Chapter 28
Gustave
My assistant booked a suite for Aubert and me at the Ritz-Carlton in downtown Los Angeles. It’s close to Arena, where the Lakers play, though it still takes forever in traffic to reach Boyle Heights and Mi Tierra.
Still, the suite is ideal—two bedrooms, a large living room, and, most importantly, an office where I can juggle time zones and crises.
My second-in-command is capable, running much of the show from France, but as CEO, there are things I simply cannot ignore even if I wanted to.
Even if all I want is to drive east, walk into her father’s Mexican restaurant, and watch her face, even if she’s angry with me.
Aubert texted earlier: I’m in love with Tara’s family. Staying for dinner.
Me: You’re just making me jealous, aren’t you?
Aubert: I can do better. Juan, sir, called me mijo and said he likes me better than you.
Me: Doesn’t everyone?
Aubert: That’s what I said!
I smile at that, right before an alert buzzes, reminding me of my next meeting.
I’ve been summoned to a video call with Madame Lefèvre, the Minister of Culture, and Jean-Claude Renard, chair of the de Valois foundation.
We’re negotiating the acquisition of a rare collection of Renaissance bronzes from a private estate in Italy.
The heirs are threatening to sell to a hedge fund that caters to private collectors—effectively removing the pieces from public view.
The Louvre, the Musée d’Orsay, and even the Getty are circling, each hoping to prevent that cultural atrocity from happening.
“Gustave,” Madame Lefèvre says, crisp in her suit even through the screen, “the ministry is prepared to co-finance the purchase if the foundation underwrites transport and restoration. The Americans have already offered fifty million.”
“We’ll match it,” I reply. “This collection is of French origin; it belongs to France.”
Renard clears his throat. “We need influence with the Banque Nationale. Perhaps the de Valois name could open a few doors?”
The old pressure settles over me again—centuries of expectation, heavy and familiar. My family name has always been a kind of currency, one I’ve spent my entire life trading on.
We discuss logistics: export permits, insurance valuations, and tax incentives for repatriation. I contribute where I must, but my mind drifts.
I picture Mi Tierra—the glow of string lights, a hint of corn and lime in the air.
Tara with her father.
Aubert, somewhere among them, learning to make tortillas.
“Comte de Valois?” the Minister’s voice cuts through.
“Pardon.” I straighten.
“We wanted to know if you could speak to your contacts at the Banque Nationale and get us an answer soon,” she clips. From her tone, I can tell she’s repeating herself. Clearly, I drifted off somewhere between Mi Tierra and my own thoughts, and she’s not pleased about it.
“Oui, Madame. You’ll have the commitment by morning.”
My calls drag on until nearly three a.m., Los Angeles time. By the end, the deal is all but secured. I send out emails to let everyone know. They’ll be pleased, as they should be.
France will keep her bronzes.
I feel nothing except exhaustion—and a hollow ache that no victory fills.
Aubert’s bedroom door is closed when I step into the suite’s living room. He came back hours ago. I’d waved goodnight because I was on a call.
Now the silence presses in.
My phone buzzes and I sigh, thinking of ignoring it, but I don’t. Thankfully, it’s Philippe.
Philippe: Well, how’s it going?
Me: The bronzes are ours.
Philippe: And the girl?
Me: Still not. But her parents don’t hate me.
Philippe: So…just her, then?
Me: Something like that. Aubert was there tonight. He learned how to make tortillas.
Philippe: Why weren’t you with him?
Me: Work.
Philippe: You’re the CEO. Let someone else handle it.
Me: I can’t do that.
Philippe: Gustave, you’re the Comte de Valois. You can do whatever the hell you want.
I stare at the message as the lights from the City of Angels flicker against the floor-to-ceiling windows like impatient stars.
I see the wisdom in Philippe’s words, but I’ve been raised and trained my whole life to take care of the family business and to never evade my responsibilities. I don’t know another way to live.
But maybe it’s time to change. And Philippe is right: I am the Comte de Valois, and I can do whatever I choose—and often accomplish what others cannot.
