10. Chapter 10
Chapter 10
Duncan
" S he whipped up a salad and grilled perfect steaks. Served it with an excellent Bordeaux even though she wasn't drinking," Dean told me how he'd finagled dinner from and a conversation with Elsa.
I finally told our parents about my wife , and as I predicted, they were ecstatic. Unfortunately, they were also coming to Paris as soon as possible. Since they were both busy people, that gave me a week or so of reprieve.
I sat with my head in my hands. "Is she pissed with me?"
"She moved out after a week of being married to you, so, yeah, she's pissed with you."
We were having a drink at Bisou, a charming little café close to Elsa's boulangerie and boulangerie in the Marais.
It was a lovely spring evening, the kind that made Paris feel like the center of the universe. The warm air was filled with the sweet fragrance of blooming flowers, and the distant hum of the city blended with the soft chatter of passersby. We sat outside under a canopy of twinkling fairy lights, their glow casting a touch of magic over the already enchanting scene.
I had a glass of pastis, its aniseed flavor lingering on my tongue, while Dean sipped on a kir royale, its sparkling bubbles catching the light.
"Look, brother," Dean continued, leaning forward. "You should talk to her. You're married, having a baby, and—."
"I never wanted to be married," I cut him off, rubbing my temples. "I don't know what the fuck it means. And she's…so goddamn sweet . How on earth is Moreau her father?"
"How on earth are you Tate Archer's son?" Dean commented.
True. Dad was more like Dean than Damian and me. He was suave and sophisticated; and hid his assholery. He wasn't a thug. I was .
"Point taken. But what if she doesn't want to hear me out? What if it's too late?"
"Do you really think it's too late?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow. "She's angry, sure, and with good fucking reason because what you did was not cool. But she seems like someone who cares about people."
"I thought you were worried she was in cahoots with her father to rip me off, and that baby might not even be mine."
Dean shrugged. "I spent the evening with her and Thierry. I have to say, she's pretty special. She reminds me of Emilia."
"So, she's going to be a pain in my ass as well?" I clipped.
I liked my sister-in-law very much. I also loved her as much as I did my brothers and parents. She was family. It may have started out with her being scared of me, but now she called me on my bullshit like they all did. We were an equal-opportunity family when it came to giving it straight.
"Duncan, you have the blackest heart I've ever known and—"
"With brothers like you, who the fuck needs enemies." I raised my glass in a mock toast.
Dean clinked his glass with mine. "I don't know what happened with you, but something did, and you decided not to waste your time with relationships."
"I have my family," I protested.
"But you never dated, brother."
"I did." I didn’t talk about it much, but the truth was, I had dated—back in university, a long fucking time ago.
"That was not dating," Dean snorted.
"I fucked only one woman, and I didn't pay her for it. I think it qualifies. "
I had not been in love with Scarlett Ford, and maybe that was why it wasn't upsetting when I found out she was hedging her bets between a guy on the football team and me. When he got drafted to the Miami Dolphins, she went with him. I can't say I was heartbroken, but it had made me wary of romantic relationships.
After the Scarlett mini debacle, I was at a meeting in New York, and an escort approached me at the hotel bar. It had been simply and exactly what I needed. Good energetic fucking and no drama. That encounter set me on a path where I started paying for sex. As an introvert, I wasn't seeking friends and relationships. I liked my own company. And I worked with people all fucking day; the last thing I wanted was to spend time with more people after work. So, with the exception of family, I didn't interact with people in a social setting, which made me socially awkward, which I didn't mind at all. Resting Bitch Face was a beautiful thing when it kept people off your back.
"You were not in love with Scarlett," Dean pointed out.
"Of course, I wasn't. I'm entirely unsure as to what it means to be in love. I understand responsibility. I understand taking care of people. I understand loyalty. I don't understand this romantic love bullshit. I think Hallmark invented it so men have to buy fucking red roses for their women on Valentine's Day, which isn't even a real holiday."
"Now you're being argumentative for the sake of it." Dean waved to the waiter and pointed to his glass, asking for a refill. "Damian and Em love each other."
"Yes. And Mom and Dad have a great marriage and I know they love one another," I agreed.
"What don't you understand about love?"
"I don't think I'm wired to feel that way, Dean," I told him truthfully. "Something is wrong with my circuitry, even Mom thinks so."
"Mom is worse than you when it comes to being a ruthless asshole, and she has no filter. Love the woman, but she sometimes says shit that doesn't make sense. There's nothing wrong with your circuitry. When Emilia was having her nervous breakdown, did you or did you not stay at her place for six hours a day, keeping her company, making sure she ate and drank while she painted?"
Damian had fucked up, and Emilia, an artist, did what she always did with her pain, which was to paint twenty-four-seven nonstop until she collapsed. To prevent that end result, Damian, Mom, Dad, and I had taken turns being with Emilia. It was also our way of making up to her for being jackasses who thought she was the wrong wife for Damian when all along he was the wrong fucking husband who had to earn her. We were all supremely grateful he did. Our family had strengthened because of Emilia, and I couldn't imagine us without her.
"I care about her. I love her. She's Damian's wife, she's family, so yeah, I'll always be there with and for her. And I'll do the same for Elsa because she's my wife. I don't know what that has to do with what Byron meant when he said she walks in fucking beauty ."
Dean chuckled. "Well, buddy, right now, you're not taking care of your pregnant wife."
"Cannot disagree with that and, yeah, I have to do better. I will." I ran a hand over my face. "But I'm going to fuck up again. You know that." I was certain of it. No matter how careful I was, I knew I'd eventually lose her to my stupidity and lack of that weird emotion everyone panted after— empathy .
"Sure. You're human and flawed. I, on the other hand, am perfect, but I can empathize with your problem," he mocked. "So, what? She'll mess up, too, because that's what people do. Relationships aren't about never making mistakes. It's about learning from them and growing."
"I don't know what it means to be a husband, Dean. What am I supposed to do?"
"Take care of her," he suggested. "And get comfortable with being uncomfortable. You need to show her that you're committed to being there for her, no matter what."
I looked out at the bustling street.
Couples strolled hand in hand, children laughed as they chased each other, and a couple of artists painting plein air were capturing the scene with quick strokes of their brushes.
The sounds of accordion music floated from a nearby performer, adding to the quintessential Parisian atmosphere.
I loved Paris. It was my favorite city in the world, and there was nowhere else I wanted to live. Even though I was born and raised in San Francisco, Paris always felt more like home. And yet, I preferred staying in my suite at the Ritz over the apartment my mom had set up for me. She didn’t want her son living out of a suitcase. I tried to explain that the suite was mine, that I had a massive walk-in closet, not a suitcase—but she never listened.
I looked at my watch. Délices d'Elsa was open for another half hour. I had finally read through the PI's report, cover to cover. And, yes, maybe I had jerked off to my wife's beautiful face.
"Feel like a cinnamon snail?" I asked Dean.
He grinned. "I thought you'd never ask."