Chapter 11
Tara
Paris isn’t that small. At least, it shouldn’t be. And yet, somehow, it always conspires to place him in my path.
The air is cool this late afternoon, brisk enough that my scarf is looped twice around my neck. But it’s not bitter, not the way March gnaws at Philadelphia. Here, even the chill is soft, as though the city has decided beauty should never sting too much.
I walk along the Seine, past the stalls of the bouquinistes. Most are shuttered, their wooden lids locked down like treasure chests. But a few linger open, offering faded postcards, battered Balzac paperbacks, and prints of old masters, which tourists buy and locals dismiss.
I stop at one stall, fingers brushing over a pile of engravings, and try to imagine who else has stood here across the centuries—students, poets, lovers stealing moments by the river.
Paris has a way of making you feel part of a story older than yourself.
“Looking for something particular?” The voice slides over me like warm velvet. I don’t need to turn to know its owner, but when I do, I see that he’s, as always, the epitome of effortless grace in a camel coat tailored within an inch of its life.
But…it’s a banner day because it is the first time I’ve seen him in a pair of jeans. Designer, probably. A cashmere sweater, and a scarf hanging loose. Gustave is quintessential Paris. He belongs here, with the bridge arches framing him, storm-gray eyes catching the last light.
“I was just browsing,” I say lightly, not wanting to show how excited I am to see him. “It’s hard not to. The bouquinistes are irresistible.”
“They are Paris.” He picks up a dog-eared volume of poetry, thumbing the cracked spine. “Did you know the first bouquinistes emerged in the sixteenth century?”
I shake my head.
He shoots me a delighted grin. “Booksellers used to roam with baskets, until the city tethered them to the quays. My grandfather collected from the bouquinistes all his life. He said the river remembers every book sold along its banks.”
I can’t help but smile at that. “That’s romantic. Very…un-count-like.”
His mouth curves, the faintest amusement.
We walk a little, side by side, keeping a polite distance like acquaintances who happened to meet by accident.
We talk easily…which seems to be what happens when we’re together…alone.
He tells me about a stall near Pont Neuf that’s been in the same family for three generations. “I used to go there with my grandfather. He’d let me choose a book, though half the time I couldn’t read the antique French.”
I let out a breathy laugh. “My mother used to drag me to flea markets all over Los Angeles. She’d come home with boxes of beads and little glass gems, swearing they were treasures. Then she’d turn them into jewelry and then they became treasures.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “So, artistry runs in the family.”
“Yes. Mama taught me and my sister to find beauty in what most people overlook.”
His eyes linger on me in a way that makes my pulse quicken.
“That,” he murmurs, “is a gift.”
For a moment, it feels like maybe Paris could allow this fragile thread between us.
But Paris is never that kind.
From the corner of my eye, I see a couple emerging from the Hotel Cheval Blanc—draped in couture with the ease of people born into money. Their laughter carries, and when they spot Gustave, it sharpens into recognition.
“Gustave! Mon cher!”
His entire form shifts. The warmth drains from his gaze, replaced by something cold and practiced. He straightens, takes a step away from me, and in that instant, I vanish. Or rather, he makes me vanish.
The couple sweep toward him, kissing his cheeks, fussing over some piece of art they recently acquired, over society dinners and gossip I don’t belong to. He pretends he is alone. Pretends I am no one.
I stand there, invisible, with the river at my back and the lights of Paris shimmering across the water.
As I turn to go, I feel his gaze. A flicker over his shoulder, quick and raw, before he pastes the smile back on for his glittering friends.
It’s enough to undo me. Enough to remind me of everything he doesn’t say, everything he won’t risk.
I walk away, scarf pulled tight against my throat, the Seine whispering at my side.
“Tara,” I hear him as I step off Pont Neuf onto Quai de Conti.
I shake my head and ignore him.
No, no, no. No one gets to make me feel like this.
He grabs my arm right by Librairie Les Neuf Muses.
“Careful,” I grind out. “Someone you know may see you with me.”
Regret colors his eyes. “Please.”
“No.”
“Tara. Please.”
I keep walking, and as we come by the Great Canadian Pub, he draws me inside, his hand on the small of my back.
“Is this pedestrian enough so no one you know will be here?” I ask acidly.
“Oui,” he admits haughtily.
He pushes open the door of the pub. It’s warm and noisy inside. Hockey blares from the television, and the heavy mix of beer, grease, and frying oil hangs in the air. Students crowd the tables, laughter spilling between clinking glasses. No paparazzi would bother with a dive like this.
