and look away.

My mother’s voice rings in my head, “You’re twenty-eight, Laura! If you really want three kids as you claim, then you mustn’t waste your time on this guy. You’ll be forty before you know it and then what? Loneliness and regret!”

I clench my teeth. You’re wrong, Mom. Mike and I love each other. He’s my soulmate!

The train jolts, throwing me sideways. I grip the pole harder and plant my feet wide. My phone vibrates. A reply from Mike:

What’s up, babe? We’re jamming.

I don’t respond. If he’s jamming with his band, then he’s in his parents’ garage where they’ve set up a studio. It’s vital that I talk to him today, face-to-face.

The change at Chatelet has me pushing through the crowds and treading endless corridors and is about as exhausting as one would expect. Finally, I resurface in Vitry. The streets here are much quieter than in Belleville on any given Sunday afternoon. I navigate the cracked sidewalks until I’m in front of Mike’s garage studio. The bass line greets me as I reach for the handle.

I swing the pedestrian access door open and walk into the furnace inside.

Mike, his brow beaded with sweat, is gripping the mic stand. His body is swaying to the beat. His bandmates shoot me looks, some friendly, some annoyed. I wave to each of them. There’s Timmy on guitar, and Seb on bass. And Tiphaine on drums—braless, teeny-weeny shorts, and smirking. As always.

Yeah, I get it. You’re skinny and hot. Congratulations!

Mike catches sight of me. “Laura!”

“Hey!” I smile. “Can we talk?”

Tiphaine’s drumsticks clatter as she drawls, “Oh, come on, Mike. Don’t let her steal you away now. We’re on fire!”

He waves her off. “Guys, take five. This won’t take long.”

I step aside to let Tiphaine pass, a cig already stuck between her lips. Her shoulder barely misses mine as she sweeps toward the door. Timmy and Seb follow close behind her, rummaging through their pockets for their packs and lighters.

Mike wipes his face with a rag, then flops onto an old ottoman by the wall. “Everything okay?”

He leans back, legs spread, eyes smoky, shirt open down to his navel, multiple piercings, sexy grin. A proper rock star.

“So, here’s the deal,” I begin. “It’s my parents.”

“Wait, let me guess.” He pinches his chin theatrically. “Hmm… I’m still a singer. Still no Chinese ancestry, no money, and no job. My bet is, they still think you can do better than me.”

My voice falters but I push on. “They’ve given me an ultimatum.”

“What kind?”

“Either I leave you or they’ll cut me off.”

His mouth twists. “Such a charming bunch!”

“They want what’s best for me.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Are you here to tell me we’re done?”

“No!” I cry out. “I’m picking you over them.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Look, Laura. I really like you, but I can’t deal with your family drama right now.”

“You don’t have to,” I say quickly.

“I mean, come on,” he continues, ignoring my objection. “Your mom has offered me money to leave you. Your dad has threatened to send Kung Fu Panda from the Chinese mob to rough me up!”

I speak through his bitter laughter, “Like I said before, he was bluffing. He doesn’t know any mobsters.”

“Thing is, babe…” He shakes his head woefully. “At this point, I’m not even sure why we’re still doing this.”

The words sting. “You’re not sure?”

“I don’t know, OK?”

I pray silently as we stare into each other’s eyes. Please, don’t let your frustration with my family make you say things you’ll regret!

He huffs. “Maybe we should take a break.”

Nooo!

He peers at me. “Seb’s dad is sponsoring a monthlong tour around France for our band. The timing is perfect. Why don’t we hit pause and figure things out?”

Wow. He’s thought this through.

Heat rises up my neck and cheeks as the implications sink in. My boyfriend of over a year is low-key dumping me. And he’s announcing it right after I told him I was choosing him over my parents.

Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. Need to get out of here.

I grab my heavy bag and spring to my feet. “Fine. Do your tour and figure it out, Mike. Let me know when you do.”

At that, I turn my back to him and stride to the exit. The door slams behind me. I’m out on the street, but the sticky air of the garage won’t leave my lungs, no matter how deeply I breathe. On the train back to Paris, I slouch in my seat, crushed by the weight of today’s double betrayal: first Dad, then Mike. There’s a huge lump in my throat. The reason I’m not melting down and crying in public is that I’ve worked up some righteous wrath.

You just wait, all of you!

Laura Yang may be a gentle, understanding, accommodating soul—a pushover, if you ask my friend Denise—but even she has her limits.

And I’ve reached them.