So, the next day I go about securing Tara’s career. I talk to my contact at the Getty Center and, once he looks at Tara’s CV and portfolio, he’s more than happy to send her an offer to restore Jean-étienne Liotard’s The Lavergne Family Breakfast.
One of the finest museums in the world, the Getty’s conservation institute is legendary—a sanctuary of patience, precision, and devotion to art. A place worthy of her brilliance—and close enough that she can accept it.
I also decide that I’m going to go spend the day with Tara…or rather at Mi Tierra, while she glares daggers at me. It feels like I’m cheating, but it gives me time with her. I can eat a good meal and convince her that I’m not the asshole I behaved like.
So, the hell with work.
I ask my assistant to cancel all my meetings for the next several days—and give her a list of colleagues who can handle the work for me.
As soon as I step into Mi Tierra, she’s on me—angry as a hellcat, waving a piece of paper like it’s Exhibit A.
“Did you do this?”
“Do what?” I take the paper from her hand. It’s a printout of an email from the Getty.
“Congratulations,” I say, giving it back. “Jean-étienne Liotard is as prestigious—if not more so—than Carriera.”
Her eyes narrow. “You did this. I know you did. I was blacklisted—”
“By Giselle, who no longer works at the Louvre,” I finish evenly.
A flicker passes through her eyes—first surprise, then confusion, and finally, fury rekindled like a match catching flame.
Across the dining room, a woman at a nearby table calls out, “Hey, Tara! If you don’t want him, I can take him off your hands!”
“You’re married,” Tara snaps.
“So?” the woman replies with a laugh.
Tara lets out a sound halfway between a groan and a growl, grabs my arm, and hauls me toward the kitchen.
“Hey, Gustave,” her father greets, ladle in hand, “Your son—”
She pushes me into the pantry and slams the door shut behind us, cutting Juan off.
She rounds on me, eyes blazing. “You had no right. You can’t wave your magic Count wand and fix my life!”
“Would you rather I let you waste your talent waiting tables?” I counter. “You belong in a conservation studio, not scrubbing salsa off tile.”
“You don’t get to decide where I belong!” she shouts.
“I’m not deciding. I’m giving you a choice!” I throw at her.
She presses her palms against her temples, breathing hard. “You don’t…you can’t fix everything…you just can’t.”
Her voice cracks on the last word, and I soften, feeling my love for this woman, bright and loud.
“I know, mon amour,” I say gently. “I’m trying to make amends. To give back something I took. You love this work. It’s who you are.”
Her chin trembles, but she holds my gaze. “Why? Out of guilt?”
“Oui, I do feel guilty,” I admit. “But I’m going the extra mile because of love.”
She looks at me, as if trying to decide whether to believe me. Then she exhales shakily. “I don’t know what to say.”
I smile faintly. “I’m sure you’ll figure that out.”
Outside, the clatter of dishes and her father’s voice rises over the hum of the restaurant.
In here, it’s just us—her perfume lingering between us.
“I…Papi is counting on me, Gustave.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? It’s like you’re buying my future…like I’m one of your paintings!”
“I didn’t buy a damn thing.” I hold her gaze, wanting to make sure there was no room for a misunderstanding here. “I opened a door. You’ve earned every step through it.”
“I don’t want it. I’m committed to my family, to this restaurant. I don’t need you swooping in like some white knight.”
“What do you mean?”
“Papi is short servers. He needs me.”
I nod slowly and roll up the sleeves of my dress shirt. I left the suit jacket in the sedan.
“What?” she asks, brows knitting in confusion.
I kiss her lips because I can’t help myself. It’s been so long. I want more, but I stop myself. Now is not the time.
“Then I’ll work here instead of you. Show me what needs to be done.”
She looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “You…you can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
I open the pantry door and step out into the bustle of the kitchen. “Juan, cómo estás*?”
Tara follows, still holding the crumpled Getty letter in her hand. Her father looks from me to her, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
“I have some good news,” I say, smiling. “Tara got a new position at the Getty Museum. I know you’re short on staff. If it’s all right with you, I’ll take over for her.”
“You can’t work here!” Tara protests, pushing in front of me.
