Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
JEMMA
“So, are we just going to stand outside all day?” I laugh, rocking back on my heels.
I expect Luca to use the eye-catching door knocker, but he opts for the keypad to the right of us. As he taps a couple of buttons on the pad, I step back and gaze up at the Juliet balconies jutting out from the upper floors.
“It’s so charming,” I whisper into my scarf as a breeze drifts past me.
The lock emits a soft click, and Luca yanks the large door open. I follow him into a courtyard where the winter sun fights through the tall buildings, begging to shine across the cobblestone path—yes, more cobblestones.
Multiple pathways crisscross through the small space, leading to different doors, but we take the path straight ahead.
With a quick knock, Luca steps back, and the door swings open to reveal a tall, fit man with dark hair like Luca’s, except with a soft sprinkling of gray. “Coucou, mon frère!” the man exclaims, yanking Luca into a tight hug.
“Salut, Henri!” Luca replies cheerfully, leaning in.
When they finally pull back, Henri smiles strangely at me, eyeing me up and down.
“Bonjour,” I shyly offer, tugging on the loose ends of my braid.
“Eh, oui. C’est mon amie, Jemma,” Luca introduces me in French.
Does his brother not speak English? This should be interesting.
“Elle est jolie,” Henri says with a cheeky grin, elbowing Luca playfully.
My cheeks heat up—did he just call me pretty?
I sneak a glance at Luca, who’s grinning wildly.
“Oui,” Luca admits. “Je suis d’accord.”
I hold back the smile that’s threatening to take over my entire face.
Luca thinks I’m pretty! Luca thinks I’m pretty!
Henri waves us inside, and as we slide past him, I tilt my head back, leaning into Luca to whisper, “Tu sais, que je parle un peu francais, non?” You know I speak a bit of French, right?
Cocking his head to the side, he replies, “I know.” His lip curls into a sultry grin, letting his eyes linger on mine longer than necessary, stirring a craving in me that makes me burst from the inside out.
Is it bad that I want to rip his clothes off right here and now?
Calm down, Jemma.
At first glance, Henri’s place is smaller and much darker than Luca’s flat. I suppose it’s the ground floor letting in less light. It’s nice, but I prefer Luca’s place.
“So, you’re the one that got scammed, huh?” Henri asks, coming out of left field, speaking perfect English, pulling me back to the reality that set this whole thing into motion.
I feign a pout. “Yes. But thanks to my knight in shining armor, I didn’t have to sleep on the street!” I giggle, playfully leaning into Luca, letting my arm fall to his bicep.
A funny grin crosses Henri’s face, but before I can ask him what’s up, two young bundles of energy burst out from one of the backrooms.
“Jemma, these are my sons, Elias and Mylan,” Henri offers.
“Hello,” they chirp in unison.
“Mylan’s my oldest; he’s nine. Elias is seven,” Henri adds, ruffling the taller one’s hair.
“Are you from America?” Elias asks with a soft accent.
“Yes, I’m from New York,” I reply, kneeling slightly to meet his blue-eyed gaze.
“Wow!” Elias gasps. “I’ve never met anyone from New York before.”
“Well, I’m pleased to be the first New Yorker you’ve met. And I must say, you speak English really well.”
Elias smiles, revealing a missing front tooth. “Really? You think so?”
I nod enthusiastically. “Absolutely.”
“We’re learning in school,” he states proudly, puffing out his little chest.
“Red or white?” Henri interrupts, flashing me two half-filled glasses.
“She’ll take the red.” Luca reaches for the glass, swirling the liquid before passing it to me.
Oh dang. He knows me so well already. Total turn-on.
“Merci,” I respond, tilting it toward my host.
“Can I see Jemma my room?” Elias winces, presumably noticing he messed up his English.
“Sure. You can show Jemma your room,” Henri responds, correcting Elias.
Eagerly, the boys lead me down a narrow, dark hallway and into a small room with two neatly made beds. It’s simple yet tidy; everything has a home, perfectly in its place, just like their Uncle Luca’s home.
