Chapter 32
Megan
Paris is, as I assumed it would be, ridiculously amazing.
As our limo slides through the streets of the central arrondissements, I can picture the city in partial ruins, the beautiful historic buildings reclaimed by nature, green foliage climbing up the crumbled walls in some distant, postapocalyptic future.
Because that’s just how my twisted mind works.
In the here and now, though, I can’t get over the intricate artistry of the buildings in pale pinks and blues and creams, block after block, the history that seems to whisper from every ornate old door and window we pass.
“Canada is so young,” I marvel. “I can’t get over the old buildings.”
“Wait until we get to Berlin,” Jameson says. “It’s quite different. Paris wasn’t destroyed in World War II, so the old buildings are very much intact, whereas much of Berlin has been rebuilt.”
My eyes go wide as I envision it.
“It fascinates you, doesn’t it?” He tips his chin up and studies me. “That intersection between the past and the future.”
“How did you know?” I breathe, like I’m an addict and he just shot me up with my favorite drug.
His lips quirk. “I’m reading your books, remember? The desolate landscape littered with relics of the past, where people struggle to survive in the distant future? If you weren’t interested in the way the two time periods touch each other, you could’ve set your story somewhere else.”
“I could’ve.”
“What interests you so much about that juxtaposition?”
“Hmm.” I’ve never been asked this before. Mainly because I’ve rarely chatted with anyone about my books.
Suddenly, I feel shy.
“I guess it makes everything feel like it doesn’t belong together. The world is at odds with itself, and with the people in it. As humans, the hero and heroine of the book are trespassers in nature, and we get to see that, in those relics left behind, and in the way the natural world reclaims itself when humanity fails. Wolf and Rowan adapt and survive, but they’re always on the razor’s edge of survival. It’s not guaranteed.” I hesitate. “Maybe I like not knowing how it will end. And I like readers not knowing how it will end, but still rooting for a happy ending, as improbable as it may seem. I think… I long for a happy ending in a world where there shouldn’t be one.”
Jameson’s furrowed gaze is locked on to mine. “Then write that happy ending.”
“Maybe I will…”
I gaze out the window.
We’re circling the Arc de Triomphe now, where it seems that six or more unmarked lanes of traffic are weaving through one another. I can’t believe we’re not hitting any other vehicles, but maybe it’s always been this way.
Things often stay the same, until one day, they break.
“Maybe I just can’t envision it yet.”
* * *
I make Jameson be an absolute shameless tourist with me, and have the limo drop us off at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. I’m thrilled to discover there’s a freaking carousel right there, across the street.
Naturally, I insist he ride it with me while Locke takes commemorative photos of us.
“That’s so going on your Instagram,” I tell him as I send the best one to Clara. In the photo, Jameson is riding on a white horse. While wearing a three-piece suit.
He probably expected to be in the air-conditioned limo and/or fine restaurants all day.
Then I make him wait with me until it’s our turn to have an old French man on the sidewalk draw a caricature portrait of us.
He’s so talented. In the finished sketch, Jameson and I are seated at a French café. True to life, he’s wearing his suit, but the artist drew a blue beret on his head that isn’t there.
“I love this so much,” I gush. “I’m putting it up in your living room.”
“Our living room,” he corrects me.
I can’t believe he doesn’t even argue with me about it.
I give it to Locke so he can secure it in the limo for safekeeping. “Please make sure this gets home to Vancouver,” I tell him.
“I’ll protect it with my life,” he replies gravely.
I like Locke. A lot.
Jameson refuses to stand in the hours-long line to go up the Eiffel Tower, but by then, the big digital displays announce that the lift to the top is closed. “This happens a lot,” he grumbles, promising me, in the same breath, to take me up in a helicopter anytime I want to see the world from above. I get the feeling he gives a hard pass to most things that regular mortals are willing to line up for. Maybe he’s never had to line up for anything.
I’m starving anyway. We’ve been surviving so far off patisserie from street vendors.
“Please tell me it’s time to go to dinner,” I practically beg as we walk back to the limo. “I really need a meal.”
“And how about some French wine? The good stuff.”
“Now you’re speaking my language.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jameson lifts an eyebrow, and as we settle into the limo, he says, “Alors allons te saouler, ma douce.”
My jaw drops as my ovaries moan. That was way too sexy for broad daylight. I suddenly feel like I’m in some dark, sweaty corner at the Moulin Rouge while he growls French filth in my ears.
“What was that?” I sound pathetically breathless. “You speak French?”
“Don’t you?”
“What, because I’m Canadian? I only took it up to tenth grade because they forced me to. I know, like, colors, the days of the week, and weather conditions. I can’t actually understand a word of what anyone says around here. Well, other than the English-speaking tourists.”