I shrug out of his touch and slide onto a high stool at a table. “I can see why you chose this place.”
He takes a seat beside me, shoulders rigid.
“Do you think I enjoy this? Ducking into backstreet pubs like some criminal? Always calculating who might see me, what they’ll say, what the papers will print?
” His voice drops, rougher now. “I can’t breathe, Tara.
Every step of mine is watched, judged, twisted. ”
I arch a brow. “You’re too old to be this afraid.”
His jaw ticks. “Afraid? Non. Exhausted. Oui. Simone turned my life into a battlefield. The tabloids dragged Aubert into the mud. And my family name—do you know what it is to carry centuries on your shoulders?”
Around us, a bartender wipes glasses, a group of students shouts at the screen, and someone drops a tray with a clatter. All normal. And yet, there is nothing ordinary about the great Gustave de Valois, sitting in the middle of it all like a caged animal suddenly loosed.
“I’ll have a Budweiser, merci,” I call out to the server.
The server, who is decidedly Australian as per his accent, says, “Sure, doll. And you, mate?”
“Same,” Gustave bites out, not liking the intrusion one bit.
“You sure you can drink a pedestrian beer like that?” I mock. It’s petty. But the hell with it.
“Tara….” He exhales low and long. “Chérie, give me a break.”
“Break from what? Your fancy lifestyle?” I’m pissed as hell. “You talk like you’re in some prison, but all I can see is bars of gold encrusted with diamonds.”
His mouth twists, frustration cracking his composure. “Yes. Gilded. But a prison, nonetheless. And I can’t always pretend that the bars aren’t there.”
For a second, I almost soften. But no. Hell no!
“You want sympathy, Gustave? You won’t get it from me. You’re the one who keeps locking the door.”
His jaw tightens as he studies me, the noise of the bar blurring around us. “And you are the first person who has the right to say that to me.”
The what?
Before I can even fathom what to say, the bartender sets our beers in front of us. Gustave pulls out two ten-euro bills and sets them down.
His watch is a Patek Philippe, I notice for the first time.
Dios mío!
“Keep the change,” I tell the bartender with a broad smile. Since Gustave is so filthy rich, he can afford the ten-euro tip.
“Thanks, mate.” The server tucks the money in his pocket, and walks away to take care of other guests.
“Do you want some photographer to follow you around, trying to find out how you and I are connected?” he demands.
“Oh, please, don’t make it sound like you’re protecting me rather than yourself.”
This earns me a glare. “Tara, I’m a man in a world that caters to men. I can get away with a whole hell of a lot. Yes, I am protecting you. My son. But what’s wrong with me wanting my private life to be private?”
Ugh! He’s making sense. I don’t want some photographer on my heels. That would be freaking weird, and honestly, unbearable.
“Fine. Then be private. Just do it elsewhere.” I pick up my bottle of beer.
“Would you want to be with a man who can’t be with you in public?” he demands.
I turn to face him. “You have a high opinion of yourself, Comte Asshole. What makes you think I want to be with you?”
“Then why are you so upset that I pretended not to know you a minute ago?”
I narrow my eyes. “Because you insulted me, and I deserve to be treated with respect.”
“And how would it look if I introduced you to one of Simone’s closest friends and her husband as the artist working at the Louvre? You think Simone won’t hear about it? You don’t think she’ll put two and two together?”
“Good God!” I set my glass down with a thud. “Leave me alone then, Gustave.”
“I want to. Every day…I want to. And every day, I find myself hoping I’ll see you, and then today, as I walk down the street, I see you….” He shakes his head as if in awe of the moment. “I…the universe smiles at me because I see you. And I can’t resist it. Tell me, am I alone in feeling this way?”
His tension radiates off him. I feel it, all the way into my soul.
I lick my lips. Honesty is easy even when it’s heartbreaking. “No, Gustave, you’re not alone.”
He drinks some of his beer and grimaces.
I roll my eyes, amused. What, a Bud isn’t his style? Duh!
“Well…what do we do then?” I ask. “We can’t keep…this is….”
“I want you.” That shuts me up. It also makes my clit throb.
What the hell am I supposed to say now?
He smiles at me, and I want to drown in those beautiful gray eyes of his.
“You’re only here for a short while.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“But…I…Tara, it can’t be more.”
I nod in understanding. “You mean more than sex?”
“Oui.”
He’s one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen in my life, up close and personal, and I once saw Chris Hemsworth in Los Angeles.
Why can’t we have an affair? A discreet one? Quiet and easy. And I’ll return to the States, while he continues his life in Paris. No harm, no foul.