Taking a large gulp of my wine, an untamed thought flits through my head. “Hey, can I ask you boys a question?” I glance between the two of them.
Mylan and Elias excitedly nod.
I step further into the room, careful that my question won’t be overheard. “Who is Colette?”
“Eh . . . um,” Elias stutters, letting his gaze drop. “Dad said we’re not supposed to talk about her around Luca.”
“Oh? Why is that?” I press gently, feeling ridiculous for trying to press an answer out of these sweet innocent boys.
“Because Colette and Luca are”—he looks to his brother—“what’s the word, Mylan?”
“Fighting,” Mylan responds, playfully punching the air. He giggles, tossing himself onto one of the neatly made beds.
“Fighting,” Elias repeats under his breath, as if he’s locking the English word into his memory. He’s a smart kid.
It’s several seconds before my mind wraps around the word. Fighting. A partial fit of relief withers through my veins, making me feel less guilty for the desires coursing through my body.
“Why are they fighting?” I probe deeper, desperate for more information.
“I don’t want to talk about that. Can I show you my toys instead?” Elias takes my hand and leads me to a wooden toy chest.
“Of course.” I smile.
He drops down to the rug, swiftly plunging his hands into the deep box.
As I wait for him to resurface with something grand to show me, an object catches my eye.
Above the chest, resting on a beautiful wooden shelf, is a framed photograph.
Reaching up, I pluck the frame from its place.
A woman with mid-length dirty-blonde hair, vibrant red lips, and wide blue eyes caught mid-laugh stares back at me.
“Is this your mom?” I ask, flashing the photo at the boys, realizing I haven’t seen anyone else in the apartment. It didn’t even cross my mind to inquire further about Luca’s family.
“Oui, c’est ma maman,” Elias responds, switching to French without noticing.
“She’s very pretty,” I respond, setting the photo back in its place.
Elias giggles.
“Where is she?” I ask.
“Um.” He bites his bottom lip. “I don’t know the word. Sorry, I keep forgetting.” He looks to his brother once again for help, but Mylan shrugs his shoulders.
“Eh.” He bites his lip. “She’s with grand-mère.” He points upward.
My hand flies to my mouth.
Luca’s mom. Heaven.
These poor sweet boys—their mother is in heaven with Luca’s mother, their grandma.
I swear I feel my heart split in two.
Geez, what’s wrong with me? Could I traumatize these boys anymore? Have I lost all my tact?
Quickly, I replace the photo on the shelf, just in time too. When I look over my shoulder, Henri is leaning against the doorframe, eyeing me strangely again.
Did he hear me interrogating his children? Just let the ground open and swallow me whole. I’m making a great first impression on the Dubois family.
“Let’s let Jemma get back to the adults now, shall we, boys?” Henri says.
Elias mutters something in French and frowns.
“I hope they weren’t too much of a handful. I would have rescued you sooner, but I had to get the table set.”
They were the ones who needed rescuing from me.
“No, not at all. They’re very smart and sweet boys.”
With a heavy exhale, I join Luca, who’s already seated at the table that looks like it’s set for royalty, not a small family lunch.
Several serving trays line the middle of the table, mostly seafood, including escargot, which makes my stomach churn at the sight of them. Where did all this food come from? I swear it appeared out of thin air.
“Wow, this is all for lunch?” I whisper, dropping into my seat.
“Oh, no. This is just the first course.” Luca laughs.
“Oh.” I bob my head.
Mylan and Elias are fighting over who gets to sit next to me when the front door creaks open, admitting a blast of cool air into the house. I lift my head, and my mouth falls open.
An eerily familiar looking blonde haired woman glides into the room, positioning herself at the end of the table.
I stiffen in my seat, and my breath hitches in my throat.
“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Luca asks.
I open my mouth, but the words don’t come out.
“Do you know Mia?” Luca questions.
“I thought she was dead,” I whisper as low as I possibly can, so no one else can hear.