His lips curl in amusement. Then his eyes drift to my mouth, half-lidded.
“Tu es la plus belle femme de tout Paris.”
“Stop that.”
* * *
“You are the most beautiful woman in all of Paris.”
That was what he said to me. I’m pretty sure. I type it into Google Translate when we stop back at the hotel to get dressed for dinner, and he says it again.
I feel beautiful as I float out of our hotel suite on Jameson’s arm an hour later, wearing the short black-with-silver-sequins Balmain dress that he surprised me with. And the lovely, silky French lingerie underneath.
In the lobby on our way out to the limo, a photographer is waiting, at the ready to take “candid” photos of us—making sure to heavily feature the ring.
Jameson’s PR team has arranged for photos to be taken of us many times already, both formally and, like tonight, informally; those photos have all been released to the press, and it’s strange to me what a giant deal the media has been making about the engagement ring, of all things. As if the price tag on the ring a man gives a woman is directly proportionate to his feelings for her. As if a poor man can’t love a woman as much as a rich man can?
Regardless, our romance, starring the ring, has gone viral.
Or so I’ve heard from Jameson. And my brother, and Nicole. And everyone else I know, who are suddenly flooding my inboxes.
Troy included. Unfortunately.
After glimpsing his first explosive text about it—I can’t believe you’d betray me like this—I stopped looking at them, instead swiping them away, unread.
The idea that I’ve “betrayed” him is his delusion, not mine.
And after checking out the first online post or two about the engagement, I stopped looking at those, too.
That version of Jameson and Megan is just a story.
I should know, since I write fiction.
When we arrive at the elegant restaurant, one entire side has been booked out for Jameson’s meeting/party with his French connections. There are about a dozen people in the room mingling over drinks, and the crowd gradually doubles as we make our way around.
When I’m introduced to a sophisticated, middle-aged Frenchman named Jean-Charles, Jameson casually mentions that the man is a fellow billionaire, that he and his family own a number of French hotels, including the one we’re staying at while in Paris, and that he’s codeveloping a resort with the Vances on the C?te d’Azur.
He also mentions, belatedly, that Jean-Charles is his stepfather.
I can’t put my finger on what it is that bothers me about this abrupt introduction, exactly, but it throws me a little off-kilter that Jameson didn’t tell me beforehand that we were visiting his stepfather in Paris.
I feel put on the spot.
Or maybe it’s Jean-Charles who’s being put on the spot?
Because he seems equally surprised to be meeting me, when Jameson tells him “This is my fiancée, Megan.”
Being a gentleman, though, he recovers quickly.
“Congratulations,” Jean-Charles says warmly. “I heard the happy news.”
Which means that Jameson didn’t reach out to tell him himself? I have no idea how to navigate this situation, since Jameson never even told me he has a stepfather. I’m not even sure if this man is currently married to his mother or what.
I really should’ve researched his family a little more. Or at least asked.
But how could I know Jameson would spring a situation like this on me?
Luckily, Jean-Charles seems very pleased to meet me. While we’re engaged in conversation with the charismatic Frenchman, Jameson eventually touches me on the back, excuses himself, and goes to speak with a trio of very attractive women.
To say it’s distracting would be a gross understatement.
Soon enough, I excuse myself from the conversation with Jean-Charles and several of his business associates, and head for the ladies’ room to get a breather.
As I dab cool water on my throat and take a breath, my heart pounds viciously. I’m insanely bothered, just seeing my fiancé talk to those beautiful French women.
I feel it in the pit of my stomach, the discomfort of that no-sex barrier he’s put up between us.
He’s working,I tell myself. I can’t expect him to hold my hand all night. And they’re just talking.
But I can’t help wondering if he would actually have sex with someone else, and not talk to me about it beforehand like he said he would.
Troy did.
And I didn’t know.
We lived in a tiny town where everyone knew everyone, and I didn’t know. Not until I walked in on it and saw it for myself. Even then, for several dark hours afterward, it was hard to believe.
I didn’t want to believe it.
Would I see it now if it was happening right under my nose?
Jameson is in and out of the house for “meetings” all the time while I’m writing. How would I even know what he’s really doing? Nicole hasn’t exactly sent me any Google alerts about him being spotted with another woman, but why would he be?
If he was cheating, he’d be careful about it. Keep it private.
Cheating. Ha. It’s not cheating if you’re not in a real relationship anyway.
I try to wash down my discomfort with wine.
God, I hate this.
Not knowing how he really feels about me and where I stand with him…
Other than being his fake partner.
