Chapter 3 #3
Celine wished she had paramours from her past that she was clinging to, if only to excuse her lack of love for him the same way.
But there were none. Not any serious ones, anyway.
She knew what young men whispered about her, calling her too bold, too opinionated, too rebellious, sometimes even too cold.
Those stern, thin brows her mother had, she had them too, which didn’t help her case even when she tried to be friendly.
And the young men who didn’t shy away from flirting with her, despite the rumours or because of them, would quickly walk away disappointed when they’d find out the magazines hyperbolised everything they wrote about Celine.
A high society girl wearing a backless dress—surely she must be game for everything.
Celine leaned against the staircase railing, taking his hand in hers and playing with the ring he wore on his index finger. “How did your training go? The big race is coming up.”
“Do not even remind me of it. I had to finish early today. Grandfather called for a family meeting.”
“Bastien got in trouble again?”
Jacques provided only a dry huff. “As always.”
That wasn’t good. Whenever Bastien got in trouble he blamed Jacques for it. Celine’s eyes flickered anxiously to the grand clock up in the living room mantle. It was almost time for dinner. “Is he coming tonight?”
“Who knows with him,” Jacques replied, his voice scornful.
Celine tried to smooth the worry from her brow, though she was doing a terrible job at it. Jacques had already noticed, and he was about to brush his lips on her forehead, when a voice interrupted them from the hallway.
They turned around as one to find Monsieur LeBeau, hands on his hips, peering at them over the rim of his glasses.
Celine bit down on her lip.
“Jacques,” he cleared his throat, and Celine felt him tense at her side. “Do you know if your grandfather brought those imported cigars?”
Jacques smiled. “Left coat pocket.”
Monsieur LeBeau’s eyes glinted behind his glasses. “This is why you're my favourite Ménard.” He hurried off towards the living room again, but not before saying, “And you will keep being my favourite as long as you don’t kiss my daughter.”
Celine bit down on her chuckle. Jacques’s face went through multiple shades of pure mortification.
He turned to her. “You find this amusing, don’t you.”
“A little.” Looping her arm through his, Celine guided him downstairs. “Come now, I’m starving. I’ve been looking forward to that cake all morning, I won’t allow anyone to take it from me.”
Jacques mimed the pain of having a knife stab his chest. “And I thought you were excited for tonight because you’d see me. Do I come second to cake in my girlfriend’s eyes?”
“Who has fed you such delusions?” said Celine. “It’s cake, Milady, then you. Know your limits.”
Jacques mimicked a stronger pain this time. “I come third after cake and second after a cat?”
“Your reaction will be priceless when you learn where you stand on my list, brother.”
Bastien strode inside that very instant, with that habitual smirk on his face and his hands shoved in his pockets. Celine wouldn’t have been surprised if he had mussed his hair before coming inside just to irk their families.
Any other day she wouldn’t have minded his presence.
She actually admired his style, even though it stood in complete juxtaposition to Jacques’s.
He always picked wild colours to wear—the quality of the fabric of his suits made her envious.
She had no idea where Bastien had developed his taste in clothes, but there were times when she wished it were as easy to be friends with him as it had been with Ana?s.
“You two can stop the act in front of me. That”—he pointed at their entwined hands with an unlit cigarette before propping the thing between his lips—“is a pathetic excuse of your undying love.”
Jacques’s hand tightened around Celine’s. “Do you need to pester everyone else whenever your life becomes a wreck?”
“Need?” Bastien mused, producing a silver lighter from his pocket. The sharp flick filled the silence for a moment and was soon replaced by his smoke-filled sigh. “No, not really. Want, however… Come to think of it, yes, it does bring me a certain kind of joy.”
“You don’t get it, do you?”
Bastien rolled his eyes.
“I’m glad Grandfather kicked you out,” Jacques continued calmly. “We will certainly get a few months of peace and quiet without you there.”
Celine had to lean forward as if to hear him better. “Kick him out? What do you mean?”
“The usual,” Jacques explained plainly, speaking as though Bastien wasn’t there at all. “You know how Bas is. This time though, Grandfather is asking him to find a job and pay for everything he spent on his last shindig. Which is almost his entire trust fund.”
Celine reeled back in shock.
“I wasn’t aware we were sharing stories tonight,” Bastien retorted. “If that’s the case, I’ll go next. I’m sure you’d want to hear this one. The protagonist is none other than your lovely—”
“I think that’s enough.” Celine shot him a glare. “We are making the rest of the guests wait.” She threw a sidelong glance at Jacques, who was simply eyeing Bastien’s unkempt hair with distaste, and got an idea.
“Why don’t you go ahead,” she told Jacques, squeezing his arm lovingly. “Tell them we will be right there. I will lend Bastien my hair pomade so he can make himself more…presentable.”
Bastien scoffed, but before he could protest, she had seized his wrist in a threatening grip and was leading him up the stairs.