Chapter 34
Gustave
Paris glows on Valentine’s night, that strange, indulgent light that makes the city seem both eternal and fleeting.
The Seine glimmers like liquid pewter, bridges draped in soft gold.
It has been exactly one year since I first saw Tara Gayarre drinking alone at a bar in Paris.
A year since she walked into my life and changed it for the better.
Tonight, I intend to return the favor and irrevocably change her life. Our life.
She doesn’t know where we’re going. She thinks it’s just dinner. But I’ve planned every detail down to the last flicker of candlelight.
Our driver winds through Saint-Germain-des-Prés, the streets still wet from a light rain. When we stop outside the Prescription Cocktail Club, I catch her smile.
“You’re sentimental.”
“Coupable*.” I offer my hand and help her out of the car. “After all, this is where I first saw you drinking alone. I couldn’t let that happen again.”
Tara looks around, eyes brilliant with memory.
The bar hasn’t changed.
Low ceiling, amber light, jazz humming from an old turntable. The same mix of perfume, gin, and ghosts of a thousand conversations. The bartender knows me, gives a small nod. He’s in the know about my plan.
We take our seats at the bar—the same ones as that first night.
The place is empty, silent but for the low hum of Edith Piaf spilling from hidden speakers. I arranged it this way, of course—renting out the entire bar for the evening.
Privacy, after all, is a luxury I can afford.
But soon, we’ll have company.
The bartender serves her a champagne cocktail with absinthe, as he did the last time, and I get a whiskey as I did that first night.
We clink our glasses.
“Are we repeating history, querido?” she asks, amused.
“I thought it would be poetic.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Look at you, turning our anniversary into something out of Balzac.”
“Balzac would have adored you.”
Our lives have changed so much in the past months.
After she finished the Getty project, Tara moved to Paris. She’s at the Louvre, back with Cece, though Jean has moved to London, working at the National Portrait Gallery.
We live in my apartment. I offered to buy something larger, quieter—perhaps outside the city—but Tara insisted we stay.
We love the rhythm of the city, its noise, its pulse, its endless surprises.
And when we need a pause, we escape—to Los Angeles, to Pommard, to wherever curiosity leads us.
Tara’s wonder, her hunger to see and feel everything, has opened doors I never knew existed.
Because of her, I’ve found the courage to keep stepping through them.
“Mon amour, that night we ended up at a suite at my hotel.”
“I didn’t know it was your hotel.”
“Now you do.”
Her brows lift. “Are you saying that we will be spending a night there again?”
My heart beats faster. “Oui.”
“And will I have three orgasms as I did that night?”
I laugh. She makes me so fucking happy.
“Absolument, mon amour.”
I pat one hand against my pocket to make sure what I need is there, and with the other, I take her left hand.
“But first…we have something else to do.”
Her eyes narrow. “Like what?”
I don’t get the chance to answer—there’s movement at the door.
Her eyes widen as our guests spill into the room—Estrella with her mischievous smile, Juan beaming from ear to ear, Marisol bouncing with excitement, followed by Aubert, Cece, and Philippe.
“What’s going on?” she squeals, half ready to bolt toward her family, but I tighten my hold on her hand, keeping her close.
Everyone starts talking at once—a chorus of laughter, greetings, teasing.
I raise my voice above the noise. “Mon amour, we’re not finished with that thing I mentioned.” Then, turning to the crowd, I add, “If you could all be quiet for a moment! I’d like to do this properly.”
Philippe chuckles. “Well, get on with it, then!”
Confusion flashes in Tara’s eyes—then realization. Her breath catches.
Because I’m already kneeling before her, her hand in mine, my heart thundering as I look up into her face, and speak the words that hold everything I am.
“Tara Gayarre, from the moment I saw you, I knew you would ruin me, and I was right. You ruined my certainty, my solitude, my carefully built walls. You made me laugh again. You gave me a life of joy.”
Her eyes shimmer with tears, and I know they are happy ones.
“I don’t want a future that doesn’t begin and end with you.” I hold up the ring that I’ve been carrying for a month now. “Will you marry me?”
For a heartbeat, Paris itself seems to hold its breath. Then Tara laughs her low, beautiful laugh that undid me the first time, and says, through tears, “Si. Si. Si.”
The room erupts—applause, laughter, shouts of “Felicidades*!” and “Bravo*!”
“Mija!” Estrella embraces Tara, then, with sudden seriousness, asks, “How do you like the ring?”
Tara looks at her hand as if seeing the ring for the first time, which she probably is.
“It’s….” She pauses, eyes wide. “You made this,” she breathes.
“Si.” Estrella peers at her creation smugly. “But your to-be-husband is a pain in the ass, mija. He had so many thoughts about the ring. Too many.”
The ring is a band of warm, brushed gold, delicately etched with tiny filigree vines found in Spanish cathedrals. At its center, a single diamond sits in a halo of smaller stones, subtle yet impossibly bright.
“It’s part Andalusian passion, part French elegance, exactly like you two,” Estrella says.
Tara blinks back tears and turns to me.
“It’s perfect,” she says as she throws her arms around me, and the crowd cheers again.
I catch Aubert’s grin from across the room.
As waiters come in with champagne and trays of food, I walk Tara to one of the tall windows that overlooks the H?tel de l’?le.
Her hand is still trembling in mine as we face Paris. Tara glows, golden, eternal, and impossibly beautiful.
She rests her head against my shoulder. “You took some creative liberties with the recreation of our first Valentine’s Day.”
“Well, this time I intend to keep you after a night of debauchery,” I murmur, kissing her temple.
She smiles up at me—radiant, her eyes bright with everything we’ve survived, and I know what happiness truly feels like. It’s not the calm of having everything, but the wild, dizzy joy of knowing what you could have lost and didn’t.
“So, what next?” she teases.
“I have a suite at the hotel across the street,” I tell her.
“We’re recycling lines now?”
“Starting a tradition.”
She tilts her head, pretending to think. “You sure about this?”
My hand finds hers. “Only if you are, mon amour.”
Her smile turns wicked and sweet all at once. “Then lead the way, Gustave.”
Thank you for reading Love Is In the Air.