Juan crosses his arms, the corners of his mouth twitching. “But I am short on servers, mija.”
“Papi!” she sputters. “He’s…he’s a CEO of a company!”
“Good,” he says easily. “Then he probably knows how to take orders.”
From the prep counter, Lola the sous chef snorts, grabs a spare apron, and tosses it my way. “Your new uniform, Mr. CEO.”
“Lola!” Tara looks scandalized.
Lola only grins. “He’s handsome, Tara. We’ll definitely get more customers…of the female variety.”
I catch the apron and slip it over my head, tying it at my waist. “So,” I ask with a perfectly straight face, “where do I start?”
“You look good in that,” Lola declares. “I’ll ask Marisol to put a picture of you on our socials with the caption: have a French count take your order or something like that.”
“No!” Tara gasps. “You can’t do that, Lola. If people in Paris find out—”
“Hey, I’m part of the team! Why can’t I be on the restaurant socials?” The words come out way more easily than I thought they would.
Yes, if people in Paris find out I’m working as a waiter, merde, it’ll be a whole thing with my parents. But I also have to learn not to care about what people say or think, including my family.
This is my life. This is my woman. And I’m going to win her back and never be a slave to gossipmongers again. They don't control my life; I do.
Juan claps me on the back hard enough to rattle my teeth. “Muy bien*, Gustave. Tara, you train him.”
Tara gapes at both of us. “This is insane.”
“Welcome to the Mi Tierra family, Gustave,” Juan says on a loud laugh.
I glance at her, smirking. “You heard the man, mon amour. Teach me how to serve.”
Her glare could cut glass, but there’s color in her cheeks and the slightest tug at her mouth that tells me she’s fighting a smile.
“Fine.” She grabs a tray, and slaps it against my chest. “Let’s see if you can carry three plates without dropping them.”
“Avec plaisir*.” I follow her into the dining room.
She shows me how to balance trays, how to call out orders to the kitchen, and how to refill water glasses without sloshing half of it onto the table.
I listen, watch, and mimic—smooth, quick, eager to please.
By the time the first order comes in, I’ve already anticipated it, gliding between tables. Who would’ve thought that I could do manual labor? Not me!
When I return to the bar, she’s watching me, arms crossed but eyes soft. “You pick things up fast.”
I lean close, lowering my voice so only she can hear. “When the teacher’s this beautiful, I am a quick study.”
She pushes me away. “Get to work, Mr. Server.”
I pat her backside, and she gives me a look that says, “the cojones on you.”
Since I’m already in trouble, I say, “Ask me nicely, mon amour.”
“Ask you nicely?” She’s incredulous.
“Oui.”
She gives me a measured look and then, dripping with sweetness, she says, “Please, le Comte, can you go clean up table eight?” She even flutters her eyelashes. “Is that nice enough?”
I put a finger under her chin and brush my lips against hers. “A kiss would be better. But we’ll make do.”
She swallows and looks at me with eyes wide with hunger. Fuck yeah!
“Come take my order, guapo*; I’ll even kiss you for free,” the same woman who bantered with Tara earlier says.
“Keep your lips to yourself,” Tara mutters and then rolls her eyes before going on tiptoe and placing her lips on mine. It lasts three seconds, but it’s all I need for now—next time, we’ll double that.
“Happy?” she asks.
I lean closer, my lips close to her ear. “I’ll be happy, mon amour, when you’re under me and I’m inside you.”
Her cheeks go pink, and the fist holding my heart loosens. I’m going to win her back. I know it now. It’s going to take time for her to trust me, but it will happen.
When I get back to the Ritz that night, I tell Aubert about my new job.
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, as Tara had.
“How long will you be doing this job?” he asks.
I shrug. “As long as it takes to win her back, son.” I check my watch. “Now, I need to make some changes at work so I have time for my new gig.”
“Papa, sometimes, you surprise me in the best way possible,” Aubert says and makes me feel ten feet tall.
* How’s it going? (Spanish)
* Very good (Spanish)
* My pleasure (French)
* Handsome (Spanish)