Is that truly all he sees me as? And will ever see me as?
Am I really letting myself start to feel for another man who won’t treat me right?
And do I really believe that Jameson Vance is going to be celibate for a whole year while he’s fake engaged to me? And never touch another woman?
No. I don’t believe that.
And the more days that pass without him broaching the subject of us having sex, the more I’m starting to fear that he’s going to decide to do it with someone else instead.
And if he does, what will I say?
I like you, please don’t sleep with someone else?
I already told him that he could touch me.
I told him, like a dumbass, that I wanted “first dibs” on his attention.
The truth is, if he chooses someone else instead… I already know it will crush me.
* * *
If I thought Paris was exhilarating in the daytime, the city truly comes alive at night. Jameson and I have to navigate around the crowds spilling out of the bustling sidewalk cafés and bars.
We’re strolling back to the hotel along the narrow sidewalks, with Locke and Rurik at our heels, when I ask him, “Can we hold hands?”
He hesitates, but when I offer him my hand, he slips his into mine. I soften almost instantly, melting into our connection. No matter how on edge I felt at dinner, it puts me at ease to touch him.
“It really is romantic here, isn’t it?” I marvel over it as I try to absorb every sight and sound, the wisps of music, and the rich scents of food and coffee on the night air. “It’s in the air. I can feel it. I’ve never felt anything like it.”
“It is.” Jameson’s voice is low, his tone reserved.
He’s been pretty quiet since we left the restaurant. Even so, my heart thumps a brutal rhythm, the one that tortures me whenever he’s this close to me, my skin pulsing where we touch. Sex feels imminent.
But I know it’s not.
And because there’s nothing I can do to indulge these romantic urges with the man at my side, the man I’m engaged to, but who won’t have sex with me, I change the subject.
“You didn’t tell me your stepdad would be there tonight. I didn’t even know you have a stepdad, or that he lives in France. You could’ve warned me, so I could mentally prepare.”
His stepfather was very nice to me, and he was clearly happy to see Jameson, but we both know what I mean by that. The man is a parental figure of Jameson’s, and here we are, engaged out of nowhere. Honestly, I would’ve worn a slightly less sexy dress if I knew this was meet-the-stepdad night.
“Did you need a warning?” Jameson sounds amused.
“Yes! This hemline should be a few inches lower and I would’ve toned down the glitter eye shadow, for one.”
“That’s two.”
Yup. He finds this funny.
“You should’ve told me! I sweated right through this dress when he noticed the ring.”
He squeezes my hand, which makes me purr inwardly, and forgive him instantly.
“I didn’t see the point in causing you any stress over something that might not even happen. I wasn’t totally sure he’d make it tonight.”
“Well, I appreciate your intentions. But I would rather have had the heads-up.”
“Okay. Lesson learned. Next time, I’ll give you a heads-up.”
“Are we going to see him again while we’re in Paris?”
“No. I need to be in Berlin tomorrow. That’s why I really came. We have another potential partner there, a very historic beer company. Prepare to drink much beer.”
“I’m prepared,” I say gravely. “But seriously, you come all the way to France and you don’t want to spend more time with your stepdad? Is he married to your mom?”
He looks at me sidelong. “I forget that you don’t have the internet.”
“Funny. I just don’t creep on people. I prefer to use the web for writing research, and leave it at that.”
“You’re an anomaly, Jessica Rivers.”
“Thank you.” It gives me a little thrill, actually, when he calls me Jessica. Maybe because no one else does, and it feels like our little secret.
“Yes, Jean-Charles Moreau is married to my mother. They live just outside of Paris.”
I consider that. “And you’re not going to see her while you’re here?”
“She could’ve come tonight.”
I try to read between the lines of that brief response. “But she didn’t. Because… you two aren’t on good terms?”
“We are. More or less. But she doesn’t take much interest in business, her husband’s or the family’s, and this was a business dinner.”
I don’t buy that excuse. “But her youngest son was here. Her baby. All the way from across the globe.”
“Correct.”
“And she didn’t make time? Or didn’t want to come? Help me out here.”
“I wish I could. But I can’t really explain Rachel Vance-Moreau to you. As far as I’ve ever known, her life, moment to moment, is driven by her emotional state. If she has a bad day, she might disappear and not resurface for months.”
He seems so undisturbed by that. But how can that be?
I know what it’s like to have an absent parent. Which means I know how confusing and damaging and downright painful it is. Especially if that kind of behavior was present when he was young.
“That doesn’t upset you?”
“I’m used to it now, and I know not to set expectations. So I don’t end up disappointed. But when I was a kid, I can tell you, it upset me.”
