17. Chapter 17
Chapter 17
Elsa
" W e should take them to a restaurant," I grumbled. "Or your place."
I looked at my tiny apartment. What was I thinking, inviting the entire Archer clan here ? I had also invited Angelique and Thierry, my closest friends. We were going to be nine people around my tiny table, which could seat six comfortably, eight uncomfortably; and nine very uncomfortably.
It didn't matter when it was just friends, but the Archers were wealthy. Would they like cassoulet ? Was the country French dish too pedestrian for them? I should've made something fancier—something with truffles.
"Elsa." Duncan wrapped his arms around me, my back against his chest. He put his hands on my stomach as I stood in front of the dining table, which looked like something out of a circus, with mismatched plates, water and wine glasses, colorful napkins, and wildflowers. What had always seemed like my style , now looked tacky, unsophisticated.
"Can we make reservations at—"
"No." He kissed the skin beneath my ear, and I felt the zing of sexual awareness. "This is perfect."
"They're going to think it's cheap, and how do you say in English… vulgaire ?"
"Vulgar?"
" Oui , they'll think it's vulgar . "
"Do you know your French accent becomes more pronounced when you're upset and you also forget your English?" He turned me around to face him. "It's cute."
I glared at him. " Je suis nerveuse ici et toi, tu fais des blagues ."
"See," he said amused.
I pursed my lips. I had just spoken in French when I told him, " I'm nervous and you're cracking jokes."
I sighed and leaned my forehead on his chest. I was getting used to Duncan every day. We were finding our way, getting settled. The wedding reception in a few days' time was making me jumpy—and I'd compounded my stress by inviting Duncan's family for dinner.
They were all in Paris to attend the wedding reception. Marcella Archer had spoken to me on the phone and had intimidated the hell out of me.
"You're in love with my son?"
"Yes."
"Good. Has he told you he's in love with you?"
"Non."
"The idiot," she said harshly. "He wouldn't have married you if he wasn't in love. I'm telling you this because, obviously, he won't be getting his head out of his ass to do that. I know you're pregnant, but Duncan is—"
"Hi, Elsa, this is Tate, I'm your father-in-law," a low male voice interrupted Marcella. "Please don't let my wife bully you. Marcella, cut the crap. Stay the fuck far away from their marriage."
"Bonjour, Monsieur Archer," I managed to say on the phone.
"Oh, call me Tate, darling. I hear you're a baker. I'm a big fan of apple mille-feuille. Do you think you could make that for me?"
"D'accord."
So, I made pomme mille-feuille , a dessert consisting of thin layers of apples and sugar, baked to perfection, and served with vanilla custard.
"I should serve filet mignon with truffle sauce," I blurted out. " Cassoulet is so plebeian."
Duncan chuckled. " Ma douce , you've had that fucking thing cooking for days; no way we're eating anything but that . Mom loves confit de canard ."
"Maybe I should've made duck then," I whined. "They'll think my apartment looks shabby, and I'm stingy. Just look at that table."
I pulled at him so we both were facing my table. "It's not…ah, how do you say sophistiquée in English?"
"Sophisticated," Duncan supplied.
" D'accord , that."
He kissed the side of my head. "They'll think this is loving and beautiful, just as I do. Whenever I eat your food, I feel like I'm at a grandma's country kitchen—it's warm, cozy, and fucking awesome. You make food with love, Elsa, and that's what matters, not if you're serving it on Limoges porcelain plates."
"I bought my plates for a euro each at Village Saint-Paul."
Nestled in the heart of the Marais, Village Saint-Paul offered a maze of interconnected courtyards filled with antique shops, art galleries, and vintage boutiques. You could find something from the court of Louis XIV or from some dusty attic in a two-hundred-year-old apartment in Paris.
"Those are beautiful early 19th-century Creil-Montereau faience plates."
I quirked an eyebrow. "In English, s'il vous pla?t ?"
He kissed my nose. "Creil-Montereau was a renowned French pottery manufacturer that began producing high-quality faience, tin-glazed earthenware in the early 19th century. Your plates feature delicate floral motifs, which they were known for. Despite costing you just a euro each, these plates have historical significance, and the craftsmanship is impeccable."
I narrowed my eyes. "Did you make that up?"
He laughed, and no man looked as sexy as Duncan did when he let go. "My father is an expert in earthenware and pottery. You can ask him. He'll confirm."
"But he'll know ils sont bon marché ," I said sullenly. They’re inexpensive.
"Baby, they want to meet you. They're thrilled you're cooking. Emilia also cooks and insists that she and Damian live in a fucked up loft apartment on the wrong end of Market in San Francisco. Their neighbors are drug dealers."
I smiled. From all that I'd heard about Duncan's sister-in-law, I had a feeling I'd like her. He'd shown me some of her paintings, and she was very talented. His brother's wife was an artist. His wife was a lowly baker whose father was a mob boss. I felt deflated.
Duncan groaned. "Alright, fine, I'll fuck you, so you'll be distracted from how shabby your table setting is."
" Quoi ?" What?
He picked me up, bridal style. "Duncan, I have to check on the food."
"No, you don't. Cassoulet cooks for fucking forever and is doing just fine." He took me to what I'd started to think of as our bedroom and dropped me on our bed. "Wow, you're putting on some weight, woman."
I glared at him, putting my hand on my stomach. "I can't believe you just called me fat."
"Good, you can worry about that instead of your food."
"You think I should worry about being fat?" I was having trouble keeping a straight face. My husband, I had learned in the past weeks, had some very strange ways to deflect and defuse a situation. He probably thought it was smart to call a pregnant woman fat, so she'd focus on that and not worry so much about how her apartment was too pedestrian to have billionaires dining in. Oh my God! They were so rich, and I…
"Hey, pregnant lady, focus on me." Duncan was busy pulling my panties down. "How about I give you an orgasm? Will that help?"
I made a face. "I don't know. But it's worth trying."
He pushed my dress up and nuzzled my naked pussy. "My parents will be here in an hour. Let's see how many times I can make you come."
Spoiler alert: it was twice .
"My best friend used to be an escort," Emilia said excitedly when she met Angelique. "She actually had sex with Duncan."
"Em," Damian, her husband, groaned. "His wife is here, darling, and—"
"I pretended to be an escort to sleep with him, so I'm not surprised that my husband had sex with prostitutes," I pointed out.
"I don't like that term…prostitute," Angelique said in her accented English. "I prefer sex worker. I have a TikTok channel where I talk about being a sex worker, and I sometimes I," she made a gesture that looked like she was giving a man a hand job, "do that and say I'm an mmm worker. That's what I do in English. In French, we simply say escort ."
"You have a TikTok channel." Marcella picked up her glass of red wine. "Tell me your handle because I'm very curious about a few things."
"You can ask me anything. I'll tell you," Angelique invited.
"No," Duncan immediately said, along with Tate, Damian, and Dean.
Marcella sighed. "Darling, Elsa, these men think that if I ask questions about sex work, you'll be embarrassed."
"Or I will be," Emilia suggested.
Emilia, a good-looking woman who was almost as pregnant as I was, had bright eyes and wore simple maternity clothes, which I appreciated because I did too—mine was boho chic, hers more tomboy. Marcella, on the other hand, was dressed head-to-toe in Christian Dior and looked a bit like Salma Hayek.
Angelique, tall, blonde, and sexy like a supermodel, also wore designer, though her style was more relaxed: an off-shoulder Prada dress and Balenciaga slippers.
The men, including Thierry, were all in jeans and shirts—and, of course, my husband was the most handsome. Obviously!
"Emilia, you ask the same kind of inappropriate questions as Mom, so I doubt you'll take offense," Damian complained.
"I want to know more about prostate massage," Duncan's mother declared, and all the men groaned.
"Oh, come on, you're all behaving like you don't like a finger up your arse," Thierry declared.
"Liking it and talking about it when my parents are around are two very different things," Dean remarked.
"Men like a finger up there?" I asked curiously and looked at Duncan who was shaking with silent laughter.
"The prostate is very… érogène …ah…" Angelique tried to find the word in English.
"Erogenous," Duncan supplied.
"Yes," Angelique continued. "When I'm in a hurry and want them to be done with their business quickly, I put a finger in, and they go off like a rocket."
"It's something new my husband and I are trying," Marcella told Angelique, and I watched as Tate sat there his head bowed.
"It's wonderful that you are still experimenting with sex at your age," Angelique told them.
"We're not that old," Marcella protested.
"How are you holding up?" Emilia, who was sitting next to me, whispered.
I looked at her in gratitude. Ever since she came into my humble abode, she'd been super friendly and accepting. "I…it's not what I expected."
"They're a close-knit family," Emilia explained, "And our mother-in-law is nuts."
"I like her."
"Yeah, me too, now that she's on my side. That woman is dangerous when she's not," Emilia told me. "You've married into a family where we take care of each other. You need something; all of us will show up."
I'd never had that, and something warm opened up inside of me at that thought—that I'd have a family, a real one. Right now, I had a megalomaniac criminal as a father who wanted to use me to elevate his position in sketchy business dealings.
"I feel lucky." I watched Duncan banter with his parents. I'd never seen him like this, with his guard down. It was always up, but apparently, with family, he was…just the way he was with me when we were alone, I realized. No harsh lines. No steel and iron.
"Oh, I think Duncan is the lucky one," Emilia remarked.
I'd worried unnecessarily about my cheap apartment and table setting.
The Archers were warm and accepting, and none of them made me feel like my apartment was too small or my food too simple. Several bottles of wine were opened and drunk, and all the food was eaten—and at the end of the night, I felt wrapped up in all things good.
As Thierry left, he gave me a hug. "You did good, Els. You did real good. I like them for you."
When we were in bed, Duncan thanked me for making his family mine. I fell in love with him some more. My baby and I were going to be safe and happy. The universe had finally smiled at me.