It’s upsetting to me, just hearing about it. A young Jameson, hurt by his mother’s emotional abandonment.
But the fact that he’s sharing this with me makes me hungry to hear more.
“Did she do that a lot? Disappear on you, when you were a kid?”
“Yes. Unfortunately.”
“That must’ve been very hard.”
“It was. Back then, it made life turbulent. We lived in a huge house, bigger than the one I live in now, and most of the time, my mom would be locked up in her room and I couldn’t even go see her if she wasn’t in the mood for it. And I never knew what set her bad moods off. When you’re a kid with a parent that emotionally unstable, you blame yourself. I naturally assumed I was the reason my mom didn’t want to see me.”
I consider that. And I know, of course, that he wasn’t the reason. Any more than I was the reason my dad couldn’t love me.
“What was the reason?”
“I don’t know for sure. But years later…” He hesitates. “Well, I guess I was deemed old enough to be let in on all the family secrets. The family truths.”
I wait, wondering if he’ll let me in on these truths. “Go on,” I prompt, when he pauses too long and I worry he might not tell me. “Please.”
“Are you sure you want to know these things?” He glances at me, his handsome face a myriad of colors from the lights of a bustling café across the street.
“Yes.”
“Well, the truth is, my dad had a lot of affairs. He cheated on my mom repeatedly, throughout their marriage.”
“Oh. That’s… ” I don’t finish the sentence.
Obviously, it was a lot of things, none of them good.
“Yeah. I always wondered, what kind of marriage is that? I mean, she ended up cheating on him, too, apparently. With Jean-Charles. She had five children with my dad, and he wasn’t faithful. She had no job. Her whole life was our family, until it wasn’t. And then she disconnected from us, so easily, when there was a time when we were her whole world. But maybe I reminded her too much of him. Maybe we all did. Who knows.”
“And what about your dad? Was he around at all?”
“He was, but he worked a lot. And he had all those affairs to manage,” he adds dryly. “But he died when I was eleven.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.” I don’t know what else to say.
Damn, that was young to lose a parent.
“It’s all right.”
“Was he sick?” I probe when Jameson doesn’t offer more.
“No. It was a helicopter accident. Sudden and unexpected. The whole family was devastated by it. Mom never recovered, I don’t think. She remarried quickly and moved to France to live with Jean-Charles and his children from a previous marriage. She brought me, Savannah, and Harlan with her. But at that point, any interest she’d had in mothering us was abandoned in pursuit of doting on her new husband and his kids, maybe in hopes that he wouldn’t cheat. We spent the rest of our teenage years in prestigious boarding schools around Europe.”
“Wow. What was that like?”
“Lonely,” he says, which is not what I expected him to say. “Savi and Harlan and I didn’t even go to the same schools all the time, since there was a three-year age difference. So I was on my own for most of my teens. I hated it here, honestly. Being an outsider. Those were the worst years of my life, when they could’ve been some of the best. I begged Graysen to fly me home, like every time I talked to him.”
“And did he?”
“Eventually. When I was seventeen, as soon as I finished school. He and Damian had become Granddad’s business partners by then, stepping into our dad’s shoes. It was my brothers who told me all about the affairs Dad had and why Mom probably was the way she was.”
“I see.”
“At least it made all the pieces fit together. Suddenly I understood why Mom was so damn eager to start over in a new marriage. And why she was so paranoid and untrusting, and so uncomfortable with being in the public eye. She had a lot to hide. Her husband had all those affairs, and she still stood by him, but she didn’t want the world to know how he’d betrayed her. Or how, in the end, she’d betrayed him, too. I think it was her worst fear, that she might be humiliated like that in public. That everyone might find out her great love story was a lie. I think that’s also why she likes living in France. They have such strict privacy laws here.”
“I suppose that does explain some of her behavior,” I say carefully. “But it still must’ve been hard for you to learn all those things about your parents.”
“It was. I was pretty angry about it. I even had a brief rebellious streak.” Jameson cocks an eyebrow at me. “Which mostly amounted to a few tattoos.”
“Such a rebel,” I tease. “Thank you for telling me all that. I know it can’t be easy.”
“It’s just the truth. My family’s really not as pretty as they want to look.”
“I understand. My family’s not always pretty either.”
He snickers. “Tell that to Cole.”
I laugh.
Neither of us says anything more until we reach the end of the block. I can see our hotel up ahead, and I already regret that our walk is coming to an end. As we cross the street, still holding hands, I tell him, “I just realized why I may be having such a hard time envisioning a happy ending for my book series.”
“Yeah?”
I take a breath. “I’ve never seen a happy ending play out in real life.”
He considers that for a moment, then admits, “Neither have I.”